The Blur and the Bruises

To be honest, my school life seems to be a blur. I can’t seem to remember the details of a lot of things. I don’t remember what we wore on annual day or who topped which subject or who sat beside me in class 8B. But I do remember how I felt. I remember the knot in my stomach before entering class. I remember the sting of being left out. I remember the sound of whispered laughter that wasn’t meant to include me.

Strangely, it’s the humiliations that stayed. The moments that made me feel small. The ones where I was unsure, awkward, trying too hard—and met not with kindness, but with cold judgment or casual cruelty. I still cringe when I think of them. And I still wonder… why do those memories survive so vividly when the rest has blurred away?

I think it’s because I’ve never really stopped seeking what I didn’t receive then: approval. Acceptance. Softness. Even now, I catch myself overthinking every word I speak, every message I send. Still trying to be “right enough,” “likable enough,” “not too much”—because somewhere in my wiring, I still fear being too me will cost me belonging.

Back then, I was the one on the outside, hoping to be included. Now, I’m someone who functions, performs, succeeds—but inside, I often carry the quiet ache of invisibility. The learned instinct to shrink, not take up too much space, stay agreeable so no one finds fault.

I wish I could say I’ve unlearned it all. That I’ve healed. But some patterns don’t vanish—they evolve. They show up in boardrooms and friendships and family WhatsApp groups. In how I replay conversations at night. In how I brace for criticism, even when none is coming.

And yet, despite it all, I’ve kept going. I’ve built a life. I’ve worked hard. I’ve loved deeply. I’ve tried to raise my children differently. I’ve begun the quiet work of reparenting myself—with more kindness than I was once shown.

So yes, my school life is a blur. But not the part that mattered. The part that shaped how I see the world, and how I see myself. The truths I absorbed then—I’m still learning to challenge them.

Maybe the goal isn’t to erase those memories. Maybe the point is to honour the child who endured them and to keep becoming the adult she needed all along.

And maybe, just maybe, that’s what healing really is.