Journal Entry #10
Alchemy of Voices
I remember the years when being quiet felt like disappearing.
When silence meant safety. When not existing felt like the only way to survive. I grew up in a house that taught me to shrink before I ever learned to speak up. The yelling, the breaking things, the kind of fear that sits in your stomach like a stone — that was my normal. I learned young that if I kept calm, maybe the storm would pass faster. If I stayed still, maybe they’d forget I was even there.
Back then, I didn’t realize survival meant learning how to disappear. I thought I was just being smart, doing what I had to do. But all I was really doing was learning to erase myself so the people who hurt me could feel comfortable. My little self didn’t have anyone to run to. She had siblings, but even that was chaos — we were all just trying to survive our own version of the same storm. My mother pitted us against each other like it was a sport. My father’s presence was something we feared, not leaned on. So we learned how to fake normal, how to pretend everything was fine.
And you, little me — you were the best at pretending. You smiled even when your stomach twisted, not from hunger, but from fear. You learned to say “I’m okay” before you even knew what okay was supposed to feel like. Your heart was pure, too big for the walls that held it. I remember how you’d sometimes beg to save your food, saying you weren’t hungry, just so you could hand it later to someone who needed it more. You were just a child, but your kindness was already loud in a house that didn’t know how to speak it. You had every right to be angry, to be tired, to stop trusting. You didn’t deserve what happened to you. You deserved arms that held you, not hands that hurt you.
When I ran away at fifteen, I thought I was running toward freedom. In truth, I was just running with all that pain still in my pockets. I carried the same survival codes — the same patterns — into every place I landed. I learned how to look like I was fine, even when I was breaking. I worked too much, loved people who treated me like my parents did, gave everything to everyone else and left nothing for me. I thought being useful meant being loved.
And the world rewarded me for it—for being strong, dependable, unshakable. They didn’t see that I was breaking quietly beneath the praise. I became the woman everyone could count on, except myself. That’s the cruel thing about survival—it teaches you how to perform endurance, not peace. I didn’t know rest could be safe. I didn’t know softness could exist without danger.
Then came my GED. It might sound small to most people, but for me, it was everything. For years, I told myself, what’s the point? What’s the point of getting a diploma if I can’t afford college, if I’m already too old, if failure’s just waiting for me at the finish line? That voice wasn’t mine—it was every adult who ever told me I’d be nothing. But there was another voice too, quieter, closer to the bone. The one that asked, what’s the point of trying when you can’t even become what you dreamed of being? Because back then, I still wanted to be a lawyer—to fight for people who didn’t have a voice, to seek justice where it was denied. But life, choices, and a system quick to punish told me that dream was dead. “You?” they laughed. “You could never be a lawyer.” I carried that shame for years, believing their words. Believing that one mistake erased my right to rise. But something in me still refused to stay buried.
So I signed up for that test anyway. And when I failed that math section—twice—I almost quit. I could feel that old pattern pulling me under: See? I told you, you’re not enough. But you—my younger self—you wouldn’t let me go this time. You whispered, We can do this.
And we did. We passed. When I walked across that stage and said my speech, I swear we both stood there. I felt you in my chest — proud, crying, real. It wasn’t just about a test. It was proof that I don’t give up anymore. That we don’t abandon ourselves anymore.
There was a time before all this—before the test, before the stage—when I completely disappeared. After that breakup, something in me just… folded. I stopped taking care of myself. I wasn’t brushing my hair, my teeth, or even looking in the mirror. I’d wake up, move from bed to bathroom and back, and call that surviving. My kids became the ones watching over me. The days blurred together. I wasn’t living; I was floating inside my own fog. But even in that dark stillness, something small was shifting. I didn’t know it then, but that was my cocoon year—the universe deciding if I’d stay buried or break through.
These days, I’m learning. Slowly. I brush my hair. I take care of my skin. I make my bed, cook warm meals, and sit with my teens while we do skincare routines together — something no one ever did with me. And when I do those things, I feel you beside me. You peek out sometimes, curious, watching me care for us in ways no one ever did.
And I know you still don’t fully trust me. You still wake up sometimes asking if we’re safe, if I know what I’m doing, if you need to take over again. But Baby girl, I promise — I’ve got us. I know you’ve driven this long, and I’m so grateful. You kept us alive when no one else would. But you can rest now. I’m behind the wheel, and I’m not crashing this time. You can fall asleep if you want. You can stretch your legs, look out the window, hum along to the music. I’ll wake you when we get there.
You’ve done your part. You saved us. Now let me keep us safe.
I will keep learning. I will keep healing. I will keep protecting the both of us.
We are finally becoming the woman we needed — the one we both can believe in.
softly,
Juju
Journal Reflections
- What part of me still feels like she has to stay alert — and what would it take for her to rest?
- How can I show my younger self that safety doesn’t mean silence anymore?
- What small act of care reminds both of us that we are safe, seen, and still becoming?
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