I Am Not What I Survived

**I Am Not What I Survived**

They see the scars before they see me.

They whisper my past louder than I speak my present.

But I am not what I survived.

There was a time I believed I was the sum of my suffering. That every bruise, every breakdown, every silent scream shaped the edges of who I became. It was easier, then, to be what they expected — a shadow of myself, carrying trauma like a second skin.

But that’s not the whole story.

It started in a small, dimly lit room where I learned to swallow my voice. Childhood, for me, wasn’t a playground. It was a warzone. Where some children were told bedtime stories, I was told to stay silent — that emotions were dangerous, that crying made you weak. My world was a balancing act of staying invisible yet alert. And when the blows came — sometimes with words, sometimes with hands — I made myself smaller, hoping pain couldn’t hit what it couldn’t see.

I grew up thinking survival was my only purpose.

School became my escape. Books became my sanctuary. In stories, I found characters who rose from ashes, who found light in darkness. I wanted to be them. I needed to believe that there was more to me than the pain stitched into my past.

But healing doesn’t come like magic. It’s not a single choice. It’s a thousand tiny ones — getting out of bed when your body begs you not to, speaking when fear chokes your throat, choosing love when you’ve only known control. I stumbled through that process. Often. I trusted the wrong people. I wore masks so tight they left marks. I chased validation like air. And every time I fell, the voice inside whispered, “You’ll never be more than what happened to you.”

But something changed. Or maybe I changed.

One rainy afternoon, I found myself sitting across from a therapist I didn’t want to see. My arms were crossed. My words clipped. But then she said something simple that cracked me open:

“You’re not broken. You’re wounded — and wounds can heal.”

No one had ever said that to me.

That sentence clung to my ribs for weeks. I repeated it like a prayer. Because deep down, I wanted to believe it. I wanted to be more than my survival. I wanted to live.

So I began the long, slow climb out of myself.

I forgave the child I once was — not for being hurt, but for blaming themselves. I sat with the teenage version of me, the one who lashed out, shut down, rebelled. I gave them grace. I stopped chasing perfection and started chasing peace. I allowed joy into my life — cautiously at first, like it might betray me. But it stayed.

People around me didn’t always understand. Some still pointed backward, bringing up the past like a punchline or a prophecy. But I learned to let them talk. Their opinions were not my truth.

Because I am not what I survived.

I am the quiet strength it took to walk away.

I am the voice I found after years of silence.

I am the choice to love, even when I was never shown how.

I am laughter that doesn’t come from pain.

I am softness that exists without apology.

Now, when I look in the mirror, I still see the remnants. The scars, the stories, the weight. But I also see light. I see growth. I see a human being — not a survivor, not a victim — just someone who’s still here, still trying, still becoming.

I tell my story not for pity, but for power. Because someone out there is standing at the edge of their own pain, wondering if this is all they’ll ever be. If that’s you — hear me clearly:

**You are not what you survived.**

You are everything you chose to become after.

So stand tall, even if your knees shake.

Speak softly, even if your voice cracks.

And live — not just to prove them wrong, but to prove yourself right.

You are worthy of more than survival.

You are worthy of joy, of peace, of becoming.

And the world needs your story — not the one they wrote for you, but the one you’re writing now.