CHAPTER TWO: The Year You Stopped Being Invisible

Dear 13-year-old me,

You didn’t notice it at first. You thought you were still the shadow in the back row. The girl who walked through hallways like a ghost, head down, schoolbag clutched tightly like armor. But 13 was the year cracks formed in your invisibility cloak.

Do you remember that Tuesday morning in Verbal Reasoning Class? You raised your hand. Not because you were sure of the answer. You weren’t. But something inside you said, “Just try it.” And when Mr. Ademola nodded, said, “Very good, Charlotte,” the world didn’t collapse. In fact, it felt like the opposite. Like someone had switched on a tiny lamp just for you.

A few weeks later, you wore your sports uniform for the first time. You almost didn’t. It had always felt too big for your tiny body. But you wore it anyway. You walked into school with Peter, your neighbor who was also your classmate, expecting the usual silence… and instead someone said, “Your sportwear is so new.” Another said, “You look nice today.” You smiled without meaning to; small, cautious, but real.

And then there was the day during break. You saw them laughing at Peter. The old you would have kept eating, eyes fixed on your flask, which you never took out of your lunchbox. But this time, you stood up – not to face them directly, but to walk straight to your class teacher. Your hands were clammy, your voice small, but you told her what was happening. She acted immediately, and the teasing stopped. You were trembling inside, but you had just learned something important: even if your voice wasn’t the loudest in the room, it can still make a difference.

There were other moments too. Like the time you stood frozen on the spelling bee stage, the bright lights making your palm sweat. The word was insincerity. You managed “I, N…”and then nothing. Your mind went blank, your throat tight. You stood there, transfixed, until the bell rang and it was over. You walked back to your seat, cheeks burning, but somewhere inside you thought, “Next year, I’ll try again.” Or when Mr. Timothy held your essay in front of the class and said, “This is beautiful work.” You wanted to hide under your desk, but deep down, you were proud.

By the end of that year, you’d stopped shrinking yourself. Not completely, you still had days you wished you could disappear. But little by little, you learned that taking up space didn’t make you a target; it made you seen.

Looking back now, I wish I could tell you this: You weren’t becoming someone new. You were becoming yourself. And that, my dear 13-year-old self, was the bravest thing you ever did.

With love,

Me, still learning to fully embrace all that I am.