The girl inside

There are moments in adulthood when grief arrives unexpectedly — not for someone we’ve lost, but for the versions of ourselves we never got to be. Lately, I’ve been grieving a little girl. A girl I carried inside me for decades without ever truly seeing.

She was trapped.

Locked away.

Silenced by expectations — social, cultural, parental.

She learned early that who she was had to be hidden, reshaped, suppressed.

She cried quietly, tucked behind a mask built for survival. A mask designed to protect her from a world that insisted she be someone else. She lived inside a frame that was never hers, a frame constructed to keep her safe but that ultimately kept her small.

And she hurt.

Deeply.

In ways she didn’t have words for.

In ways that left marks on her body and her spirit.

Her pain was a language no one around her knew how to read.

When she finally screamed for freedom — for authenticity — she was told she was “sick.” That she needed help. That her truth was a problem to be fixed. Those words cut deeper than anyone realised. They crushed her. They taught her that her very being was wrong.

There was a time she tried to disappear altogether. A time when she believed the world would be better without her. But she survived — not because she felt strong, but because something ancient and protective watched over her. I call it the guardian dragon. A quiet force that stood by her when she felt abandoned, that kept her safe when she couldn’t keep herself safe.

As the years passed, that little girl grew up.

But she grew up without a childhood.

Without the freedom to explore who she was.

Without the innocence she deserved.

She mourned what she never had, even before she understood what had been taken from her. And still, the dragon stood guard.

Time moved on — days into months, months into years. The little girl was pushed deeper and deeper inside, buried beneath responsibilities, expectations, and the performance of adulthood. But she never left. She kept struggling, quietly, waiting for the day she would be seen.

And now, as an adult, I feel the grief rising.

I feel the tears for her.

For everything she endured.

For everything she lost.

For everything she was never allowed to be.

Because that little girl was me.

This is my mourning.

This is my reckoning.

This is my truth.

And in naming her — in grieving her — I finally begin to set her free.

Little girl

Written 19/3/26

Grieving the little girl

The little girl trapped

The little girl locked inside

The little girl suppressed

Suppressed by social expectations

Suppressed by parental expectations

The little girl cried inside

She hid from the world

Masked by a frame that was not hers

A frame constructed

A frame designed to protect

The scared girl within

Trapped

She tore at the skin

Marks etched deep

Scars as signatures

Signifying the pain

Signifying the distress

The little girl screaming

Screams for freedom

Screams for authenticity

But is told, you are sick

Help is needed

Yes, you need help

That little girl was crushed

The words cut deep

As the blades sliced through the skin

She tried to end it all

But failed

Death did not come

To that 12-year-old girl

The guardian dragon

Secretly looked down

Kept her safe

Stood by her when she felt abandoned

Stood by her while she was pushed down

As the years passed, that girl grew up

But a childhood robbed

A childhood she never realised

A childhood she mourned

A childhood that could not be reclaimed

However, the dragon stood guard

The sands of time slipped through her fingers

Days became months

Months became years

The little girl that was

Was pushed deeper down

But she never left

She struggled on

Grief floods my soul

Tears flow free

For that little girl was me