A Story of My Childhood: Rising from Hardship

When I look back on my childhood, I see a time filled with pain, hunger, and fear—but also strength, resilience, and love. I was just a small child when life changed forever. My father passed away when I was very young, leaving my mother and me alone in a world that felt cold and unforgiving. We were already poor, but his death pushed us even further into struggle.

My mother became a widow with no support, no savings, and no one to turn to. We didn’t have relatives who could help us. Some turned their backs on us, while others were too poor themselves to offer anything more than kind words. We were on our own.

We lived in a tiny, one-room house made of weak wood and a roof that leaked when it rained. I remember those rainy nights vividly—water dripping into buckets placed around the room, my mother staying awake to make sure I didn’t get wet while I slept. She used to wrap me in whatever old clothes we had to keep me warm because we couldn’t afford blankets. Despite everything, she never once let me see her cry. She stayed strong for me, even though I know her heart was breaking inside.

There were days we went without food. I would go to bed hungry, pretending I wasn’t, because I knew my mother hadn’t eaten either. Sometimes, she would cook just a small portion of rice or porridge and tell me she wasn’t hungry so I could have it all. Only when I grew older did I realize the sacrifices she made—how she suffered silently so I could survive.

School was another challenge. We couldn’t afford new clothes or shoes, so I would walk to school barefoot, wearing the same torn shirt and shorts every day. Some kids would laugh at me, and I’d lower my head, trying not to let their words sink in too deep. But I never stopped going. I loved learning. It was the only thing that gave me hope, the only thing that made me feel like maybe, just maybe, I could one day rise out of poverty and change our fate.

My mother supported my education in every way she could. She worked multiple jobs—cleaning houses, doing laundry for others, and even selling vegetables in the market. Her hands were rough from the hard labor, and her back ached constantly. But she never complained. She would always say, “As long as you study hard, I can endure anything.”

At night, we didn’t have electricity, so I studied under candlelight or near the small kerosene lamp we had. I would fall asleep with books in my hands and dreams in my heart. My dream wasn’t just for me—it was for my mother, too. I wanted to give her a better life, to one day see her smile without worry, to take care of her the way she had taken care of me.

People used to look down on us. Some said I would never amount to anything. That a poor, fatherless boy from a broken home could never succeed. But I held on to my mother’s words and the fire inside me. I believed in the power of education, hard work, and faith. I knew life owed me nothing—but I was willing to fight for everything.

As the years passed, things didn’t magically get better. There were still hard days, still moments when I wanted to give up. But I didn’t. Slowly, step by step, I began to rise. I passed my exams, earned scholarships, and kept pushing forward. I worked odd jobs to support my studies, and through it all, my mother stood by me—cheering me on with her tired but proud eyes.

Now, as I look at where I am today, I carry all those memories with me. I carry the pain, the hunger, the loneliness—but also the strength, the determination, and the unbreakable bond between a mother and her child. I haven’t forgotten where I came from. I never will.

Because that poor little boy, walking barefoot to school with an empty stomach and a full heart, still lives inside me. And he’s the reason I keep striving. For him. For her. For every child out there who feels forgotten by the world.

This is not just my story. It’s a story of countless others who rise from nothing, fueled by love, sacrifice, and an unshakable dream. And if you're reading this and struggling too—please know, your beginning does not define your ending.