Where light finds me

I was born into noise. Not laughter, not the kind of music you hum to yourself — but the kind of noise that seeps into your bones. Sharp voices cutting through silence. Doors slamming. Feet stomping. My earliest memories are of hiding: under my bed, behind curtains, or inside myself. We lived in a small town where everyone knew everyone’s business. Yet no one seemed to notice the storm inside my home. Bullies weren’t just in schoolyards; they were at my dinner table, in my living room, and sometimes, in my own mirror. There were nights I lay awake listening to my parents argue and I wondered if safety was something I would ever know. I learned early that safety was not a place. It was a wish. But somewhere in the chaos, I found something I never thought I would: hope. A kind smile from a stranger. A library where silence felt like peace instead of punishment. The sound of laughter drifting through open windows, reminding me that happiness did exist, even if it wasn’t mine yet. They were whispers of something greater, promises that my story wasn’t finished. That beyond the pain, there was belonging. Beyond the loneliness, there was love. Beyond the shadows, there was light—and somehow, it was searching for me.