Alright, here’s the deal. I’m not a writer. I don’t have the fancy words, and I don’t have a perfect life story to share. But I’ve got something to say, and I figured—why not say it the way I lived it?
So, instead of the usual “beginning, middle, end” stuff, I will walk you through the Alphabet. That’s right—each letter represents a chapter of life, a moment, a feeling, or something that never forget.
Let’s start at the beginning, way back when the world felt bigger than I could understand, and everything seemed like it was happy until I figured out it was a baby's dream. So sit back, relax, and let’s take a little stroll through the alphabet. Who knows, maybe you'll find a little bit of your own story in mine.

I remember the summer days when I was three, staring down at the “Ants” on the sidewalk. I’d burn them with a magnifying glass, fascinated by how they writhed in the light. I didn’t know then that I was experimenting with power—how it feels to control something so small, something so insignificant, and make it dance to my whims. That moment taught me something: we all, in some way, try to control what we can, whether it’s ants or parts of our own lives we don't want to lose grip on.
It was my fifth birthday, and I had this red “Balloon”. The kind you get from a store that feels like it could float forever. I remember holding it tight, feeling the weight of it in my hand, believing I could keep it with me. But I let it go, watching it drift into the sky until it disappeared, and I cried like the world was ending. I hadn’t yet learned that sometimes, letting go is the hardest thing you’ll ever do and that’s the most important.
“Chocolate” was my first comfort, my first escape. Every time life felt a little too heavy or my thoughts got too loud, I’d reach for that smooth, bittersweet relief. In school, I learned to bribe myself with it. "Finish this homework, and you can have a piece," I'd tell myself as if the promise of cocoa could make everything easier. It wasn’t just a treat—it became my numbing agent, a way to fill a void that no one had taught me how to heal.
My grandfather was my storyteller. His tales were woven from a time I could never touch—of ancient kings, mystical lands, and daring adventures. Every evening, I’d sit at his feet, listening to stories that made me believe in magic. “Dadaji's” voice was the warmth of sunlight, and every word made the world feel larger than it was.
There was always an “Elephant” in my notebooks. Not a real one, of course, but a doodle—a huge, proud beast with massive ears and a trunk, drawn over and over again. It became my signature, the thing I drew whenever I couldn’t find the words for what I was feeling. The elephant wasn’t just an animal to me; it was a reminder to be strong, even when the world felt heavy. It was my silent companion, a symbol of resilience in a world that didn’t always make sense.
“Fear” was like a shadow that followed me around, growing with each step. Fear of the dark. Fear of being alone. Fear of never being enough. It would slip into my thoughts, making them heavier and harder to shake off. I tried to outrun it, tried to push it away with distractions. But no matter where I went, it stayed with me, a constant reminder that we all carry something we wish we didn’t.

School came, and with it, a new set of challenges. It was supposed to be easier, right? But somehow it felt harder.
I was never good at “Geometry”. Maybe that’s why it sticks out to me so much. It felt like a puzzle with no solution, a set of shapes that were supposed to mean something but never quite clicked. I spent hours staring at triangles and circles, trying to make sense of them, trying to fit them into a world that seemed too complicated for a kid like me. I didn’t realize then that sometimes, the things that don’t make sense are the things that will come together eventually, just not in the way you expect.
The battle between me and “Homework” was legendary. Every night, my desk became a battlefield, papers scattered, pencils broken. My mind was always elsewhere, daydreaming of everything but equations and essays. I hated how homework felt like a mountain I couldn’t climb, each assignment a heavier weight than the last. But when I finished it, when I finally pushed through, I’d look at that mountain of work and feel a strange sense of pride. Maybe it was the first time I learned that hard work wasn’t about how easy it was, but about how much you were willing to fight for it.
There were days I felt completely “Invisible”. Not bullied—just ignored. My voice didn’t matter, my presence didn’t leave a mark. In school, I was the kid who blended into the background, unnoticed and unheard. No one meant to do it, but it happened, and it stung. I spent so much of my youth trying to be louder, trying to be seen, trying to convince the world that I was worth noticing. But deep down, I realized that sometimes, being invisible was just a phase, and one day, I would find my place to be seen.
I wasn’t always funny. In fact, I wasn’t even good at telling “Jokes”. But I learned that if I could make people laugh, they wouldn’t look too closely at who I really was. I became the class clown, cracking jokes and pulling pranks, not to entertain, but to keep everyone distracted. It was a defence mechanism, a shield I put up to protect myself from the things I didn’t know how to deal with. But somewhere along the way, I learned that jokes weren’t always the answer. Sometimes, honesty was.
“Kites” were a lesson in letting go. I remember the first time I flew one, the wind pulling it higher and higher until it felt like it might touch the sky. I held onto the string, tight, afraid to let go. But the moment I did, watching the kite dance in the air, I understood something. Sometimes, the best things in life are the ones you let go of. You can’t control everything, no matter how much you want to.
The “Library” was my safe space, a place where I could escape from everything that didn’t make sense. I spent only a few hours in there but I discovered worlds I never knew existed. The library was where I first learned how the books felt. It wasn’t just a room full of books; it was my dad’s portal to adventure, growth, and understanding.

Then came the teenage years—where everything was about figuring out who I was.
“Music” was my refuge. When words failed me, I found comfort in melodies and lyrics. It wasn’t about the beats or the instruments—it was the way music made me feel, deep inside. Some nights, I’d lie in bed with my headphones on, letting the sound wash over me, trying to make sense of emotions I couldn’t understand. Music became the voice I didn’t have, the bridge between the world outside and the turmoil inside. It’s where I found my identity, not in the songs themselves, but in how they made me feel seen, even when no one else could.
I started writing in my “Notebook” when I was a teenager, as a way to keep my thoughts from exploding. My first story was a mess—awkward, clumsy, and full of mistakes. But it was mine. I could feel something stirring inside me, a whisper of what could be. I would fill page after page, knowing that every word I wrote was a step closer to something bigger than me. The notebook became my sanctuary, a place where I could be anyone, and do anything, without judgment. It wasn’t about writing well—it was about writing real.
I remember the first time I entered an “Olympiad”, a competition that promised glory and recognition. I trained for weeks, perfecting every detail. When the day arrived, I felt ready. But when the results came in, I wasn’t the winner. In fact, I didn’t even place. The crushing disappointment was unbearable. I was angry with myself, questioning what went wrong. But in that failure, I realized something—I didn’t have to win to be worthy. Losing taught me how to handle disappointment, how to rise from the ashes, and how to find meaning in the moments when life doesn’t go according to plan.
“Pressure” came in waves. At home, at school, everywhere I turned, people expected more. To be better, smarter, more accomplished. I became a version of myself that wasn’t entirely mine, shaped by the expectations of others. It wasn’t until I started to unravel that pressure—layer by layer—that I realized I had been living someone else’s dream, not my own. It was like wearing a mask, one I thought would protect me, but instead, it suffocated me. And when I took it off, I could finally breathe.
“Questions” are the big ones Who am I? Why does it matter? What if I fail? They’d echo late into the night. But the more I ran from them, the louder they grew. One day, instead of hiding, I started writing them down. Every doubt. Every fear. Every question. And slowly, the answers began to form—not always clear, not always kind, but real. Sometimes, the questions themselves mattered more than the answers.
It started with a mirror, but not the glass kind. “Reflection” came in quiet moments sitting on the terrace at dusk, watching the sky change colours, or rereading my old journal pages, and realizing how far I’d come. I saw my past not as something to escape, but something to understand. The mistakes, the milestones—they weren’t chains. They were chapters. And through them, I started seeing myself not as broken, but as becoming.
The first time I stepped onto a “Stage”, it wasn’t about performing—it was about being seen. Truly seen. I read in a trembling voice, hands shaking, knees weak. But something changed when I spoke. The silence in the room didn’t feel heavy; it felt like it was listening. For the first time, I wasn’t trying to impress. I was just trying to express myself. That’s when I understood: the stage wasn’t just a place.
It was a “Turning” point. It didn’t come with fireworks. It came with a whisper—an ordinary day, an unexpected feeling of peace. I had spent so long chasing meaning, waiting for a sign, that I didn’t realize change had been happening all along. Growth doesn’t always shout. Sometimes, it just walks beside you until you finally look over and recognize it. That was the moment I decided to stop waiting and start living.
The turning point came slowly, quietly.
The “Umbrella” became a symbol for me. Not just for keeping dry, but for protecting myself from the storms of life. I started carrying one around—not because I feared the rain, but because I learned that there are things worth shielding yourself from. I began protecting my peace, my boundaries, and my sense of self. It wasn’t about avoiding the storms—it was about learning how to stay calm when they hit, and knowing that I could still stand tall, even in the downpour.
For so long, I was afraid to speak. Afraid of saying the wrong thing, of being misunderstood, of being judged. But one night, at a poetry slam, I stood in front of a crowd, my heart racing, my palms sweaty, and I opened my mouth. The words came out raw, unpolished, but real. And in that moment, I realized something. My “Voice” had power. I didn’t have to hide behind silence anymore. The world would listen, and I would be heard. It wasn’t easy, but it was liberating.
I remember taking a “Walk” one night, not sure where I was headed but not caring either. I just needed to get away from everything, from the pressure of expectations and the weight of decisions. I ended up somewhere I never thought I’d go—physically and mentally. That walk taught me something important: sometimes, you need to wander to find where you belong. You need to lose yourself to find yourself.
There was a phase where I lived like a “Xerox” copying what I saw, mimicking how others dressed, talked, and succeeded. I thought blending in was safer than standing out. I became a reflection of expectations, not a reflection of myself. But copies fade. Originals endure. It took time and a lot of peeling back borrowed layers, but I started creating a version of me that wasn’t scanned from someone else’s script. I wasn’t meant to be a replica. I was meant to be real.

Finally, I realized that my life was more than just a collection of memories. It was a story worth telling.
The word "Yes" changed everything. I had spent so much time saying no to myself, saying no to my dreams, my passions, my desires. But one day, I looked in the mirror and said, "Yes." Yes, to writing. Yes, to be real. Yes, to living my truth. It wasn’t an easy decision. But when I said yes, I finally felt like I was on the path I was meant to walk.
I started at “Zero”. Everything was new. Every step forward felt like a fresh start. At first, the idea of starting over scared me. But then I realized that in that nothingness, there was room to grow. Room to reinvent myself, to build something better from the ground up. Zero wasn’t a void—it was a beginning.

And now, as I look back at everything I’ve shared with you, I realize something important. My life has been an alphabet of experiences, each letter representing a different chapter, a different lesson, a different version of me. I’ve been through pain, growth, love, and loss. But in the end, I’ve come to understand that the journey—every step of it—was part of the story I was meant to tell.
I am AZ – Anou Zecharia.
This was never meant to be a masterpiece. It was meant to be a mirror. And maybe, just maybe, someone reading this will recognize their own alphabet somewhere in mine.