Before 5th grade, I was the kid who never stopped talking. My knees were always scraped from playing tag, and my biggest worry was whether the sun would go down before I was ready to go inside. I felt like I belonged everywhere, running, laughing, and imagining that life was endless adventure. But then, middle school hit, and the rules changed without anyone giving me the manual. Friends I grew up with started looking at me like I was a stranger. The jokes got meaner, and for the first time, I felt “too much” and “not enough” all at once. I made myself small—walking with my eyes on my shoes, terrified that if I spoke, I’d give them something else to laugh at. That silence became a habit that followed me for years—a heavy wall that made even a simple “hello” feel like a mountain I couldn’t climb. Yet, life isn’t just one long drop. I remember a Tuesday afternoon when a kid I barely knew sat down and asked, “You okay?” He didn’t wait for a deep answer; he just stayed until the bell rang....
