unspokenwords

“The Silence That Shaped Me”

A true story of pain, survival, and rediscovery.

My name is not important here — what matters is the story I carry within me.

The person I’ve become today has been shaped not just by choices, but by silent battles I never asked for… but had to survive.

My childhood was supposed to be filled with innocence and laughter — but some memories left marks far deeper than bruises. I was very young when I first encountered something that no child should ever experience. A trusted neighbor, someone we used to visit without fear, took advantage of our innocence. What happened in that closed room was confusing and terrifying. I didn’t understand what he was doing at the time — only that it felt wrong. Somehow, I managed to run away. But the fear didn’t leave with me.

The second incident hit even closer to home. It was a cousin — someone I had grown up calling ‘bhai’. I had no knowledge of what was right or wrong, no awareness of how to protect myself. It started subtly — an inappropriate video, a misleading word, calling it a “game.” Slowly, his behavior crossed all limits. There were moments when I was asleep, and he would violate my space without a word. I remained silent. Too scared to speak. Too young to even fully understand. And that silence slowly became my prison.

The third time, it was yet another cousin. This one lived with us for a while at my grandmother’s house. His approach was different — almost gentle. I was still a child, and I mistook the wrong kind of attention for affection. I didn’t understand boundaries. Eventually, I realized it was wrong, and I stepped away. But by then, I had already begun to question my own worth.

These experiences didn’t just end in childhood — they left a lasting imprint on the way I saw myself, the world, and relationships. I couldn’t sit still in one place emotionally. I struggled with self-worth, with fear, and often with guilt that was never mine to carry. I kept pretending I was okay. I kept running from the shadows of my past.

Until something changed.

Amidst this chaos, I met someone — unexpectedly. A boy, living far away, who entered my life with a kind heart and a gentle soul. In a world where I had forgotten how to trust, he made me feel safe. He didn’t know about my past, but he recognized my present pain. Instead of running from it, he stood by me — with patience, with care, and with love that asked for nothing in return.

For the first time, I began to feel human again.

I began to believe that I could be loved — not despite my past, but simply for who I am.

Even now, there are nights when old memories visit.

Even now, I struggle with things I can’t always explain.

But now… I have someone who doesn’t demand perfection — he walks beside me through the imperfection.

This is my story — real, raw, and unfiltered.

Not for sympathy. Not for attention.

But to remind someone out there that you are not alone.

What happened to us was never our fault.

And healing, though not instant, is possible — when love is patient, and when we begin to forgive ourselves for surviving.

*This story may tell about the author she wants help anonymously*##Childhoodtrauma #Trauma #realstory #story #unspokenwords #MentalHealth

I speak four languages fluently: Spanish, Guarani, Portuguese, and English. In college, I even took a semester of French and wandered through Paris, piecing together phrases from memory, testing the limits of my tongue. But fluency is a fickle thing; it’s not just about words, but about being understood. And if that’s the case, have I ever truly been fluent in anything?

I was born in Paraguay, a country where Guarani only became an official language decades after I was already speaking it in secret. My mother forbade it at home. She wanted my Spanish to be perfect, untainted. To her, Guarani was a limitation. To me, it was a door—a door to belonging, to laughter, to a world just beyond my reach.

So I learned it quietly. A tiny act of rebellion. I found an old Guarani dictionary somewhere and poured over it like it held spells that could make me visible. I thought if I spoke their language, maybe they’d let me in.

But language does not guarantee belonging.

I learned Guarani because I wanted friends.

And still, I was alone.

I was the strange one: too much, too intense, too loud, too quiet, too wrong. I didn’t know why. There were no words for it then. Only rejection. Years later, I would discover that my mind works differently, that my thoughts race, that I feel too deeply, that I live in patterns others can’t see. Back then, I just knew I didn’t fit.

So I turned inward. If no one would talk to me, I would listen.

That’s how I learned Portuguese, not through friendship or school, but through solitude. My bedroom became my sanctuary, my television my only companion. Living near the Brazilian border meant six channels played freely, their voices filling the silence where friendship should have been. I absorbed the language the way I had with Guarani, not from rebellion this time, but from loneliness.

Guarani was the language I learned because I longed for connection.

Portuguese was the one I learned because I had none.

When I moved to the United States, English became my lifeline. I learned it the way someone learns to swim after being thrown into the ocean, desperately, without rhythm, without time to think. And still, no matter how many languages I collected, I kept finding myself misunderstood.

Fluency, I learned, is not the same as connection.

I could translate, conjugate, perfect every tense. But the rhythm of human interaction, the invisible rules of friendship, the easy art of belonging, remained foreign to me. So I searched for connection elsewhere, in love. I convinced myself that romance could fill the spaces friendship never did. But even there, I faltered. I was present, but distant. I loved, but I never stayed. The pattern followed me from cities to homes to jobs. I was always moving. Always searching.

And here lies the greatest irony of all: I speak multiple languages, yet I still struggle to communicate.

Not because I lack the words. I have too many words.

But I never learned the ones that make people stay.

The ones that make them understand me.

The ones that turn speech into belonging.

How do you say lost in every language?

Because that’s the word I’ve always known best.

#MyStoryMatters #sharingmytruth #breakingthesilence #unspokenwords #writingtoheal #neurodivergentvoices #adhdawareness #AutismAcceptance #invisiblestruggles #mentalhealthmatters #EndTheStigma #lostintranslation #languageandloneliness #youarenotalone #healingthroughwords #Findingmyvoice #fromsilencetostrength #writingthroughpain #multilingualmisfit #fluentbutmisunderstood #thepowerofwords

"The silence that shaped me"

How Do You Say "Lost" in Every Language?

Feed for