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I felt a cool, refreshing breeze wash over me as we walked along the smoothly paved path. My sister did not walk or run, instead she leisurely skipped down the park without a care in the world, while I thought about how my feet were stepping one in front of the other, how the rock in my shoe dug into the sole of my right foot yet I didn't want to reach down and shake it out.

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I was only a child, an innocent thing, watching the clouds dance their way over the empty sky in a mix of greys and whites. My mouth fell open as, suddenly, far droplets tumbled from the air and onto my hands. Then came the thunder, forking through the darkening sky with a reverberating echo. I stopped in place, watching, without realising that someone was calling my name behind me. Blinking, I turned toward the voice. A few steps away, rain dampening her hair into a sticky hay, was my mother. My mother- who I hadn’t seen in months.

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You would think that your life would be filled with whimsy and overflowing with joy. But the burden of being the oldest and having the mishap of being born a girl anchored you down more than you would think. Every step calculated to perfection and not a moment free of anticipation will cage forever it seems and that’s just the way that things would be it seemed.. as long as you were a girl

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It was 2016 and I was nine years old. The year where i realised I could never be normal again, stuck in between the innocence of a naive child and the graphic truth that haunts the rest of the world. The year before reaching double digits was the year i realised age doesn't mean your growing up. That's what losing someone close to you will do

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Writing in the first person, explain the problem as if talking to a bright 12-year-old.

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Writing in the first person, explain the problem as if talking to a bright 12-year-old.

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It was 2016 and I was 9 years old and I had my whole life ahead of me. When all the other children were asked what they wanted to be when they grew up, one always shouted,”Firefighter!” and another,”Singer!”. And then it was my turn. I always stayed silent. In my mind, I could see an infinite number of futures. Me dancing on a West End stage. Me running an 100 metre sprint. My future was never set in stone, and it sometimes scared me.

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it was 2016 and i was nine years old with the deafening sound of bombs, guns and cannons echoing through the city, turning silence into chaos in an instant. No one knew what was about to come 

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it was 2016 and i was nine years old with the deafening sound of bombs, guns and cannons echoing through the city, turning silence into chaos in an instant. No one knew what was about to come 

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My father could not see the blood between my legs, my brothers could not know this existed. My mother said men are too immature to know about womanhood and I was all grown up. But I was only nine and did not know what a period was.

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It was 2016 and I was nine years old, the summer days felt endless, going to sleep when the sun was still beaming through the sheer white curtains. Summer stretched on forever, warm air, dusty trainers, and laughter filling the fields that surrounded my house from dog walkers and  distantfootball games. I never worried about time back then it moved softly, but with purpose. Every small moment felt important.

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The world looked brighter. The air smelt cleaner. The birds sang louder.

Even the breeze of the wind had a calming song to it.

Oh to be back in 2016, when I was nine years old. Oh to be back in 2016.

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Unfortunately this that are narrow minded captivate your life. You’re painted as the innocent one; a dedicated flower thats not to be broken, impure, or treaded on. They’ll see your weakness and they’ll build rules around it- highlight the things you shouldn’t do, things that would bring your poor family shame.. the list could honestly go on forever. Eventually you’ll sit pinning over the life that you could have had; the life you should have had. If only you were anyone else then maybe your dreams wouldn’t remain dreams.

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When I was young, I believed danger was loud, scary, like monsters under our beds. It is not. There is no doubt that it is more about real fears slipping into my life slowly and gradually, until I realised they have been shaping my character the whole time. When I say it was 2016, that was the first time i understood clearly fear did not wait for me to grow up. It was there the whole time, growing with me.

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The issue is that the world no longer values imagination and creativity. The people with the most power try to replicate human invention with systems like AI to produce a great profit. They don't understand the principles of being free to create without censorship,and restrictions. Without freedom of creative expression art will repeat itself losing all impact it once had.

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A child growing up and realising that life is not all as whimsical as they thought before. They learn about maturity, about real life issues, and about the fact adults are never fully prepared either.

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It wasn't just the rock in my shoe or the way I could feel my clothes splayed across my body every time a breeze rolled through or the way my sister's energetic hops sucked any energy out of me.

It was the fact that we were pretending this walk in the park was absolving us of our worry, of the crippling issue at hand.

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Living now, post-covid, it feels like the lockdown vacuumed all the life out of the air. Life returned back to normal, yet positivity remained locked away. Smiles remained locked away.

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The hot sun beamed down onto the many white grains of sand blanketing the beach. Frothy waves crashed upon the rocky barriers protecting the beach from the greater sea. I was nine years old, resisting the urge to join my sister playing with the sand buckets and array of shells. I was too old for this. I looked out into the crystal waters where the older children where playing, laughing, sinking each other into the vast blue of the sea. Part of me wanted to run out into the waters and play with them. To prove to them that I was also capable of growing up and being mature. But in reality, I longed to turn to the plastic jungle on the beach where my sister and the rest of her friends were shouting and throwing sand into the salty air.

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the days blur together now. no joy. no pain. i keep catching myself reaching for my phone, expecting to see her name,lighting up my screen. its strange how quiet my mind feels and yet how heavy my heart feels,like a constant pressure sitting on my chest. all i can do for now if keep this all to myself

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It was 2016 and I was nine years old. I don’t remember much from that year, only the echoes of her name. Grief bled through the house, spreading through every room, taking over my whole family. I didn’t know how to understand it then. I just knew that everything felt heavier, like the house was holding its breath. Even now, when I think of 2016, I don’t see months or days. I see her.

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i struggle to find my balance as i stand on this ledge, knowing this is the only way i can permanently get rid of my pain.

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Regret will always be the echo of who we were, reminding us that the pain of staying the same is often louder than the risk of becoming more.

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The world just began being painted with colour, as the monotone blacks and greys leave, the soul of man returns with a new shade of green.

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Looking back, I realise I’ve grown; evolved. Through the storms, I’ve overcome my fears and climbed the mountain from where the thunder no longer looked frightening, but entrancing. Still, when I catch a glimpse of my reflection in the mirror, sometimes it’s not the fearless girl staring back at me, but a small child, teddy bear in hand, who was afraid of the dark. It is then that I realise that child didn’t disappear; she has evolved, the same at heart, but different in the way she lives her life. Without doubting herself, without fearing the unknown, and facing the storms on the horizon knowing that a rainbow awaits beyond.

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The shame consumed me on that very beach. Enveloping itself around my bare shoulders, preventing the warm embrace of the sun from comforting me. I was a child. Nine. Unable to understand why I felt shame to be in tune with my youth. I felt the pressure to change and mold myself into everything everyone else expected of me.

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2016 is not a year I remember, it's a name I can't forget.

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It’s now 2026. It’s now been a decade of watching the joys of 2016, slowly fading into a distant dream as time continues to pass by. The highs of 2016, remaining a dream that can never again be our reality… remaining a distant memory that can never again be recreated.

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Menstrual blood does not shed through lack of hygiene, but it is not a flowery image either. My body functions the way it is supposed to without being a work of poetry. This blood is not female identity—it is not disgusting either. It is just a body—my body.

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Unfolding like a black hole, the problem that we had worked so hard to bury, to ignore had catastrophized itself. I watched as my father breathed down my sister neck, screaming at her but the words all sounded like they were being launched out all at once from a cannon of anger.

I waited for my turn on the front line, my turn to face my father, yet in the back of my mind I wished that I had grabbed my sister's hand and run away when we had the chance; I wished, while we were in that park, I'd had the courage to stay there and escape the problem.

Our problem.

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In the end, I felt like nothing mattered. My shattered sense of self was something that I had to fix all on my own.