I remember when I was in school, I had no friends. My favourite time pass was to observe others—how they told their stories. I was super interested in their stories. I never told my story; by telling my story, I didn’t want to deprive myself of listening to theirs.
There was something sacred about being the silent one—the keeper of voices, the quiet witness to other people’s worlds. I found joy in the cadence of their words, the pauses, the excitement in their eyes, the little betrayals of their truth in between the lines. Every story I heard made me feel a little less alone, even though I remained on the margins.
In those years, I learned how people reveal themselves—not just through what they say, but what they choose to leave unsaid. I learned that pain hides behind laughter, that pride can be a mask for fear, and that sometimes, just being listened to is enough to make someone feel seen.
And maybe, deep down, I was afraid that if I told my own story, it would end the magic. It would shift the light away from others and onto me, and I wasn’t sure what that would reveal—or if anyone would care to listen.
But over time, I’ve come to realize that silence is not the same as invisibility. That my story, too, deserves space. And perhaps the truest connection lies in both listening and being heard.
Now, I still listen with the same intensity. But I’ve also started to speak—not to interrupt the stories of others, but to place mine gently alongside them.
Because stories are not meant to compete. They are meant to coexist. And in that coexistence, we find belonging.