Shattered Girl, Strong Woman

I used to think strength looked like silence. Like holding everything in, smiling through the pain, and pretending I wasn’t drowning. I believed being “okay” was more important than being real. I was the girl who held herself together with apologies and quiet endurance, hoping no one would notice how close I was to falling apart.

On the outside, I was functioning. I held down a job, returned texts on time, posted filtered selfies that hid the truth. But beneath all of that was a version of me that was broken in places no one could see.

I learned how to disappear before I learned how to speak. My childhood was a lesson in survival. My father’s rage filled rooms like smoke—thick, inescapable, choking. My mother was quiet, cautious, never making sudden moves. She taught me how to avoid triggering the storm. I became an expert in shrinking, staying small, staying safe.

By the time I was in my early twenties, I had learned to become whoever people needed me to be. I could be soft or silent, accommodating or invisible. I mistook people-pleasing for kindness. I thought if I made everyone else comfortable, I would feel safe. But inside, I was exhausted. Detached from who I was, afraid to want more, afraid to speak louder than a whisper.

The trauma I carried wasn’t always dramatic. It didn’t scream—it simmered. It surfaced in anxiety attacks behind closed doors, in tolerating relationships that chipped away at my worth, in telling myself, “You’re fine,” when I wasn’t. I lived in survival mode so long, I forgot what it meant to live.

The breaking point came quietly. I was 26, sitting alone in my car outside work, hands gripping the steering wheel like it might hold me together. My chest was tight, but I wasn’t crying. I wasn’t even angry. I was just empty. It was like everything inside me had gone still.

That day didn’t change everything immediately, but it cracked something open. I realized I couldn’t keep living a life that required me to be numb just to get through it. I didn’t want to pretend anymore. I didn’t want to survive. I wanted to heal.

So, for the first time in my life, I asked for help.

Therapy wasn’t glamorous. It wasn’t a one-time breakthrough—it was a slow, painful unraveling of years of buried wounds. There were sessions I left in silence, and others where I finally said the things I had been too scared to admit. Words like, “I’m not okay,” and, “That hurt me,” and, “I deserve better.”

I started seeing the patterns. I saw how I had carried my childhood pain into every adult decision. I realized that my people-pleasing wasn’t love—it was fear. I began naming my boundaries, and with every no I said, I made space for myself to exist.

Healing wasn’t linear. Some days I felt strong. Other days I felt like the same scared girl I’d always been. But even on the hardest days, I was becoming. I was letting go of the version of me that was built only to survive and slowly stepping into the woman who was ready to thrive.

I cried. I screamed into pillows. I lost people. I disappointed people. But I didn’t lose myself. I found her.

The day I looked in the mirror and didn’t flinch was the day I knew I had changed. I didn’t look perfect. I didn’t feel invincible. But I looked honest. And that was more than enough.

Now, I am not the girl who disappears. I do not stay quiet to keep the peace. I don’t shape-shift to fit into places that don’t see me. I have learned that real strength isn’t about hiding your wounds—it’s about honoring them. It’s about choosing yourself even when it’s uncomfortable.

I am the woman who walks into rooms without apology. Who feels deeply and speaks boldly. Who still has scars, yes—but wears them as proof that she didn’t just survive—she rebuilt.

To the girl I used to be: I see you. You were never weak. You were surviving the only way you knew how.

And to the women reading this who still feel broken: you are not alone. You are not too much. You are not too far gone. You are becoming.

And becoming is the bravest thing you will ever do.