A Stolen Childhood

I think about how I grew up so fast.
Not because I wanted to—but because I had to.
They said,
"You’re so mature for your age,"
as if that was something to be proud of.
But they never saw the cost of that maturity—
how I traded lullabies for silence,
toys for responsibilities,
childhood dreams for adult worries
before I even knew how to spell childhood.

I have always been more than what I needed to be
what I wanted to be.
A child with grown-up expectations.
A soft heart hardened by survival.
The glue that tried to hold everything together
even as it cracked beneath the weight.

Maybe if they stayed together,
life would be softer,
quieter,
a little less like war.
Maybe if I saw them love each other the way people love,
I’d believe in love that doesn’t leave bruises.
Maybe if I didn’t have to play the role of parent so often,
I would have had time to just be.
Be confused. Be messy. Be young.

But I didn’t get that.
Instead, I learned how to smile while breaking,
how to carry burdens that weren’t mine,
how to pretend everything was okay
even when nothing ever was.

Still, no matter how much I gave—
how much I tried—
there’s always something I’m doing wrong.
Always one more reason to be blamed,
to be scolded,
to be made to feel like a mistake wrapped in skin.

Every day is a new wound,
not always loud,
but always deep.
Somewhere along the way,
I stopped crying.
Not because it stopped hurting—
but because it hurt too much to let it out.

Now, when the words come—
those words,
those cold, sharp words—
I forget how to feel.
What to feel.
Because how do you respond
to a soul-stab,
when the knife is held by someone
who was supposed to protect you?

“I wish you were never my daughter.”
That one stays.
Tattooed into my memory,
echoing in every moment I second-guess my worth.
I know I’m not supposed to let it define me,
but how can I forget something
that made me question my entire existence?

And yet,
I still wear the mask.
Smile wide.
Laughter rehearsed.
Giving them the version of me they prefer—
the “happy,”
the “strong,”
the “fine.”
Because showing the truth
only makes them uncomfortable.

But deep down, I’m tired.
Tired of earning love that should have been free.
Tired of begging to be enough.
Tired of performing joy in a room that echoes with silence.

I’m not perfect.
But I am trying.
And even when they can’t see it—
I know:
I have always been more than what I needed to be
what I wanted to be.
And one day,
I’ll be everything I was never given.

W.A