When I was young, I used to have a lot of dreams. Ultimately, the essence of all my dreams was to become someone who makes her parents both proud and special — like all other children my age, of course. I had only one vision and no missions at all.

I first thought of becoming a teacher and then a scientist. When I was in 3rd standard, I wrote in my diary that I wanted to become an astronomer.

Like any child, I looked at my goal from different angles. But I was unable to reflect on it, nor did I focus on what I liked. Because I knew that my interests would never make my parents and family happy.

I strived hard to achieve something that wasn’t my cup of tea. I blamed myself every time I failed. I always worked hard from scratch without understanding what was truly needed.

In my younger years, I never thought high marks would play a role in my life. I was least aware of the importance of being a topper. I believed in living the life I liked. But as I was conditioned not to follow my heart, I tried to be comfortable with the options left to me, despite all the disturbing thoughts and the toxic people around me.

My surroundings were never as calm as I wished. Body shaming is the first thing that comes to mind when I think about my childhood. It shattered my confidence and made me feel uncomfortable in my own body throughout my formative years. I was never good enough for my extended family to accept me. I was a little chubby and (worst of all) a very talkative and straightforward child. Looking back, I can see how cruel they were at times.

When I entered adolescence, my focus shifted from my goals to my appearance. At the age of 11, I wanted to become a size zero, fair and soft-spoken, just to fit into society’s beauty standards.

When I finally achieved a size zero, I was happy and dreamed of a peaceful and lovely life ahead. But it was all my imagination. That was just the beginning of another form of torment — slut-shaming. I lost the courage to stand up for myself. Along with all sorts of assaults and molestations, this mental torture tore me apart. The path ahead was even more rugged.

It took almost a decade for me to realize all of this. But still, I kept trying to fit in and wasn’t prepared to face challenges. As a starting point, I wrote down everything about one of my days — an elaborate diary entry. That was relaxing, and I decided to keep writing. But it wasn’t as easy as I thought. It takes a lot of courage, determination, and consistency to revisit every single trauma in one’s life. I kept writing for so long that I often forgot to step out of my room.

Then, perfectionism posed another threat. I became desperate and isolated myself from the world. I rejected almost every opportunity I got, convinced I was the only imperfect person. It took years for me to finally understand how imperfections make life easier. The more I tried to be perfect, the more pressure I put on myself. I decided not to be a pressure cooker anymore.

Writing was one of the last things I could have imagined myself doing when I was in school. I never thought of writing even a letter. But here I am, neither perfect nor the best. Even so, I have this space, which I share with you. I will continue doing the same.

The art of writing is fixing me, tinkering from the very scratch. It’s a bit wicked — but it must be — to help me regain what I lost even before my oldest memories. I’m not going to stop expressing how happy I feel. I don’t believe in a ‘happily ever after’ ending anywhere on earth, but I enjoy every emotion and feeling of mine. I’m exploring more such experiences to write more and more.

Here I begin…