Rewriting Stories

I often think about the girl I used to be.
The one who was scared to speak up, who kept things to herself because she thought no one would understand... or worse, she didn't know how to explain herself.
And now,
when I look at my younger brother, I realise, I’ve become the person I needed back then.

In 4th grade, after always being a brilliant student, I failed a math test... and with that one failure,

I lost my voice.

Tutors started coming in and out of the house, all of them strangers I never connected with.
I didn’t want them there, but I didn’t know how to say it since I hoped it would fix my grades.

Then came the coaching centre in 6th grade. 
It wasn’t chosen for me, it was chosen for my results. Initially, the place felt welcoming but it wasn't long till I saw the true colours of the place.

Rigid and ruthless.

No one asked if it made sense for the kind of student I was. A weight crawling in me everytime I stepped in there.
And when the weight of school and coaching caught up, it started crushing me, I cracked. My grades dipped.
And I felt like a disappointment.

I wish, someone had told me earlier that coaching doesn't fit all. That saying "no" doesn’t mean I’m giving up. It means I’m choosing differently. But I told my brother, what I couldn't tell myself back then.

Then there was one time, when I didn’t understand what happened, I was punished for something I barely understood. When curiosity met cruelty. I was made to believe that I deserve the silence, the starvation, the shame.

So when I saw my brother caught in that same haze of curiosity, I didn’t repeat the cycle... I spoke to him like I wish someone had spoken to me. Calm but Honest. I explained what was wrong... not that he was wrong.

That's when it all hit me: I'm becoming the girl I once needed.

I really wish to go back and rescue her.
But I can't.
I can only honour her.
Everyday.

By being better for someone else.

Maybe this is what healing is...
rewriting the sour parts rather than erasing them.