Who was I before words?

Before words shaped me, I lived in the wildness of emotions – untethered by meaning, unbound by definition.

Who am I without words?

Carefully crafted rationalizations and definitions justify the steps I take or serve as heavy blankets, shielding me from what’s outside and what’s within.

Who will I be without words?

When all definitions, the lies I believe to be truths, cease to exist.

Will I become a collection of scattered moments that gave meaning to words? Or merely faded memories, distorted through the perspectives of those who lived them with me?

I always wanted to outrun time, outrun myself, outrun the world I did not understand. I felt alien-strange to everybody and everything around me.

I was cruel. Not just to others, but perhaps more to myself.

How does one begin to love themselves? I needed to face my fears, deconstruct my shame, and abandon the need to define everything. I needed to let go of control.

—

There is a memory deeply engraved in my being-a memory I would rather forget. Yet, it somehow defined my existence.

I was barely ten. A boy who lived in my building and I often played together in the courtyard of a neighboring house. One warm afternoon, the games turned vicious. I don’t remember how or why, but we found ourselves in a twisted version of truth or dare.

He stood before five girls, the youngest of the group. The oldest girl confidently commanded, “Pull down your pants.” The others giggled. I froze.

He protested but, in the end, obliged. I closed my eyes and took a deep breath. They giggled, and it was over in seconds. I couldn’t open my eyes or meet his gaze. To this day, I can’t fathom why I didn’t speak up, why I couldn’t defend someone I loved as a brother.

I wonder if he remembers that cruel afternoon. Did it change him as much as it changed me? 

I didn’t tell my mother what had happened. Instead, I confined myself to my room, swearing to never again be a coward. That promise changed me in ways I couldn’t foresee, it drove me into trouble countless times, yet I knew I could never allow myself to feel as I had that day. The momentary discomfort of defending what you care for is nothing compared to the constant discomfort of failing to do so.

Even now, I feel the shame of my silence. I’ve heard people say, “You were just a child; you didn’t know any better.” But I always respond: So what? My age doesn’t undo the harm I caused. My inaction doesn’t absolve me of my cowardice, especially when children younger than me had once protected me.

—

I was seven years old when I learned that bravery and kindness don’t come with age.

My childhood friend and I were left under the care of a family friend while everyone else went mushroom picking in the nearby forest. He was four years older than me and often watched over me. Patient and kind, he indulged my games, chased me with a water gun, and tickled me until I couldn’t breathe from laughing.

But that afternoon, we grew up in ways neither of us consented to.

The man who was supposed to protect us stood a few feet away, pants down, exposing himself. I was the first to notice. Frozen, I stared. My friend followed my gaze and immediately acted.

“Close your eyes,” he said firmly.

He grabbed my yellow umbrella and held it like a shield between me and the man. Then, he ran toward him and kicked him hard.

I cried uncontrollably. My friend sat beside me, stroking my hair, trying to comfort me. The man disappeared, and we never spoke of it again. My mother must have sensed something was wrong because she never left me alone with him after that.

That day, I learned two bitter truths: boys can be better protectors than adults, and monsters don’t always hide in forests. Sometimes, they are closer than we could ever imagine.

—

Another memory  engraved deep into my being is about  an  ordinary summer afternoon. We were playing in the backyard when a gang of kids from a neighboring house burst into our playground, throwing balloons filled with paint.

An older boy, a friend of mine, hid me under the slide. He shielded me with his body, taking all the hits.

One of the parents shouted from a window, and the kids ran away. My white jacket was ruined, but I felt relieved. Safe.

There was nothing malicious or romantic about his act of protection. It was pure. And it set a standard in my mind: if I ever trusted someone, I wanted to feel as safe in their arms as I did in that moment.

Years later, I failed to uphold that standard for someone else. And in failing them, I started to fall out of love with myself.

—

For much of my life, I struggled with friendships. I became the dependable one – the calm, collected friend who always listened and supported others. But I rarely allowed myself to share my own fears.

I didn’t realize it at the time, but I thought that if I revealed my vulnerability, I’d be seen as less worthy. That belief created an imbalance in my relationships. It wasn’t their fault. It was mine. I didn’t allow people to truly know me.

Looking back, I see how much this hurt both me and the people I cared about. By not expressing my needs, I denied them the chance to show up for me. I built walls to protect myself, but those walls became barriers to the connection I craved.

At some point, I realized I needed to figure out how to communicate honestly. To do that, I had to isolate myself, stepping away from everything familiar. It wasn’t an easy decision, and it came with its own regrets.

I lost friendships along the way, not because people didn’t care, but because I didn’t know how to let them in. I wasn’t honest about my needs, nor did I give them the opportunity to advocate for themselves. 

Now, with time and effort, I’ve salvaged some of those relationships. I’ve learned that vulnerability isn’t a weakness but a bridge. I’ve also accepted that I couldn’t fix everything, and some losses were inevitable.

—

The same walls I built in friendships followed me into romantic relationships, and the consequences were even more painful. If I struggled to let my friends see the real me, how could I allow someone I loved to? My fear of vulnerability didn’t just isolate me – it sabotaged the connections I craved most.

I was barely nineteen when I liked a boy for a first time. He liked me too. Our relationship was slow and tentative, built on small moments of connection. But one misunderstanding and a poor decision left scars, not only in me but in him as well.

Years later, I realized just how much confusion and pain my actions caused.

One night, during a university event, I saw him talking with another girl. Curious, I asked his friend who she was. “She’s a girl he’s about to date,” he said. Maybe he was joking, maybe he wasn’t. I didn’t ask. Instead, I believed him.

I stayed at the event, pretending nothing was wrong. The next day, I told the boy we shouldn’t see each other anymore – offering no explanation. He asked why, hurt and confused, but I couldn’t bring myself to answer.

Deep down, I thought: If I show him I care, he’ll use it to hurt me.

When I was fourteen, I overheard classmates laughing about how funny it would be if a boy asked me out just to humiliate me. Whether or not it was true, I believed it. That moment planted a seed of doubt in me: any interest shown in me must be insincere.

At that moment , those fears surfaced again. Instead of confronting them, I ended things abruptly.

We stayed friends, thanks to a silly promise we made when we first met. Years later, he asked me what had happened.

I had a chance to explain, to apologize, but I didn’t. I was too ashamed. Admitting how foolish I had been felt impossible. I told myself: It’s in the past. We’ve moved on.

But the truth is, I was a coward. 

—

He wasn’t the only person I hurt. Not only person I truly regret hurting. 

In my mid twenties,  I met a man who made me feel safe, like those boys from my childhood. But by then, I had forgotten how to love myself. I was scared. I thought: If he sees how unlovable I am, he’ll leave.

So I ran.

I told him we had no future and dodged every attempt he made to talk. I denied both of us the chance to figure things out.

Even a year later, he texted me, asking what had happened. I wish I had known then what I know now. I wish I could have given him the closure he deserved. But I didn’t.

Instead, I comforted myself with excuses: At least I didn’t drag it out. At least I ended it quickly.

I don’t regret that it ended. A person who doesn’t love themselves cannot embrace someone else’s love. But I regret how shamefully I handled it.

In an attempt to ease my guilt years after all this transpired while visiting temples in Japan, I wrote their names on ema’s( wooden wishing tablets)  and prayed for their happiness hoping they’d meet people who embraced them with the love they deserved. It was my way of apologizing, even if they would never hear the words.

—

For years, I believed I was invincible. I thought I could handle everything on my own. I was wrong.

When I got sick, I couldn’t take care of myself, let alone my dog. The medication messed with my body and mind, leaving me unable to function. Instead of asking for help, I pushed everyone away. 

I was lucky. My parents stepped in to care of me and my dog, who was still a puppy and needed the stability I couldn’t provide. They were patient and kind when I couldn’t be.

That experience humbled me. It forced me to face my fragility and taught me an invaluable truth: strength doesn’t come from enduring alone. It comes from allowing others to help you.

I still carry guilt for not being able to care for my dog during that time, that guilt pushed me to grow, to confront my fears, and to begin the slow journey of learning to be kind to myself.

—

For the longest time, I thought defining myself : my likes, dislikes, and boundaries would help me find clarity. But life isn’t about rigid definitions. It’s about learning to embrace who you are in each moment.

That’s why I went to Japan, an unfamiliar place without a plan. I wanted to abandon the need to define myself and instead learn to simply be.

Japan was kind to me, or perhaps, for the first time, I was kind to myself. I allowed myself to be vulnerable, to make mistakes, and to grow. And through that growth, I learned to love myself.

I once wrote in my journal:

“I want to be like water-always changing, always moving.”

We, as humans, are not still constructs. We are ever-changing beings, shaped by forces often beyond our control. That realization set me free.

My past does not define me. It taught me how to be human. And that understanding saved me.

—

When I was seventeen my mum looked at me with a faint smile.

“You would go to space if you got the chance, even if you couldn’t come back, wouldn’t you?”

I nodded silently.

She softly parted my hair and whispered, “I just hope that one day, if such an opportunity presents itself, you’ll have a reason to stay.”

Not long ago, I told her, “Mum, I don’t think I’d go to space if I were given the chance.”

She looked confused for a moment, then chuckled.

And for the first time, I felt the quiet certainty of having found reasons to stay.

In finding those reasons, I also let go of my need to know everything, to define everything, to make sense of it all. For years, I clung to a religion of rationality – a desperate attempt to control the chaos of life. But life isn’t meant to be solved; it’s meant to be lived.

I’ve learned to embrace what I cannot understand, to sit with the unknown, and to let it shape me. The person I was before words-unbound by fear or shame-still lives within me. And today, I finally have the courage to let her coexist with the person I’ve become.