I was only fifteen when they dressed me in red, wrapped my hair in flowers, and told me I was ready. Ready for what? They didn’t ask. I didn’t answer. I was a girl with a soft voice and a heavy heart, too young to carry the weight of a title like wife — but it was mine now.
My childhood ended not with a goodbye, but with wedding bells.
At an age when most girls dreamed of school trips, music, and first crushes, I learned how to serve tea, swallow silence, and carry pain in my chest like a secret I couldn’t share. I lived behind closed doors, smiled when I was expected to, and cried only into pillows when no one was watching.
I was never asked what I wanted. I was never taught that my wants even mattered.
But somewhere, deep within me, something refused to die — a quiet voice, a stubborn dream. It whispered whenever I saw girls with schoolbags. It sparked every time I held a pen. It stayed alive even when I felt like I was disappearing.
And then came nineteen.
Nineteen wasn’t loud. It wasn’t dramatic. But it was the year I finally chose me.
I walked away. From the marriage. From the fear. From the idea that I was born only to sacrifice. I chose books over broken promises, classrooms over curses, and self-respect over survival.
It wasn’t easy.
People talked. They always do. They said I’d failed, that I was selfish, that no one would accept a girl with a divorce and a dream. But they didn’t know what I knew:
That saving yourself is not failure.
It is the bravest kind of success.
Now, when I wake up, I don’t answer to anyone’s expectations but my own. I study, I grow, and I smile — not because I have to, but because I want to.
I am not someone’s burden.
I am not someone’s regret.
I am my own beginning.
And if there is a girl out there, sitting in silence, believing she has no choices — I want her to know:
You are not alone.
You are not wrong for dreaming.
And one day, you too will rise —
Not because someone saved you,
But because beautiful you saved yourself.
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