"You used to be happy" coming from a voice behind the queue, obviously not referring to me but surprisingly sparked memories.
I was the youngest in my family, often fading into the background due to my introverted nature. At just 11 years old, my world was shattered by the loss of my father, the one person who had been my rock, my confidant, and my guiding light. His absence left an unfillable void in my life.
As I navigated the challenges of growing up, I struggled with my self-image. People would frequently make hurtful comments about my slender frame, saying I was "too thin" or that I needed to "eat more." And it always made me angry because I eat enough which would probably make others gain extra weight. These words pierced my fragile confidence, and I began to internalize them, believing I wasn't good enough. Yes, I became shy.
My lack of self-assurance seeped into every aspect of my life. I'd hesitate to contribute in class, fearing ridicule or judgment from my peers. I stopped doing the things I loved so much because of how people may react. I'd avoid social gatherings, feeling like an outsider looking in. I knew it hit me hard when I stopped taking pictures of myself. The memories of my father's words of encouragement and love were all that sustained me during those difficult times, I guess. A lot of my peers might think I'm over reacting but sadly do don't feel the pain I feel.
One day, while rummaging through my father's belongings, I stumbled upon his old journal. As I flipped through the pages, I found a heartfelt note he had written specifically for me. "My dear one, when I'm back I'll get a lot for you." These words resonated deeply with me, and I realized that his travel meant death and his present, i was yet to discover. Although something deep down tells me his present were my current abilities. My father's love and acceptance had given me a foundation to stand on.
With renewed determination, I began to challenge the negative self-talk that had held me back for so long. I started to focus on my strengths and celebrate my individuality. I found solace in writing and art and designing, expressing myself in ways that felt authentic and meaningful. As I learned to see myself through my father's eyes, my confidence slowly grew. Though the journey was far from easy, I knew my father would want me to shine brightly, and that thought gave me the courage to keep moving forward.
It was one of those days when everything felt blurry, like the world was wrapped in a soft, unshakable fog. My mind wandered through a maze of thoughts, each one bumping into the next, never fully connecting. I stared at the floor, my mind heavy with the usual worries. The sound of footsteps approaching snapped me back to reality, and I looked up, startled.
It was the teaching assistant, her voice cutting through the silence as she called out to the group. "Alright, everyone, it's time to get dressed for the practical."
I glanced around, noticing my classmates springing into action, moving with a purpose, collecting their things, and heading for the changing rooms. But there I was, frozen, my hands gripping the edge of my desk like it was the only thing keeping me grounded.
The practical. The one that everyone had been talking about for days. It should've been exciting, a chance to prove myself, to show I belonged in this space. But all I could think about was how out of place I felt. I had the dress in my bag, neatly folded and ready. It wasn't anything special, just the uniform required for the practical, but it felt like a heavy weight in my hands. I wasn't ready.
I took a deep breath, trying to summon some kind of courage. My classmates were already disappearing behind the changing room door. I could hear the soft murmur of their voices, their laughter. And then there was me, sitting there, doubting myself, questioning whether I really belonged in that room with them. What if I wasn't good enough? What if I couldn't pull it off?
I stood up, but my legs felt like they were made of stone. I grabbed my bag, feeling the fabric of the dress through the cloth. It was too simple. Too plain. I wasn't sure if I had the confidence to wear it, to put it on and step out there in front of everyone. I wanted to blend into the background, to hide away from the spotlight that would inevitably shine on me once I walked through that door.
Another voice, the assistant's, cut through the room again. "Come on, everyone! Time's ticking!"
I froze, and for a second, I felt like I was in a different world, separated from the others by this invisible wall. The wall of self-doubt, of fear of judgment. What if my hands shook? What if I fumbled with the dress and everything fell apart? The anxiety gripped me, making my chest tighten. I wanted to run, to hide, but I knew that wouldn't solve anything.
I glanced once more at my classmates, now gathering in pairs and chatting as they changed. I couldn't stay here forever. I had to face it. I took a step toward the door, my heart racing. It wasn't going to be easy, but I had to do it.
So I walked, slowly but surely, making my way to the changing room. Each step felt heavier than the last, but I was moving forward. And maybe, just maybe, that was enough for now.
I stood in front of the mirror for what felt like hours, staring at the dress I had finally put on. It clung to me in ways that felt unfamiliar, almost as if I was stepping into someone else's skin. I had never been one to draw attention to myself, and this dress—it was simple, yes, but it was still different from what I usually wore. My stomach twisted into knots as I smoothed the fabric down, trying to breathe through the unease.
But there I was, standing at the threshold of the changing room, forcing myself to step out and face the world. I could hear my heart pounding in my chest, as if it were trying to escape.
I walked into the main room, trying to keep my head up, to not let my legs give way under me. There were murmurs, quick glances, but I couldn't read them. Were they staring? Laughing? Or was it just my mind playing tricks on me again? It felt as if everyone's eyes were on me, scrutinizing every little detail, every move I made. I clenched my fists, gripping the paper of my project harder than necessary.
The moment finally came, and I stood at the front, holding the project I had poured so much time into. I cleared my throat and began my speech. At first, my voice cracked, but I quickly steadied it. The words flowed, smooth and controlled, one after another. For the first time that day, I felt a sliver of calm wash over me. I spoke without mistakes, my confidence growing with every sentence. I had prepared for this—no matter how unsure I had been earlier, I knew my work, and I knew what I was talking about.
When I finished, I looked up to see the room filled with faces, all watching. The silence that followed felt heavy, like a weight pressing down on my chest. My mind raced. Were they judging me? Did they think my project was stupid? I could almost hear the whispers, the laughter, even though no sound actually came. I stepped back, fighting the urge to shrink, to apologize for taking up space.
And then, slowly, the tension broke. One by one, they started clapping. It wasn't thunderous applause, but it was genuine. I saw a few smiles, nods of approval, even a few surprised looks. The group liked my project. They were impressed.
I could hardly believe it. For a moment, I just stood there, caught in the realization that all the fears, the worries I'd had before, had been nothing more than shadows. I wasn't being laughed at. I wasn't a joke. They had seen the effort I had put in, the work that was behind my presentation. And they respected it.
A strange warmth filled my chest, a mixture of relief and pride. I had done it. I had stepped out of my comfort zone, pushed past my doubts, and succeeded. The dress, the fear, the anxiety—they didn't matter anymore. I had made it through. And maybe, just maybe, I had earned the right to stand here, confident in my own skin.