When I was younger, I was enthusiastic about becoming an adult. I remember accompanying my mother to the stores and appreciating the attractiveness of women, notably those wearing high heels. I couldn’t wait to wear high heels someday, seeing them as a mark of elegance and maturity. However, as I grew older, being a woman quickly became a maze of anxiety and doubts. High heels went from emblems of grace to traps, rendering me too unstable to flee from danger.

I used to love happy meals with colourful boxes and amusing toys, but now every meal feels like a battlefield, with each mouthful swallowing every single thought in my mind.
I used to refrain from applying makeup because I felt desirable without it, but now I pile it on like a cheesecake, with each layer acting as a mask to conceal my actual nature.
As a child, I used to fall asleep at night fantasising about becoming an adult and falling in love, but I soon realised that love is unexpected and frequently chaotic.
The clothing I’m wearing now seems like chains, and I wish I could burn off my skin to relieve the misery.
My lips never feel full enough, my brows never look right, and the scars on my body convey things I’d rather forget.
My small love handles, once a source of innocence, now seem like anchors dragging me down.

Being a woman seems like walking a tightrope, with each step posing the risk of falling.
It’s a dance in a hall of mirrors, and each reflection changes my perception of myself.
I’m always balancing expectations, attempting to come to terms with who I want to be with and who society expects me to be.
My body feels like a battleground, and I’m fatigued from fighting.

The transition from childhood to maturity can be compared to traversing a deserted space, where the illusion of who I believed I would become vanishes with each step. My childhood dreams have faded into shadows under the harsh light of reality. I’m just tired of navigating this maze, where every path appears to lead to a dead end.