When I was a child, no one looked like me. No one spoke like me. No one felt like me — or maybe they did, but they stayed silent. Maybe they were hiding too. Maybe they carried the same restlessness under their skin, the same quiet ache that didn't yet have a name. But I didn't see them then. I didn't see anyone who could've said: "you're not alone."

Everything I knew was different from what I was. The world had a script ready for me before I even had a chance to ask myself what role I wanted to play. It knew what I should look like, how I should act, how I should laugh, when I should cry — or better yet, not cry at all. Because no one likes kids who cry "for no reason." Especially not boys who don't know how to be tough.

I had no one to mirror myself in. No one to look at and think, "maybe that could be me too." In the cartoons, there were only princes and warriors. At school — boys who played sports and laughed the loudest at those who didn't fit in. At home — expectations, not questions. Roles, not relationships. Rules, not understanding.

I grew up without reflections. Without any image that could reassure me that what I felt made sense. That who I was wasn't a mistake. That what I longed for wasn't broken, distorted, strange. That my sensitivity wasn't something that needed to be fixed. That wanting to be touched not only physically but also emotionally wasn't weakness.

And now, as an adult, I think about that child often. And I try to become who he needed. Someone who looks with kindness, not judgment. Someone who doesn't raise his voice, but reaches out a hand. Someone who says: "you can be yourself. You don't have to become anyone else." And sometimes, I manage. And sometimes, I don't.

Because growing up doesn't heal everything. Even if I've learned that I'm allowed to live on my own terms, I still carry the echo of those years. I still hear the voice that says: "don't exaggerate, don't overreact, don't show too much." I still catch myself trying to fit into a frame that was shattered long ago.

But I try. Every day. I try to give myself space. I try to speak to myself the way no one ever spoke to me. I try to exist even when no one's watching. I try not to be a reaction, but a choice. A presence that doesn't need permission.

Growing up without representation is more than a visual gap. It's a wound of the soul. It's not seeing anyone who looks like they're allowed to be happy — the way you are. It's not hearing stories that tell you: you matter, just as you are. It's building yourself from scratch when no one ever gave you the blueprint.

Without a model, there's no language. And without language, there's no story. And without stories — there's silence. A silence that hurts more than shouting. Because if no one ever told you that you could be whole, you end up trying to write your own story — without knowing where to begin.

So you start with insecurity. With trial and error. With pretending. With being what you "should" be. And maybe — if you're lucky — you meet someone. Someone who says: "I felt that way too." Someone who survived. Someone who not only made it through, but learned to live. Someone who won't fix you, but will sit beside you and ask: "what do you need today?"

For me, that came late. Not in childhood. Not at school. Only when I began rebuilding myself. In quiet places, among unfamiliar words that gave me space to breathe. In days that didn't demand identity, but whispered, "I'm glad you're here."

Today I know I've become someone I never saw as a child. And that still hurts sometimes. But even more often, it gives me strength. Because maybe someone, somewhere, will see me now — and think: "maybe I can live like that too." Maybe some boy who doesn't yet know how to speak about himself will see my silence and feel less alone.

Becoming someone you never saw as a child is an act of courage. But it's also an act of love. For yourself. For those still searching. For those just now learning to exist outside of what they were told to be.

Because just because you didn't see yourself back then, doesn't mean you didn't exist. It just means the world wasn't ready for you yet.

But that doesn't mean you have to keep hiding.

You don't have to wait for someone to say "you're enough." You can say it yourself. Even softly. Even if your voice shakes. Even if you're still becoming.

I do it. For me. And for the child who's still waiting inside.