My Childhood Behind the Scenes
Born in 2001, I was the older child with one brother, a quiet kid lost in hundreds of thoughts.
My biggest problem was that I had never been able to express myself, my feelings, or even play with other kids.
One thing was always there: I didn’t belong.
In fact, I remember my first chosen book—not a novel—Mustafa Mahmoud’s. I can’t recall the book’s title, but I vividly remember the way it made me feel.
It was like a window had been flung open in my mind, letting in the light I hadn’t realised I needed.
I wasn’t just missing out on reading a good book; I was missing a way to see myself reflected to me—a mirror I never knew I needed.
And since then, I can say books have become my sanctuary. They didn’t judge me for being quiet or for not having an interest in playing a silly game.
They gave me a space to exist, to feel understood.
Each page felt like a conversation with someone who saw the world as I did, someone who didn’t think I was strange for being introspective or reserved.
They taught me that even if you don’t feel like you belong, there is always a place for you—in the pages of a book, in the words of a poem, or in the stories you choose to tell.
The Turning Point: Books as Mirrors and Windows
Sometime in the 2010s, I started to dive deeper into literature, peeling back layers of meaning and emotion that I didn’t even know existed.
I was about 12 when I first encountered Sylvia Plath—a poet whose words would become a lifeline during some of the darkest times of my life.
Reading her work wasn’t just an experience; it was a revelation. Her poem Lady Lazarus hit me like a wave, raw and unrelenting.
I felt every word, every ounce of pain, as if it were my own.
It wasn’t just the content of her writing that moved me—it was the way she expressed the inexpressible, giving voice to emotions that I had struggled to name.
It was the first time I truly felt seen. Here was someone who seemed to understand what it meant to carry the weight of emotions that couldn’t easily be shared with the world.
Her pain mirrored my own, yet she dared to lay it bare on paper, transforming something deeply personal into something universal.
I remember reading these lines:
"Dying
Is an art, like everything else,
I do it exceptionally well."
The sheer honesty in those words was both terrifying and comforting.
It was a moment of connection with someone I’d never met, someone whose life had ended long before mine began.
Yet, through her words, she reached across time to remind me that I wasn’t alone.
That was also when I began to realise that the weight I carried had a name: depression.
At 12, I didn’t have the vocabulary or the tools to articulate what I was going through, but Sylvia Plath gave me a way to start understanding it.
I became obsessed with her, almost as if she were a kindred spirit reaching out through the pages.
It wasn’t just her poetry—it was the story of her life, her struggles, and the unflinching way she wrote about them. I devoured every piece of her writing I could find, and in doing so, I felt less alone.
I vividly remember the first time I read her daughter Frieda Hughes’ poem about her mother’s death. The raw emotion in those lines struck me in a way few things ever had.
“They are killing her again.
She said she did it
One year in every ten,
But they do it annually, or weekly,
Some even do it daily.”
The poem wasn’t just a tribute to Sylvia—it was a reflection of how the world continued to dissect her life and death, reducing her humanity to a spectacle.
Reading those words, I cried—not just for Sylvia, but for Frieda, for her children, and for everyone who has ever carried the weight of someone else’s pain.
Another figure who profoundly shaped my understanding of life was my beloved Jane Eyre.
Yes, I know she is a fictional character, but somehow, in many ways, we shared the same life.
Like Jane, I was born into a world that often felt cold and unyielding.
She, too, faced loneliness, rejection, and an overwhelming sense of being "other." Yet, she never succumbed to despair.
Instead, she forged a path for herself, one defined by her unwavering independence and fierce sense of self-worth.
Jane’s resilience and her defiance in the face of societal expectations resonated deeply with me. I remember reading this line for the first time:
"I am no bird; and no net ensnares me: I am a free human being with an independent will."
Those words became my mantra, a reminder that my worth was not defined by others’ perceptions or the constraints of my circumstances.
Jane’s life was a testament to the power of self-belief—a quality I desperately needed to nurture in myself.
Her bold declaration in the face of adversity struck a chord that echoed in my heart:
"Do you think I am an automaton? — a machine without feelings? And can bear to have my morsel of bread snatched from my lips, and my drop of living water dashed from my cup? Do you think, because I am poor, obscure, plain, and little, I am soulless and heartless? You think wrong! — I have as much soul as you — and full as much heart!"
Reading this, I felt empowered. Jane’s refusal to be diminished or dehumanised reminded me that it’s okay to demand respect, to assert one’s humanity even in the face of rejection or oppression.
Yet, for all her strength, Jane also taught me about the beauty of vulnerability.
Her love for Mr Rochester was not a surrender but a choice—an act of courage and deep connection. When I read these words:
"I have for the first time found what I can truly love–I have found you. You are my sympathy–my better self–my good angel–I am bound to you with a strong attachment. I think you good, gifted, lovely: a fervent, a solemn passion is conceived in my heart; it leans to you, draws you to my centre and spring of life, wrap my existence about you–and, kindling in pure, powerful flame, fuses you and me in one."
Jane’s story and Sylvia Plath’s poetry are like two halves of my emotional compass.
Where Sylvia taught me to confront my pain and name it, Jane showed me how to rise above it, to build a life that is both fierce and tender.
Together, they’ve shaped the way I see the world and the way I navigate my journey.
In their words, I found not just solace but a roadmap—one that has guided me through the shadows and into the light.
These women, one real and one fictional, continue to remind me that no matter how difficult life gets, there is always a way forward, and always a story waiting to remind you that you are not alone.
Writing My Own Story
Now, at 25 years old, I have decided to fully embrace my path as a writer, sharing my thoughts, reflections, and the lessons I’ve gathered along the way.
Transferring from that quiet child to a person with a lot of words, I’ve found a way to give my thoughts their rightful place in the world.
Finally, my thoughts have their voice—a space where they can be heard, understood, and even appreciated.
Writing has become my bridge between the introspective child I once was and the expressive individual I am becoming.
But this journey isn’t without its struggles. I am still healing from depression—a weight I’ve carried for years that doesn’t simply vanish.
There are days when the darkness feels overwhelming, when self-doubt creeps in, and when the words I’ve come to rely on seem out of reach.
Life is far from perfect, and my path is anything but smooth.
Even so, I’ve learned to see writing as a form of therapy—a safe space where I can confront my emotions, give them form, and, in doing so, begin to understand them.
It’s not just about creating; it’s about coping, healing, and finding moments of clarity amidst the chaos.
Every piece I write reflects a part of my ongoing journey—sometimes triumphant, sometimes raw and vulnerable.
Through writing, I’m learning to embrace my imperfections, acknowledge my struggles, and hold space for growth, even when it feels slow.
This is why I write: to navigate the complexities of my inner world, to connect with others who may feel the same, and to remind myself that even amid struggles, there is strength in creating something meaningful.
Though I’m still in the process of healing, I am determined to continue sharing my story—one word, one thought, one struggle at a time.
Writing has given me hope, and through it, I hope to offer the same to others who might need it.
