There’s a quiet ache in realizing the weight you carried as a child. The world expected you to be small, but your shoulders were heavy with problems meant for adults. And some.. meant for no soul. You learned too early what worry tastes like, what fear feels like when it’s not just a fleeting moment but a constant companion. Trauma wrapped itself around your days, pain hiding behind every smile you had to force. You missed out on a childhood that should have been yours—carefree, messy, playful—but instead it was overshadowed by the burdens of others, of the demons of others.

No one protected you. Not really. The adults in your life were too tangled in their own struggles, too blind, or perhaps too overwhelmed to notice that a child was bleeding inside. You navigated through confusion and loneliness, through nights that felt longer than they should have, through days where you carried responsibilities far beyond your years. And sometimes, the memories don’t stay buried. Nightmares creep in uninvited, reminding you that the child you once were is still there, still waiting for safety that never came.

And yet, here you are. You grew. You grew into someone stronger than your childhood gave you a chance to be. Someone who finally understands what protection looks like. You know now how to shield, how to nurture, how to honor a child’s smallness without asking for them to carry the world. You’ve become the guardian you once needed, the presence that would have whispered, You are safe. You deserve to rest. You deserve joy.

Because of what you endured, you feel the weight of responsibility—not just for yourself, but for every child who isn’t seen, every little one who is expected to survive without guidance, without love, without care. Failing a child now isn’t just failing them—it’s failing your inner child, the part of you who remembers every ache, every stolen moment, every unseen tear. That is why I get so angry when a child experiences injustice. I feel their pain, even if I haven’t met them. Injustice to them, still feels like injustice to that small me.

This is why you fight for children. Why you protect, advocate, and hold space for them. Not out of obligation, but out of recognition: you know what it means to feel invisible, to carry burdens that aren’t yours. You know what it feels like to wait for someone to notice, to intervene, to save. And now, you can be that person for someone else.

The child you were still whispers sometimes, and you listen. You listen not to hurt them, but to honor them. To ensure that even if the world fails, you will not. And in protecting them, you protect yourself, too. Sometimes, in the middle of my anger or sadness, I hear her—the little voice of the child I once was. She’s quiet but persistent, whispering in my head: Hey… stay strong. We’ve always been strong. Do not give them what they want. You to break.

Because love that was once missing can still be given. Care that was once absent can still be offered. And the child inside you, who once had no shield, can finally rest in the safety you provide.

Every time I help a child, every time I stand up for my own child, there’s a quiet moment inside me—a secret whisper I send to the little girl I once was: I hope I make you proud.

It’s a small, private promise, a bridge between who I was and who I’ve become. Each act of protection, each gesture of care, is not just for them—it’s for her too. It’s my way of saying, You survived. You are seen. You are honored. And now, I am trying to be the person you needed.