The Mess I Carried in the Second Grade

I had a secret when I was a child — one that still lingers in the corners of my memory. My parents told me I was sick, and I suppose that’s what it was: when a part of your body doesn’t function the way it should, you call it an illness. But to my younger self, it wasn’t a medical condition. It was a shadow I dragged behind me.

I remember the darkness and dread whenever I went to the comfort room in my Grade 2 classroom. I remember the way my heart raced, terrified someone would discover what I was hiding. My secret wasn’t written on my face, but it lived in the things I couldn’t do. I couldn’t wear earrings. I couldn’t tie my hair into a ponytail like the other girls.

And for a child, those small things felt like the whole world.

I was deprived of a kind of beauty that seemed so natural for everyone else. Instead of carefree mornings choosing ribbons or earrings, I carried fear — fear that my classmates would notice, fear that I would be found out, fear that I wasn’t normal.

It’s strange, looking back now as an adult. I sometimes forget that this was part of my story. I forget that at such a young age, I was already learning what it felt like to be different, to carry shame in silence.

But remembering doesn’t just bring me sorrow — it brings me awe.

That little girl didn’t know she was carrying so much. She didn’t know that she was already building resilience long before she could name it. She didn’t know that survival itself was a kind of strength.

I can mourn what I missed — the earrings, the ponytails, the ordinary joys. But I can also honor the child who walked through fear and still managed to grow. She didn’t get everything she deserved, but she gave me something priceless: endurance.

And here I am now. Still living, fully.

Because even when the mess starts young, even when the misses carve out quiet griefs in childhood, life still has a way of blooming around what was lost. This was the mess I carried in the second grade — and somehow, I bloomed anyway.

And if you, too, have carried a secret from childhood — an illness, a difference, a silent fear — I want you to know this: you were never less than whole. Even if you missed out on the little joys, even if you felt hidden or deprived, you still carried yourself through. That kind of quiet courage matters. You are allowed to grieve what was lost, but also to honor the strength it gave you. And most of all, you are not alone. - MESSY E.

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