The Criminal In Me (Part 1): I wOndEr WhY...

Disclaimer: This blog piece is really personal. It's something I wrote to make sense of emotions that don’t always have names. The words I use are metaphors and I’m not talking about anything violent, dark, or dangerous. It’s just my way of expressing the painful process of growing up too fast—and the quiet grief that comes with losing the innocent, soft part of ourselves.

This isn’t a cry for help. It’s a moment of honesty. A reflection. Maybe even a small act of healing. If you’ve ever felt like the world demanded too much too soon, I hope something in here resonates with you. And if not, I only ask that you read it with openness, not judgment.. This isn’t a spotlight. It’s a mirror. Thanks for being here.

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I can't remember the exact day it all started, but I do remember the feeling that settled in afterward. It was this strange silence—not the comforting kind, but the heavy kind. The kind that creeps in and makes everything colder. It wrapped around me like fog, heavy with shame, guilt, and emotions I didn’t yet have words for. Something inside me changed that day—something with a name, a face, and a laugh. Something I buried with my own hands.

And here’s the truth, as hard as it is to admit:

I killed the child in me.

Not to be dramatic—simply because that’s how it feels. Somewhere along the way, I stopped being soft, stopped being curious, stopped feeling fully. Not because I wanted to, but because life demanded someone tougher. I wasn’t a criminal in the eyes of the world, but I was one in the quiet courtroom of my own soul.

No one noticed when it was happening. Maybe that’s what hurt the most. If someone had looked closely, really seen me, maybe that child—the one who laughed at clouds and believed in magic—would still be here. But they’re not.

It probably began with small comments:

"Why can't you grow up?"

"You’ll regret this one day."

"You’re too sensitive. Stop being selfish."

Each comment was a drop of rain on metal—harmless at first, then irritating, then deafening

After a while, I started pulling away from the things that made me feel. Vulnerability began to feel like weakness, so I covered it up. I stopped sharing. Stopped opening up. Stopped reaching out for hugs. I told myself I needed to toughen up — stand tall and stop being so soft.

And that’s when the child in me began to disappear.

It didn’t happen all at once. It was slow—pieces of me chipped away through a thousand small moments of silence, pretense, and the belief that feeling too much made me weak. It was death by a thousand cuts. But I didn’t see it as a death at the time. I called it maturity.

"You’re being realistic now."

"You’re being responsible."

"This is what growing up looks like."

But looking back, I realize I was lying to myself. I tried so hard to meet expectations, to be what everyone needed me to be, that I forgot who I was. I wore masks: one for school, one for friends, one for home. And people praised those masks.

"You’re so mature for your age."

"You always have it together."

"You’re such a good listener."

But no one saw what was happening underneath. The constant struggle to hold it all together, the slow loss of my joy, my voice, my softness.

Deep down, there was always a tug-of-war. One part of me wanted to create, to feel, to simply exist. The other whispered: "Be careful. Don’t show too much. Don’t need too much. Don’t be a burden."

It felt like living under a verdict already written: guilty—of being too emotional, too soft, too much.

And the punishment? Silence.

My inner world is like a clown—painted smiles, bright colors; trapped in a gray room, tearing up old drawings. Those drawings were pieces of me: the joy, the creativity, the dreams. Torn apart by logic, fear, and the endless need to be “enough.”

I became good at pretending. Too good. Everyone believed it. But inside, I missed that child. I missed the days when the world was magical, when I wasn’t afraid to love fully, laugh loudly, or cry freely.

I don’t know when the mask became permanent—when pretending became reality. But I know this: I stopped visiting that child. I told myself he didn’t matter. That softness wasn’t useful. That dreams were distractions. That crying was weakness

But here’s what I’ve learned: healing doesn’t come from forgetting. It comes from remembering. From grieving. From saying, "Yes, that happened."

Maybe I can stop punishing myself for once being someone who believed.

Because this wasn’t just a crime. It was a survival tactic. A way to stay afloat in a world that didn’t know how to handle softness.

This isn’t the end.

It’s the beginning of a new chapter.

This is a crime I’m not proud of.

The criminal in me is still here.

But maybe—just maybe—the child in me hasn’t disappeared after all. Maybe he is waiting for me to remember.

To be continued....