I see you now, little one—
lost in a classroom,
fidgeting, daydreaming,
never quite fitting the mold
they pressed around you.
You didn’t know why
your mind spun so fast,
why your heart beat with worry
when others sat still.
You tried so hard to be good,
to be quiet, to be “normal,”
but the world kept telling you
you weren’t quite right.
No one named it for you—
not the teachers with their sighs,
not the parents with their puzzled frowns.
You learned to hide your questions,
to swallow your confusion,
to tuck your wildness away
in a box marked “wrong.”
I wish I could go back,
kneel beside you in that noisy room,
take your hand and whisper,
“It’s not your fault.
You are not broken.
You are bright and brave and different—
and that is a gift.”
I grieve for the years you spent
trying to disappear,
for the shame you carried
like a heavy backpack
no one else could see.
But I’m here now.
I found the words we needed.
I see the patterns, the reasons,
the beauty in your scattered thoughts.
I open the box,
let the light in,
and hold you close.
We can be whole,
you and I—
the child who survived,
and the adult who finally understands.
