I’m writing this from the front steps of the house on Ann Street, the place where your childhood quietly unraveled before it ever had the chance to begin. To the little girl who just wanted to enjoy life’s simple things, playing with dolls or being a princess wearing a sparkly tutu. You wanted to believe in yourself, to dream big, to take up space. But those were only dreams, soft hopes tucked into a heart too young to understand why they were always pushed aside. Over time, those dreams were replaced with silence, fear, and the instinct to survive. You didn’t just fear being hurt; you feared being ignored, blamed, and forgotten. Speaking up never guaranteed being helped. So, you stopped wishing for childhood and focused on simply making it through the day.

I remember exactly when you started to believe you weren’t enough. While other kids were protected, you were expected to keep everything together. You held the role of protector, caretaker, and emotional shield. You wiped tears you didn’t cause and carried responsibilities no child should have to carry. Not because you wanted to, but because if you didn’t, you were blamed or punished without explanation. You were forced to grow up before you had a chance to be a child.

You didn’t have ribbons in your hair or the luxury of choosing outfits that made you feel special. You wore what you were given, even if it didn’t fit. In sixth grade, you walked the halls in shoes far too big, the soles flapping with each step. You moved slowly, hoping no one would hear. Your glasses made you a target, and your quiet spirit gave others a reason to laugh. You tried to disappear, hoping no one would see your discomfort or struggles.

Sometimes, you misbehaved, not out of spite, but from a need to be seen. You wanted someone, anyone, to ask why. But instead of concern, you were punished, labeled, and misunderstood. You weren’t trying to misbehave. You were trying to matter. You were trying to fill the emptiness that love was supposed to cover. Each time you were scolded, your shame grew. You started to believe you were the problem, not the silence, not the hurt. That belief followed you like a shadow, whispering that you were too broken to be loved. Still, you hoped someone might see past your behavior and into the pain beneath it.

What no one saw was that you were exhausted. Not just tired from being teased but from carrying everyone else. You were snuck away in the night, told to be quiet, told to stay hidden. You cried behind smiles and held your pain in places no one could see. You were tired of shrinking to stay safe. Tired of holding it all together so no one else had to.

You asked, “Why wasn’t I enough to be loved the way I needed?” But the answers stayed buried, just like the moment in sixth grade when someone’s touch took away your words. You didn’t have the language for what happened. Only shame. You learned to keep secrets. You comforted others without ever being comforted. You dried your siblings’ tears while no one wiped yours. You celebrated others while feeling invisible. You gave even when you had nothing left.

And still, you were kind. Still, you loved. You gave your heart in pieces, even when it was ignored. You poured light into others while your own soul ran on empty. You tried to build a sense of normal, even when no one showed you how.

You were told to stand up for yourself, but how could you stand in something never built for you? Your identity wasn’t shaped by love. It was built in survival. At six, you wanted to be a princess. At ten, a nurse. At thirteen, a pediatrician. But life had other plans. You didn’t get to dream long enough before reality interrupted.

Sometimes, you traded homework for friendship, because being noticed mattered more than a grade. You let the disrespect slide because being tolerated felt safer than being alone.

I wish I could sit beside you on these steps and say: you are not what happened to you. I wish someone had told you that your voice mattered. That you were worthy of softness. Of safety. Of love that didn’t hurt.

You were a child trying to grow in soil that didn’t nourish you. And still, you bloomed through cracked concrete. Through heartbreak. You bloomed without permission, without applause, without help. You were always enough, Tyessia. Even when you didn’t feel it. Even when no one told you. You were enough in your silence. Enough in your softness. Enough in your strength. And now, here you are. Still healing. Still rising. Still reaching back to that little girl to say: it wasn’t your fault. You are not broken. You are no longer invisible. I carry you with me. I let you rest. I let you cry. You don’t have to be strong all the time anymore. I’ve got you now. You are healing. You are worthy. You are free.