I used to believe survival was enough.If I made it through the night, that was victory. If I kept my siblings safe, that was the purpose. If I endured the words, the blows, the silence, the confusion — that meant I was strong.But survival is not the same thing as living.For years, I carried my story like a secret stitched into the lining of my skin. It showed in the way I flinched at sudden sounds. It showed how I read a room before I entered it. It showed how I protected others before I ever considered protecting myself
