Everyone has that one moment in life—when everything changes. For me, it happened when I was just 19. Fresh out of school, full of dreams, and wide-eyed about stepping into college, I was like any other young girl, excited for the new chapter ahead. But fate, it seemed, had something entirely different written for me. Or maybe, life had a lesson waiting—one that I could never have learned from books.

Since childhood, I had always been drawn toward law. I dreamed of becoming a lawyer, fighting for justice, and standing tall in a courtroom. But I was born into a very strict and conservative family, where freedom was limited, especially for girls. While my friends experienced life freely, I always lived within boundaries—quietly, obediently, and with discipline. Yet, despite these restrictions, I never complained. I believed that someday, through hard work and dedication, my dreams would come true.

And I worked hard. I studied day and night, poured my heart into every subject, and finally cleared the entrance exam of a prestigious law college. That moment was supposed to be the turning point of my life—the day my dreams would begin to take shape. But sometimes, when you're just about to bloom, life throws you into a storm.

Just when I needed my parents’ support the most, something unexpected happened. Influenced by outsiders, without listening to me, they locked me in a room—literally. They believed I had made some mistake or that I had done something shameful. In reality, all I had done was succeed. But their mistrust and the weight of their expectations crashed down on me so heavily that I couldn't breathe under it.

I was shattered.

A girl who had always stayed away from distractions, who never strayed from her path, who had always been among the toppers—was suddenly made to feel like she had done something unforgivable.

In that darkness, I broke.

With my dreams slipping away, my trust betrayed, and no one to turn to, I felt completely alone. My heart was screaming, but no one heard. And in that moment of pain, I tried to end my life.

What followed was silence. A deep, haunting silence.

I remember everything, strangely. I wasn’t dead, but I wasn’t alive either. I could hear the world around me—voices, footsteps, cries—but I couldn’t move. I was drifting, sinking into an abyss. There was no light, no warmth, no hope. Just emptiness.

But then, something happened. Just as I was surrendering to the darkness, I heard a voice. Not a loud, dramatic voice—but something within me. It whispered, “You don’t get to die. Not now. You have to live.”

That voice woke me up—not just physically, but emotionally, spiritually. It was like someone had pulled me out of the black hole I had fallen into. I opened my eyes—not just to the world, but to life itself.

That was the day I realized: *Life is a gift.*

It may not always be wrapped in shiny paper. Sometimes, it looks like a curse, but inside it holds your true strength.

From that day, I began to write. I didn’t know what exactly—I just poured my heart out onto paper. Every feeling I had buried inside—every moment of pain, joy, loss, confusion—I wrote it all in the form of poetry. Writing became my escape, my therapy, my friend.

Each poem I wrote was a piece of my soul—something I couldn’t tell anyone, not even myself, out loud. My words carried my tears, my smiles, my hopes. In a world that didn’t give me the space to speak, I found my voice in silence.

Today, I look back at that dark time not with fear, but with gratitude. That broken girl who tried to end her life is now the same girl who learned how to live it. Not because life became perfect—but because she realized she didn’t need perfection to find peace.

That moment changed everything.

It taught me that trusting blindly can hurt. That not everyone who claims to love you will stand by you. That even your own blood can misunderstand you. But more importantly, it taught me that you are your biggest strength. When everyone walks away, when the walls close in, the only person who can save you—is you.
Yes, I missed out on that college admission. Yes, I lost a part of my innocence. But I gained something far greater: *myself*.
Now, I continue to write—not just for myself, but for others like me, who feel voiceless in this loud world. I write to heal, to connect, to say, “You are not alone.” Because if my story can reach even one soul standing at the edge, and pull them back like that voice pulled me—I’ll know it was all worth it.
*And so, this is not the story of a girl who gave up. This is the story of a girl who woke up—to pain, to strength, to life.*