They say childhood is the happiest time of your life. But for some of us, childhood is not made of toys and lullabies—it’s made of shadows, silence, and pain. My name is Aanya Sharma, and this is my sad story about life—a story about growing up in fear, and learning to find my voice after years of silence.
I Grew Up Afraid to Speak
I was born in a narrow lane of Lucknow, the youngest of three daughters. From the outside, our home looked normal—white-washed walls, flowering plants by the gate, a nameplate that read “Rakesh Sharma – Principal.” But inside, it was different.
My father wasn’t a monster all the time. He smiled at neighbors, respected elders, and gave speeches on “discipline and values” at school functions. But when the door shut behind him at night, that version of him vanished.
I remember once, at age five, I knocked over a glass of water at dinner. It slipped from my tiny hand and shattered on the floor. That was the first time he hit me. Not with his hand—with his belt. I screamed. My mother watched, frozen. She didn’t stop him. She never did.
I learned that being invisible was the only way to be safe.
My Mother’s Eyes Were Always Apologizing
My mother, Meera, was delicate—both in frame and in spirit. I used to watch her fingers tremble while she served dinner. She walked quietly, tiptoed almost, as if the walls themselves would get angry.
She loved us, I know that now. But fear had made her silent too.
One night, when I was seven, I had a nightmare. I ran to her room, trembling, asking if I could sleep beside her. My father woke up and dragged me out by my arm. “Big girls don’t cry,” he hissed, locking me outside the bedroom. I sat outside their door, crying into my knees, until I fell asleep on the cold marble floor.
The next morning, she made me warm paratha and dabbed ghee on it. She didn’t say a word—but her eyes said everything.
My Escape Was a Library
School was the only place I could breathe. I wasn’t popular. I didn’t talk much. But the library… oh, the library was heaven.
I read everything I could—stories of brave girls, stories of freedom, of lands far away where no one shouted. Where love wasn’t a weapon.
Books made me believe there was something more to life than this.
I started writing in secret—letters, poems, even fake diary entries addressed to a “future me” who was happy, living in her own house, with a puppy and her favorite tea set. That imaginary girl became my best friend.
My Sisters Escaped Without Me
Pooja and Radhika, my older sisters, were my lifeline. Radhika taught me how to braid my hair. Pooja would slip me candy when Dad wasn’t looking. But they were also broken.
At 18, Pooja married the first man who seemed “nicer” than our father. I was only 12. A year later, Radhika left too.
When they left, it wasn’t just the room that felt empty. It was my heart. I felt abandoned.
My father got worse. Now, I had no buffer. No one to protect me.
I remember once he tore up my sketchbook. “Waste of time,” he shouted, “You’ll never become anything!”
He didn’t see the pages where I drew smiling versions of our family, pretending we were normal.
I Lost Myself In the Dark
Between ages 13 and 16, I don’t remember smiling. Not once.
I had dark circles under my eyes. My grades slipped. I stopped talking in school. Once, my English teacher, Mrs. Nair, held me back after class and said gently, “Aanya, I see you. If you ever need to talk, I’m here.”
I nodded, thanked her. But I never did.
At home, I had to be perfect. At school, I tried to disappear. There was no space for me to just… be.
The Day I Finally Broke
I was 16 when I finally snapped.
It was dinner. My father was angry because the rice was overcooked. He yelled at my mother, and when she answered back—a rare act—he raised his hand.
I got up and screamed, “Don’t touch her!”
Time froze. His eyes widened. I think, for a second, he was shocked that I had spoken.
My heart was pounding. I didn’t even feel brave—I just felt done.
That night, my mother came into my room, tears in her eyes, and whispered, “Let’s go.”
She had packed a small bag. I didn’t ask where we were going. I just took her hand.
We left at 1:00 AM. Took a rickshaw to the bus stop. And didn’t look back.
A New Life Begins
We moved to Delhi, to her cousin’s house. It was cramped, noisy, chaotic—but safe. No belts. No yelling. Just regular noise—the kind that didn’t hurt.
I worked part-time at a bookstore and studied hard. Eventually, I got into college. I chose literature, of course.
Now, at 25, I work at a publishing house. I have a dog named Mithu. I still flinch at loud voices. But I also laugh. I host poetry nights. I make tea the way Ma likes it—extra ginger.
We’re okay now.
This is my sad story about life. A story of childhood stolen by fear and silence. But also a story of survival. Of standing up. Of walking away. Of starting again.
If you’re reading this and your story feels the same—please know, you’re not weak for staying, and you’re not wrong for wanting to leave.
You deserve peace.
And if no one else has told you lately—you matter.
