Day One: Processing a Year of Trauma

This year has been difficult—certainly for me, perhaps for you too, and maybe for all of us. What I realised, while floating through my rivers of tears, is that pain drowns you unless you understand the science of buoyancy.

I was not only facing external trauma; I was also forced to confront my childhood wounds all at once. By the halfway mark of this year, I had begun to disregard the meaning of life itself. I disconnected from myself completely. I was absolutely lost. It felt impossible to rise above the pain, because I was convinced I was gone for good.

I never believed in relationships. They had always been painful for me. No one in my family ever cared for me in the way a child needs to be cared for. I grew up without grandparents—they passed away early—and while my parents were consumed by their own dramatic marital life, I was left alone to fend for myself.

Very early on, I forced myself into the role of a “hero” and a “saviour.” I felt I had to be there for everyone. I used to believe that if only I had powers like Superman or Spider-Man, I could protect everyone, and no one would ever be able to hurt me. I was obsessed with these superheroes—and, in many ways, I still am.

But that version of me needed to grow up. It needed to understand that the people I wanted so desperately to protect are safe today. They are happy. The fact that they will never come back to thank me causes me pain—but what hurts even more is realising that they treated me as if I was incapable of saving myself.

If only I had been selfish the way they were, perhaps I would have survived better.

I was just four years old when I began facing passive trauma. I had no one. I learned very quickly that asking for help would brand me as weak—and worse, that help would come with a lifelong reminder that I “owed” someone. So I stopped asking. I stopped living the way a person should live.

I stopped crying, because crying made me look weak. And weakness makes you easy prey. I learned to develop a heart of steel. I locked away my emotions and simply existed.

By the time I turned fourteen, I was no longer living—I was surviving. I became so attuned to people that I could read micro-facial expressions effortlessly. A slight smirk or a side glance told me everything I needed to know. I avoided conflict at all costs. I apologised even before anyone could find a reason to shout at me.

And yet, despite everything, I shone through the darkness.

That’s when I noticed jealousy around me—people resenting me for having things they hadn’t even dared to dream of. So I learned to dim my light, just enough to let others shine, just enough to keep relationships intact.

Before I knew it, I had become invisible in my own life.

This year showed me everything. It wasn’t just twelve months—it felt like centuries. Every day came with pain, trauma, and triggers, while I was constantly told to smile. Smile, everything is alright.

But no—it never was.

I was not alright.

At the start of this year, I was unaware of my true potential. Not anymore.

I am the Sun.

My shine cannot be dimmed. Because if I dim my light, everyone who shines because of it will fade too.

I cheer for those who have potential but cannot yet see it in themselves. I care for those who are mocked by society. I love people not out of attachment, but because God gave them life—and I want God to see that every life born on this earth carries far more potential for love than for hate.

I realised that my purpose has always been to love.

Love is my superpower.

And as I step into the new year, I will not pray for anything material. I will ask God only for the opportunity to love—to make this new year one of love and acceptance.

This is not a story of recovery, not yet. It is simply the beginning of telling the truth. Day one of processing does not come with answers, only awareness—and for now, that is enough. I am learning to sit with what hurts without shrinking, to let light exist without apology, and to honour the parts of me that survived when survival was the only option. If this space becomes anything, let it be a place where honesty is allowed to breathe. This is day one. And I am still here.