My day started at seven o'clock. I usually ate cereals for breakfast. It wasn't healthy, but my mom didn't want to make anything special, and I didn't like the food she made anyway. I was a special kid, at least that's what I believed. I only ate certain things, always in the exact amount that felt right. Too much was too much, even if it was my favorite food. So I got used to cereals simple, sweet, repeatable. Unhealthy, but quiet. And I didn't want to argue.
After breakfast, I watched television. My kids' shows were my escape. They were for girls and boys alike, a small world where everyone could be the hero. I loved that world. Action, colors, and stories of people who fought for something. There I could be brave. There, I wasn't the "girl" everyone said I was. I could be someone I wanted to be.
When I dressed for kindergarten, my clothes were feminine, soft,colored and light. But I considered it normal. I was supposed to be a girl, after all. It was what I was taught, and I didn't know any other way to be.
The way to kindergarten was short, but peaceful. The world around me felt huge and alive. We were surrounded by nature, at least that's how it looked through the eyes of a child. Bushes were forests, trees were jungles. I felt alive in those moments, which was rare for me. Nature didn't ask who I was. It just accepted. Every leaf, every stone had its place. Not just two places for everyone. I wondered why humans couldn't be like that. We are nature too so why did we choose masks?
The childcare workers greeted me warmly. They seemed happy to see me, though I often felt like an experiment to them. A strange, soft creature that didn't fit into their little model of society. They smiled, but their eyes were always studying me.
I hung up my bag and ran to the circle where we greeted each other every morning. I always tried to get a good spot next to my best friend a girl I felt deeply connected to. We always said we "loved" each other, not because we understood love, but because it made us feel grown. "We're more experienced," we'd giggle, and for a moment, I believed that too.
When free play began, I ran to the kitchen corner. That was my kingdom. The little plastic pots and fake food, the small sink I was the master chef among the boys. Well, the only boy there. No one wanted to steal my title, so I had the whole place for myself. It was freedom in disguise. A freedom others mocked but I cherished.
Sometimes I moved to the crafting area, right next to the building zone. That's where trouble began. The boys would come over and look at me like I was something strange. "What are you doing? That's for girls! Come build with us like real boys!" they said, puffing their chests like the heroes I once admired on TV. But they ruined that image with every word.
I was never good at staying silent. So I shouted back or at least, what I thought shouting was. My voice trembled but rose slightly. I didn't scream. I only spoke louder, as if giving a command. But even that was enough. The childcare workers turned their heads. They thought I was aggressive. They didn't see that I was only defending the last soft part of me that hadn't yet cracked.
I couldn't hold anything inside my heart. My heart was too big it had room for everything except hate. Every insult, every harsh tone felt like fire bursting in my chest. I didn't know how to contain it. So I let it out, helplessly. And every day was the same. Every day, I failed to control hate, but never love. I was pure ,pure from hate, pure from the world's sharp edges. I dreamed of a softer one, but my dream always broke under the pressure of reality.
There was one boy, though. One who didn't care about images or titles. He saw fun in everyone. He sat next to me, played with me, smiled at me like I wasn't wrong. He could've done anything else ,building cities, running around , but he chose to stay. The girls liked him too, but he was different. He was still a boy, and yet he was kind. At least, until kindergarten ended.
School changed him. It made him like everyone else. My flame went out that day quietly, without sound. The one child who shared my small, imagined world disappeared. Buried under the noise of what others called growing up.
After kindergarten, I watched one more episode of TV before we went outside , to the park or the city. In the park, I played with sand toys. I couldn't have gone to the swings or slides, but I was forced to stay with the sand. I learned how to be soft and patient, shaping castles that could fall with one wrong breath. It was an invisible lesson, training both sides of me the "girl" they wanted and the "boy" who watched from deep inside.
When we went to the city, I didn't do much. I wasn't shopping or deciding anything. I just existed. Watching people pass by, colors shifting, voices blending together. My body was there, but I wasn't.
At home, I could play with my toys or, if the TV was free, escape again. We often had visitors relatives or friends of my parents but I didn't understand that. They were strangers to me, and yet I had to greet them, smile at them, be perfect for them.
Their children came too. I was supposed to play with them, be friendly. I learned to change depending on who they were gentle, loud, polite, quiet. I didn't realize that this was the moment I began to lose myself. The first cracks in who I really was. I became everyone. And no one.
I went to bed at ten. My brother shared the room with me. He was eight years older and stayed awake late into the night. Every time he moved, I woke up. I didn't blame him. He didn't mean it. Still, I lay there, eyes open in the dark, dreaming of a better life.
I thought I was the only one who could dream. It was my small superpower, my quiet rebellion. A hidden world where I could live, until reality found me again.