I can’t remember the exact day it began, only the silence that followed—heavy, cold, filled with shame and guilt I couldn’t name. Little by little, the child in me disappeared. Vulnerability felt like weakness, so I hid behind masks everyone praised. Inside, though, joy faded, and the verdict was always the same: guilty of being too soft, too much. Yet healing, I’ve learned, isn’t forgetting—it’s remembering, grieving, and daring to believe that child may still exist.