My childhood wasn’t made of balloons, laughter, or cakes.
It was made of fear, tears, and silence.

No one ever showed me kindness. I didn’t even know what kindness felt like. My mother was a boastful narcissist; even when there was only a single grain of rice left in our home, she made sure she looked perfect. Her appearance mattered more than love, more than warmth, more than me.

If someone called me cute or pretty, it would ignite her fury. She would burn with jealousy and rage, and I would become her target.
Thrown, slapped, scolded, crushed.
Every night, her words rained down like knives designed to break, not teach.
She didn’t just hurt my body. She wounded my spirit.

As I grew up, fear became my second skin. Hopelessness is my shadow. I believed I was nobody’s child just a burden that existed by accident.
Night after night, I would dream of a giant rock falling onto me, crushing me until there was nothing left. Blood would flow from all parts of my body.
I’d wake up sweating, heart racing, too afraid to fall back asleep, because in my dreams I was reliving the helplessness I already knew too well.

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🎂

Birthdays were never something I looked forward to. There were no celebrations, no laughter, and no candles blown with love.
Each year, my father would redeem a free cake from his workplace, often with missing chocolate pieces, dented sides, or smudged frosting. My older brother or mother would cut a big piece or eat up some of the decorations before placing them on the table. But that wasn’t what hurt.
It was the silence that followed.
The absence of joy.
The coldness in the air whispered, You don’t matter enough to celebrate. I am that unwanted child.

And that pattern didn’t stop when I became an adult.
Even after I got married, my ex would do the same: redeem free cakes from coupons or, worse, “forget” my birthday altogether.

Year after year, I was reminded that I wasn’t special. That I wasn’t worthy of celebration.
I hated my birthday, not because I was getting older, but because it meant another year of being ignored by those who should love me.

So, I stopped celebrating.
I stopped wanting.
I stopped expecting anyone to remember me.

I felt happier being forgotten because it means I will not be hurt.

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🎈

The little girl inside me deserved more.
She deserved laughter. She deserved to be told she was enough. She earned a cake even if it was tiny and a candle lit just for her.

And today, as That Girl Who Is Learning To Smile, I am giving her what no one else did:
Hugs. Kindness. Love.
A quiet promise that she will never be forgotten again.

Because healing sometimes looks like buying yourself a cake,
lighting a candle, and whispering, “Happy birthday, Dear Me. You made it.”

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From That Girl Who Is Learning To Smile
For the ones who grew up unseen, may you find ways to celebrate yourself, even when no one else did. 💛