I Am Still Here

I was born into a world that didn’t know what to do with me. From the very beginning, I learned how to survive. I learned to move quietly, to make myself small when the walls felt too loud, to hold my breath when the chaos pressed in, to hide the fear that could have swallowed me whole.

I remember a place that became both my prison and my classroom the Romanian orphanage. Cold floors that never warmed, endless hallways that swallowed sound, faces that blurred together like shadows in the dark. I learned early what it meant to be invisible, what it meant to fight for even the smallest scrap of attention or kindness. But even there, in the silence, in the unrelenting gray, there were fragments of warmth. A smile that lasted a second too long, the faint touch of another child’s hand, the way the sun broke through a tiny window at just the right angle moments that whispered: You are more than this. You are still here.

I’ve walked through fire since then. Trauma has a way of following you, sticking to your bones, hiding in your thoughts, making ordinary moments feel dangerous. And yet, I have learned that pain doesn’t have to define the chapters yet to come. I’ve stumbled. I’ve fallen. I’ve cried in corners where no one could see me, wondering if I would ever rise. But deep inside, a voice kept speaking, persistent and quiet: You are not done. You are not finished. You will keep going.

And I did.

Every step forward was a rebellion against the world that tried to shape me into less than I was. I found small victories in the hardest places: the way I could hold onto a smile when the world seemed determined to erase it, the courage to speak when my voice shook, the choice to love even when love felt impossible. I discovered that survival wasn’t enough I needed to live. I needed to breathe in more than just the air of confinement I needed to claim a life of my own, even when it seemed like nothing was mine to claim.

There were days when I felt like I was drowning in the weight of it all. Nights when the darkness pressed in, and I wondered if I could ever find my way back to light. But I kept moving. Step by step, tear by tear, I reminded myself: I am still here. I am still fighting. I am still becoming.

I have learned that scars are not just marks of pain they are proof of survival. Each one tells a story of a time I refused to be broken, of moments when I chose life even when it hurt. I’ve laughed through tears, danced in moments of joy that felt like revolutions, and stared down the fears that tried to define me. I am not perfect. I am not whole. But I am still here.

I have dreams that have followed me like shadows and light intertwined. I dream of a life that feels safe, that feels full, that feels like breathing without holding back. I dream of love that is unafraid, of connection that is steady, of a home I can feel in every cell of my body. And I keep chasing these dreams because I know I deserve them not someday, not maybe, but now, in this moment I am building for myself.

Even in the quietest moments, when doubt creeps in and the world seems indifferent, I remind myself: I am not giving up. I am not letting the pain dictate the story of who I am. I am writing my own narrative, one choice, one breath, one heartbeat at a time. And I have found that there is a kind of power in that persistence a quiet, unshakable force that whispers, You are enough. You are here. You are alive.

I am still here. Still breathing. Still fighting. Still dreaming. Still becoming. And maybe that is everything.