I was only Seven!

 I was seven…

when life didn’t ask for permission.

It just took everything.

School stopped.

Childhood stopped.

And I became something I never applied for

a parent in a child’s body.

Three siblings looked at me

like I had answers.

Like I knew how to fix a broken home.

But in reality I didnt,

I was just surviving

in a role I didn’t choose

but couldn’t escape.

I learned responsibility

before I learned identity.

Food instead of freedom.

Pressure instead of play.

Survival 

And my father passed away.

And I didn’t get time to fall apart.

No space to cry properly.

No room to understand loss.

Just silence…

and expectations.

So I buried it.

I called it strength

but it was really suppression.

I grew up carrying grief

I never got to name.

Years passed…

but pain doesn’t expire.

It just waits

for you to finally slow down

and feel it

And now it’s here.

Not loud.

Not dramatic.

Worse.

Real.

It shows up in memories that sting too deep.

In nights where everything gets heavy for no reason.

In moments where I realise—

I didn’t just lose my father.

I lost my childhood too.

Because I wasn’t a daughter grieving.

I was a child surviving

like an adult

before I even understood life.

And now it hits different…

because I finally understand

what it cost me.

And it hurts.

But it’s honest.

And I can’t unfeel it anymore.