Born Unwanted, Made Misunderstood

She was never wanted. Not from the moment she took her first breath, not in the eyes of the woman who birthed her. Her mother, instead of cradling her with love, had always looked at her with resentment. Resentment that turned into hatred, hatred that turned into violence. A slap for being too loud. A kick for being too weak. A beating for simply existing.

Her mother's sister—her aunt—was no different. If anything, she was worse. She saw the little girl as an inconvenience, an extra mouth to feed, a reminder of something she could never understand. Instead of protecting her, she joined in the punishment. Every bruise on the child's skin became a silent scream, an unspoken plea: Why am I here if no one wants me?

They never told her what was right, only what was wrong. They never taught her values, only fed her lies. They planted seeds of corruption in her mind, not because she was corrupt, but because they wanted the world to see her that way. And the world did.

The night that changed everything was not one of love, not even of choice. It was a night stolen from her. The hands that touched her were not gentle. The whispers in her ear were not of affection. And when it was over, the man who had taken from her vanished into the night, leaving her with nothing but shame.

Her father found out. He didn’t ask, he didn’t comfort, he didn’t protect. He only saw what he had been conditioned to see: dishonor. His hands, so much like her mother’s, rained down on her, demanding a name, a confession. But what could she say? That it was a faceless shadow who had stolen what she didn’t even fully understand?

The pain didn’t stop with bruises. It settled into her bones, into her mind. Trauma isn’t just a wound—it is a sickness that lingers, a poison that seeps into every thought, every decision. Over time, she stopped resisting. She became what they wanted her to be—a girl without worth, a girl without a voice. And the world played along, calling her names she never earned, labeling her with shame she never chose.

But time is strange. It doesn’t heal, but it teaches. And as she aged, something changed. Maybe it was the silence of old age that gave her time to think. Maybe it was the absence of those who once hurt her. But one day, she looked in the mirror and saw something new: herself.

She learned, far too late, what had been stolen from her—not just her innocence, but her right to define herself. She began to understand her body, her mind, her worth. She groomed herself, not for the world, but for the girl she once was—the one who had never been given a chance.

But no matter how much she changed, society never did. The whispers followed her, the stares, the judgment. Because the world never asks how a girl becomes what she is. They only judge her for what she has become.

Some girls are not bad. Some are made that way—by hands that should have held them, by words that should have guided them, by a world that chose to turn its back instead of reaching out.

And she was one of them.

Thank You for reading 🙏 😊