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Being myself meant growing up without finding the words to name myself, amid the echoes of others who dictated the rhythm.
I learned to carry on my shoulders what I did not understand, while something whispered, begging to remain. I molded every gesture to fit in, covering myself with answers that were not my own.
I discovered how to silence what I felt, how to label as normal a renunciation that stretched out over time. But the body does not forget what fear hides, and in the stillness of the night, it returns everything that was once denied.
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