Stranger to myself ? Survival, Silence and Journey Back to Dignity

Some people grow up learning how to dream.

I grew up learning how to survive.

Before I learned what I wanted, I learned what was expected of me. Before I learned how to rest, I learned how to endure. And before I learned how to love myself, I learned how to carry everyone else.

I was born the first daughter in a single-parent family. From a young age, I was taught to be strong, to be tough, to stand up for others, to go to school, to work hard, and to take responsibility. None of these lessons were wrong. But there was always one question in my heart:

Who would go out of their way to care about me, and not only come to me when they needed something?

I asked myself this question quietly, again and again. I asked it while smiling for others. I asked it when my heart was hurting. I asked it while giving everything I had to people who depended on me, even when I had nothing left for myself. I put others first and forgot about my own needs.

Even today, some of those sacrifices remain inside me like deep scars. Sometimes my heart still aches when I remember how much I gave to others while leaving myself behind.

I was taught to put other people first. As long as they were happy, as long as they were okay, it did not matter that I was slowly falling apart inside. I learned how to hide pain. I became very good at it.

I grew up in a culture where choosing yourself is seen as selfish. You are told to live for others, to endure, to sacrifice. And yes, sacrifice can be meaningful, but no one tells you it should have limits. It should begin with you.

For those who are Christians the Bible says, “Love your neighbor as you love yourself.”

But in my life, it was the opposite. I loved others deeply while abandoning myself.

This did not start one day. It was planted early. I grew up knowing I had to work to support my family, to pay rent, and to fund my education. Survival pushed me into places that were not safe.

What I am about to share has been my secret for many years.

Today, I speak about it not because it is easy, but because speaking is part of my healing.

I was sexually harassed.

Fear entered my life quietly and stayed. I was threatened. I was silenced. I did not speak. I kept quiet. I moved from one job to another, hoping to escape, but it felt like a cruel cycle, from one predator to another, from one wound to the next.

Some people may ask, “Why didn’t you just quit?”

I did quit sometimes. And when I did, my family and I slept hungry for days.

So I went back.

Back to the same restaurant.

Back to the same abuse.

Again and again.

I could not tell my mother the truth. I was afraid, afraid of shame, afraid of breaking the family, afraid of hunger, and afraid of failing everyone who depended on me.

Later, my mother helped me get a job at my uncle’s house as a house manager. I remember feeling relief. I thought I had finally found safety. I believed this was heaven on earth.

I was wrong.

The people I called family became monsters.

My uncle was no different. He crept into my bedroom late at night. He used my body and threatened me with death if I ever spoke. And again, I chose silence. I feared losing the job. I feared destroying the family name. I feared that my family would starve if I spoke.

From that abuse, I became pregnant.

That season broke me completely. I lived in constant fear and stress. My mind never rested. My heart carried too much. My body could not hold what my soul was carrying.

I miscarried.

I sat alone, lost, asking myself questions with no answers.

What do I do now?

Where do I go?

Who will save me?

I did not know who I was anymore. I felt erased, like I had disappeared while still breathing. I looked at myself and felt unfamiliar.

Was I a stranger to myself?

Do I even know me?

I asked these questions quietly, again and again. In the dark. In silence. Hoping they would lead me back to who I once was. But no answers came. All I felt was emptiness and a deep longing to find myself again.

At my lowest point, I believed I was just a body for others to use. The pain became so heavy that I tried to take my life. More than once. But every attempt failed.

One day, exhausted and empty, I asked myself a question that changed everything:

How long will I keep choosing others over my dignity? And I said to myself

My dignity is my priority

That evening,as I sat beside my favorite river. The sun was slowly setting, the sky growing dark and calm. The water flowed gently, steady and patient. I was tired, tired of fighting, tired of surviving.

And then I heard a quiet voice inside me:

“Faith, this is not the end.

Choose your dignity.

You are not selfish.

Your body is not a sex toy.

You deserve respect.

You are valuable.”

At that moment, I made a decision. I would quit the job that had been draining me, that had been stealing my dignity. I chose myself, without fear, without guilt. For the first time, I understood that protecting my dignity was not selfish; it was necessary.

That moment marked the beginning of my healing, not a one-time event, but a choice I make every day.

I did not go to a therapist.

I went to the river.

Going to the river has became my daily routine. Every morning before the world wakes up, and every evening when the day fells heavy, I go there. That river had became my sanctuary, my peace, my home. I always sit there and breathe. I watch the water flow without forcing itself, teaching me that life can move again.

Nature holds me when I can't not hold myself.

I began creating art in nature, not to be perfect, but to release. Leaves, soil, stones, broken pieces. My hands spoke what my mouth could not. With every creation, something heavy leaves my body.

At night, I have learned to sit with the darkness. I stare into it for long moments, letting memories come and go. What once hurt slowly began to heal. At the end of those moments, I lit a candle. One small flame reminds me that even after darkness, light can still exist.

I also began journaling.

My journal has became my Secret Healer. In it, I pour out my whole being, every fear, every tear, every unanswered question. Page by page, word by word, I released years of silence. Writing brought me back to myself.Healing through every word ,comma , question mark.

Healing did not happen overnight. It has became a daily decision. Some days are gentle. Some days are heavy. Some days I walk to the river with strength, other days I crawl there with tears. But I keep going.

And I have learned this truth:

Caring for yourself is not selfish.

Choosing yourself is survival.

Dignity is not something you earn; it is something you protect.

I am still healing.

But I am no longer silent.

And for the first time, I choose myself, without guilt.