The girl who finds her compass
The day I was born, my parent joy was a mix of laughter and a hint of a sigh. They often say they were so happy to see me, a healthy baby girl, but in the next breath, they playfully confess the slight disappointment that their firstborn was not the boy they expected. And that’s how a girl began her journey to an unknown world, a world full of lessons and stories to tell.
My first conscious memory of my childhood is a memory of a Sunday afternoon when I was four years old. The house was quiet, filled with the soft, golden light of late afternoon. I had just woken from a nap, before the evening church service, and the air was still with a pre-dusk peacefulness. My father appeared in the doorway, a paper-wrapped hamburger in his hands, my best childhood favorite. The smell of the warm bun and the savory patty filled the room, a scent that still triggers a deep, nostalgic comfort. He handed it to me with a gentle smile and a kiss on my forehead. It was a simple, small gesture, but in that moment, it felt like the entire universe was wrapped up in that one act of love. That day was full of warmth and joy, and whenever I remember it, there is a feeling in my heart that words can not express. It was a feeling of being completely and utterly seen, of knowing that someone had thought of me, even in the simplest of way. I remember the warmth I feel when my mother embraces me, the hugs that felt like a fortress, a protective barrier that seemed to say, “No one can hurt you.” Her hugs were a silent language of love, a promise of safety in a world that was still so new and full of unknowns.
My grandparents were a constant presence in my early life, and my grandmother, in particular, was a source of endless comfort and nourishment, both literal and emotional. Whenever she visited, my tummy stayed full because of the overflowing baskets of fruits she brought and the simple, yet delicious, meals she cooked. Her hands were always busy, always giving. I remember one moment that I will never forget. I was lying on her lap, a child’s head nestled against an old woman’s thigh. Her hands, worn and gentle, patted my head in a rhythmic, soothing motion. With a playful glint in her eyes and a small, mischievous smile, she said, “When I die, I will hunt you.” As a child, I was scared, and at the same time, I laughed at it, not understanding the weight of her words. Little did I know that was the last conversation that I would have with her. Months passed, and that day still replays in my mind like a silent film. It was late morning when we visited her. I saw the pure joy on her face when we arrived, a joy that radiated from her tired eyes. I remember she asked Mama for milk, so I followed my mother inside to help, and when we came back outside, she was gone. Grandma was gone. I still remember the question I asked my mother when I saw grandma lying on the bed, her face finally at peace, “Mama, when will grandma wake up?” I can still feel the big innocence of that question, a child inability to grasp the finality of death. And I remember how my mother cried so hard, a deep, loud sound that shook her entire body. It was then that I realized Grandma would never wake up. The loss was a painful awakening, the first real wound my young heart had ever felt. This experience taught me to keep going, even if it hurts, to find the strength to face the undeniable truths of life, and to cherish the memories that remain.
In the year 2010, when I was in grade school, I was, according to some people, an average student. I remember having friends who were high achievers, whose names were always at the top of the honor roll. I was simply there, a participant but never a star. At that time, physically, I had friends, but emotionally, I had none. I felt like I was an outsider looking in, an echo in their circle of laughter and inside jokes. I felt like I did not truly belong and was not truly welcome. I tried so hard to fit in, to make myself a more interesting piece of their puzzle, but it always felt forced. The emotional emptiness was a quiet but constant ache. The betrayal came swiftly and unexpectedly. I remember there was a time when one of my classmates pulled me aside, their face etched with a mix of concern and pity. They told me that one of my so-called friends was backstabbing me, saying things that were totally wrong, things that were designed to hurt and make me feel alone. The words hit me like a physical blow. I felt a big sense of betrayal, a cold emptiness where trust had once been. I ran to the gazebo near the classroom, a quiet, leafy sanctuary where I thought no one would find me. I remember crying, not just for the betrayal, but for the loneliness that had been bubbling beneath the surface for so long. And that is when a classmate, someone I barely knew, approached me. They did not ask what was wrong. They did not try to fix it. They simply sat down beside me, offered a comforting silence, and then, a single tissue. That simple act of kindness was more meaningful than any apology. In that moment, I found a real friend. A friend that I could be the real me with, without judgment and without the fear of what ifs. A friendship that was forged not in shared achievements or popularity, but in a single, kind act.
Looking back, I’ve experienced both profound joy and sorrow. Moments like my father’s warm hamburger and my mother’s comforting hug showed me the power of love. My grandmother’s passing taught me about grief and resilience. A betrayal I faced revealed the value of genuine friendship through small acts of kindness. These experiences shape my strength in academics, friendships, and a deep appreciation for life’s simple truths. As I enter college, these memories guide me, reminding me that I am still growing, carrying the essence of my past while becoming a stronger and wiser individual, ready for the next chapter.