A BATTLEFIELD I CALLED HOME

I wasn’t looking for anything deep today. I was just scrolling through Instagram to pass time. It’s Sunday — probably one of the most boring days of the week for me. No plans, no excitement. Just endless scrolling to fill the boredom.

And then, out of nowhere, I came across a post that made me pause. Those words felt like someone had reached inside my chest and put my entire childhood into a sentence.

It was about a girl who was waiting. Waiting for the doors to stop slamming. Waiting for the yelling to stop. Hoping that someone would ask if she was okay.

And right then, it hit me right in the heart because that was me. That was my life.

I grew up in a house that felt like a battlefield more than a home. I remember, i was waiting too. Waiting for the fights to be over. Waiting for a peaceful day. Waiting for someone to notice the quiet kid sitting in the corner, pretending not to exist.

But no one ever did.

And for the longest time, I thought it was just me being unlucky to have a family like that. But seeing this post today made me realize I wasn’t alone. That someone out there lived those same days, felt those same things. And somehow, even through a screen, it made me feel a little less invisible.

That post gave a voice to a chapter of my life I’ve never spoken out loud.

To anyone else who knows what that kind of childhood feels like — I see you. I hear you. And I’m sorry no one asked if you were okay.

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