(Vol. 0, Issue #000) "The Girl Who Dreamed of More"

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The Journal

Volume 0: The Prologue

Issue #000 — "The Girl Who Dreamed of More"

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I used to think bravery was something you were either born with or you weren’t. The confident ones seemed to have a spark I could never find — like they were built from something steadier, stronger. When I was younger, even being called on in class made my palms sweat. My face would flush tomato red, and all the words I had rehearsed in my head would vanish. People thought I didn’t know the answers. The truth was, I knew them too well — they were just trapped behind fear.

I wanted to be like the girls who twirled across ice rinks, graceful and certain, untouched by the weight of doubt. But the first time I said I wanted to skate, I was told my ankles were too weak. It was a small sentence, but it sank deep — a quiet message that said don’t even try.

So I learned early to dream quietly. To keep my hopes small, hidden somewhere safe where no one could laugh at them or tell me no.

Still, a part of me wanted to be brave. Once, on the school bus, a group of kids were teasing a boy, tossing his lunchbox back and forth. I reached out and grabbed it midair — for one second, I felt powerful. I threw it back toward him, but the open window caught it, pulling it straight out of the bus and onto the windshield of a car behind us. The bus screeched to a stop. My heart sank.

The next day, I was called to the principal’s office. My parents were there. I tried to explain — that I was only trying to help — but no one really listened. I was suspended. I got in trouble for doing the right thing. And that moment, more than anything, taught me to stay quiet, let the other heroes save the day.

Even now, my parents still tell that story to strangers — always for laughs. They never realize how much it hurt. How it became the moment I decided it wasn’t safe to stand up for anything.

Looking back, I can see how each small crack formed — how my voice was chipped away, piece by piece, until silence became my survival.

But if I could reach that younger version of me, I’d tell her this:
Those moments don’t define you. The laughter doesn’t mean they were right. You were just ahead of your time — a girl learning to be brave in a world that didn’t know what to do with her voice.

I didn’t know it then, but something inside me was already waking up.

That whisper — there has to be more than this — would soon grow louder.
Loud enough to burn through fear.
Loud enough to start a fire that would change everything.

To be continued…

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