She was not someone people stopped to look at.
She blended into the crowd easily—like a familiar face you couldn't quite place. The kind of girl you passed every day and forgot by evening. Not because she was unimportant, but because she was quiet in a world that rewarded noise.
To some, she was ordinary.
Nothing extra. Nothing lacking. Just there.
To some, she was special—but only in moments. When she listened without interrupting. When she remembered small details others ignored. When her presence felt gentle, like a pause between heavy thoughts.
And to a few… she was a burden.
Too sensitive. Too slow. Too much feeling for things that didn't matter to them.
She learned early that people decided who you were before you ever spoke.
But none of that answered the question that followed her everywhere—
Who was she to herself?
She had once been a child with tiny feet that ran without fear. Back then, the world felt wide and forgiving. She believed growing up would bring clarity, that dreams would come with instructions, that adults knew what they were doing.
They didn't tell her about the weight.
The quiet expectations.
The way doubt sneaks in slowly, pretending to be practicality.
As she grew, she learned how to shrink parts of herself. How to smile when she wanted to speak. How to nod when she wanted to ask why. She became good at being what was needed, even when she didn't know what she needed herself.
At night, when the world softened and the noise faded, she allowed herself to feel everything she held back during the day. The questions. The longing. The dreams she was afraid to say out loud in case they laughed back at her.
She wanted more—but she didn't know what "more" looked like yet.
Only that her heart felt fuller than her life.
Somewhere between who she was expected to be and who she wished she could become, she stood quietly—learning, unlearning, becoming.
This was not the story of a girl who had everything figured out.
This was the story of a girl still walking toward herself.
And even if the world saw her as just another face in the crowd—
her journey mattered.
Because every woman who becomes herself
starts as a girl who feels lost first.