As a little girl in first grade, I was introverted, with no one to share my feelings. I couldn’t rely on my family — because, well… They were the reason I felt miserable in the first place.

While other kids played outside, I was just trying to make it through each day, questioning my own existence when I should’ve been worrying about which game to play next.

I remember looking at my friends at school, watching how their parents held them, how my own sister was treated so differently, and wondering “Am I their real child?”

That’s when I started writing letters to Bhagwan (God in Hindi).

I truly believed those letters were reaching Him

They weren’t to complain or ask for favours — I wasn’t looking for miracles. I just needed someone to listen.

I poured my feelings onto paper the way a storm dumps rain — sudden, relentless, and uncontrollable. And He already knew, didn’t He? He had seen it all. So, there was no chance He’d misunderstand or be fooled by my parents’ well-practised smiles in front of others.

I wrote in the tiniest handwriting, so small no one could read it, because I knew — I knew — if my parents found them, they would try to take even this from me. My parents' eyes were always on me like a hawk. I felt controlled. Caged. Suffocated.

In all of this, he was my only safe space, the only one who wouldn’t punish me for speaking my truth.

So I’d fold my letter, throw it towards the sky, and run back inside, convinced it would somehow find its way to Him.

Childish, right? Lol. But I guess even forceful maturing couldn’t take a child’s innocence away.

I kept the habit for years, until one day, a family member caught me. She snatched the letter, scanned a few lines — of course, it was about my pain — and read it out loud.

I still remember how I felt. Embarrassed. Humiliated. Exposed.

She laughed, mocked me, as if my pain was something ridiculous. But that’s more common than actually sitting down and asking, "Are you okay? How can I help?"

After that, I wrote less and less, and eventually, I stopped. I found other ways to cope, but at that time, those letters saved me.

I was like a ticking bomb

I was absorbing every bit of pain with no way to let it out. Because if I tried to speak up or let my frustration out, I’d get beaten.

I remember when my elder sister, who hated my father’s smoking habit, dumped his cigarettes in water. I just happened to be there when she did it, and she begged me not to tell. So I kept quiet.

My mother hated his smoking too, but I guess she needed an outlet for her frustration. And, like always, the blame landed on me.

See, I was an honest kid — if I broke something, I’d cry but still admit to it. My family knew that about me. But even after I repeated “I didn’t do it” over and over, she still beat me. And when I asked, “Why did you slap me? I told you I didn’t do it”, she hit me again. Because how dare I speak up for myself?

That night, when she was acting like everything was wonderful, I whispered, “Only I know how I’m keeping myself alive in an atmosphere like this.” I was barely six, maybe eight. She got angry again, but thank God, at least there was no beating that time.

So yeah… There was no way I could tell my story to anyone. No one but the one who saw everything.

It freed me. It held me. It saved me

I would cry while writing, sometimes draw vivid pictures of what happened and just talk to the Bhagwan as my eternal friend.

Sometimes, I wrote just to let the pain move outside of me. Other times, I just wrote only to realize something bigger than myself, that reminded me that there was a presence that knew my truth. For a while, it was enough.

To this day, I don’t know how that idea even came to me as a seven-year-old. I didn’t know what journaling was. I just knew my soul had too much to say and no one to hear it. The ink carried what my heart couldn’t hold anymore.

It was my way of surviving, my way of keeping the pain from swallowing me whole. And in the end, it did something more — strengthened my connection to the divine, gave me a deeper understanding of myself. Although I couldn’t see Him, I felt Him, like sunlight warming my skin even with my eyes closed.

So if you’re going through something, maybe try it? Not to complain. Not to ask “Why me?” But just to say, “Yeah, that’s me.” Sometimes, just that is enough.

Thank you so much for reading my story.

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