the dairy of a black child

Zola’s home was the kind people admired from the outside—neat, quiet, and seemingly full of love. But inside, things were different. Her father didn’t shout. He didn’t need to. His words were calm, sharp, and constant. “This isn’t good enough.” “You can do better.” “Why are you like this?” They stayed with her long after he stopped speaking. Zola learned to become smaller. Quieter. Easier. At school, she laughed and smiled like everything was fine. At home, she swallowed every feeling until she couldn’t tell what was hers anymore. Then one afternoon, everything she had quietly feared became real. She wasn’t supposed to be home. But she was. And she saw him—with someone else. Laughing in a way he never laughed with her mother anymore. Zola didn’t say anything. That’s how things worked in her house. No one spoke about what was breaking. After that, the silence grew heavier. Her father’s words became sharper. Her mother became quieter. And Zola… started to disappear. Not physically. But inside. At night, her thoughts crowded her mind, repeating the same things over and over until they felt true. You’re not enough. You’re too much. You make everything worse. She tried to fix herself. Tried to be better. Tried to be less. But nothing changed. One evening, sitting alone in her room, Zola felt something she had never felt before. Nothing. No tears. No anger. No strength. Just emptiness. And it terrified her. For a moment, she felt like she was slipping somewhere she couldn’t come back from. But instead of letting go, she did something small. Something quiet. She reached for her phone and typed: “Hey… are you awake?” It didn’t fix everything. Her home was still broken in ways no one talked about. Her father was still distant. Her mother was still hurting. But that night, Zola didn’t disappear completely. And sometimes… staying is the strongest thing you can do.