Broken and Forgotten

Lost in the Shadows of Despair

For as long as I can remember, life was a fight against something much bigger than me. Poverty. It wrapped itself around my family like a cold, suffocating fog. We had no money, no safety net, no breaks. Just the relentless daily struggle to survive.

Our small home was cramped and worn, the paint peeling and the roof patched with whatever scraps we could find. Food was scarce, clothes were tattered, and every day felt like walking on a tightrope—one misstep, and everything would fall apart. I was just a child, but I understood early on: if I wanted a future, I had to fight for it myself.

School was supposed to be my escape—the promise of something better. But even that dream seemed out of reach. The fees, the books, the uniforms: all required money we didn’t have. My parents worked hard, but their wages disappeared faster than they came. Still, they never gave up on me, always encouraging me to keep going, but I could see the worry in their eyes.

So I did what I had to do. Before dawn, I slipped out quietly and went to the nearby market. I didn’t have a stall or a job; I scavenged for coins dropped on the ground, swept up stray bills, or collected anything valuable that might have been thrown away. I wasn’t proud, but I was desperate. Those coins weren’t just money—they were my lifeline, the tiny fuel that kept my dream alive.

After school, I juggled whatever odd jobs I could find. Washing cars, carrying groceries, cleaning yards—anything to bring in a few more coins. Some days I worked until my hands were raw and blistered, my back aching and my legs trembling. Hunger gnawed at me constantly, but I swallowed it down because every penny counted. I had no time to rest or play; my childhood was a blur of hard work and fleeting moments of exhaustion.

At school, I felt the weight of my circumstances everywhere. The other kids had new shoes, fresh clothes, even lunchboxes packed with food. I had threadbare shoes, hand-me-down clothes, and sometimes no lunch at all. The textbooks I used were outdated and worn thin. I often felt invisible, just another poor kid who didn’t belong.

But I refused to let the shadows swallow me whole. Late at night, under the dim glow of a candle, I studied by heart and by grit. I memorized lessons and scribbled notes on scraps of paper. I asked questions whenever I could and stayed after school to catch extra help. I wanted to prove that I could be more than the poverty that clung to me.

There were moments of despair—many, actually. Times when the storm seemed too dark to survive. When the market was empty, or the small jobs dried up, or my body begged for rest and my mind begged for escape. The shadows whispered lies: “You’re not enough,” “You’ll never make it,” “This is your life now.”

But I held onto hope. Hope was a flickering candle in the wind, fragile but stubborn. I thought of my family—the sacrifices they made, the sleepless nights they endured. I thought of my younger brother, who looked up to me and believed I could make it. I thought of the day I would graduate, walk across that stage, and tell the world that I had fought my way out.

Slowly, step by step, the years passed. I moved from collecting loose coins to earning small wages from part-time jobs. I learned how to manage every cent, how to make meals stretch, how to survive on the bare minimum. I became resourceful, learning skills I never thought I needed. I built connections with kind strangers who offered encouragement, with teachers who saw potential in me despite my worn clothes and tired eyes.

I remember one cold winter night when I worked at a bakery late into the evening. My fingers were numb, and my feet ached, but I counted every penny with a fierce determination. The owner, Mr. Singh, noticed my persistence. He told me once, “You’ve got fire in you. Don’t let these shadows fool you.”

That fire kept burning inside me.

The day of my final exams came, and I was nervous but ready. All those years of struggle, all the silent tears, the aches, the hunger—they culminated in that moment. I gave it everything I had. I remember sitting in that classroom, heart pounding, whispering to myself, “This is for you. This is for all of us.”

When the results arrived, I was trembling. I had passed—better than I ever dreamed. I was a graduate.

Graduation day was surreal. I put on the cap and gown that had been lent to me, worn and slightly too big, but it was mine. My family sat in the front row, faces beaming with pride and tears. I stood on the stage, looking out at the crowd, feeling the weight of every hardship behind me. For the first time in my life, I wasn’t lost in the shadows. I had carved a path through the darkness.

But the journey was far from over.

That night, after the celebrations faded, I sat alone in my small room. I thought about the future—the battles still to come, the barriers still to break. Poverty hadn’t disappeared; it still lurked, threatening to pull me back. But now, I had something stronger than despair. I had education, determination, and the knowledge that I could fight.

I made a promise to myself then: I wouldn’t just survive—I would rise. I would help others lost in the shadows. I would build a life where no one had to fight alone. Because I knew now, from the deepest pain, that hope can be the light that cuts through the darkest night.

The shadows had tried to claim me. But I had chosen to stand in the light.