I am not the rare butterfly, the lone flame burning bright in a sea of shadows. I am not the chosen one, not the anomaly, not the girl with the golden key to the kingdom of suffering. The truth, stark and bitter as the taste of raw earth, is that I am ordinary in my survival. There is no grand medal, no shimmering trophy etched with my name, no applause waiting to swell as I walk across the stage, dragging my story behind me like a frayed ribbon.
Survival is not a singular feat, nor is it a badge of honor worn to signify some profound strength others do not possess. We are many, the ones who have lived through the touch that took too much, who carry the fingerprints of monsters in the soft places of our minds. We do not stand out, we do not glow with the radiance of some tragic beauty. We blend, we walk amongst you, shadows mingling with shadows.
What is this prize we speak of? It is not ours. It does not exist. I get no reward for being the girl who survived the unspeakable, no crown for wearing the scars that have become a part of my flesh, my bones. These scars are not the ink of a story written just for me; they are the language of countless others who have walked this same road, their footsteps echoing mine in a haunting harmony.
I do not seek to diminish the weight of my pain, nor the pain of others who share this burden. But I must confess, it is not a pain that makes me special. It is a pain that binds us together, invisible threads woven into a tapestry of hurt, stitched with memories we dare not unravel. We are legion in our silence, and in our voices, when we dare to speak.
So, what is left? What remains when we strip away the myth of uniqueness, the illusion of the solitary survivor? Perhaps it is this: we are not alone, and in our ordinariness, there is power. Not the power of the exceptional, but the power of the collective, of knowing that my story is not mine alone. It is yours, it is hers, it is his, it is theirs. We carry it together, not as a prize, but as a testament to our endurance, our shared humanity.
There is no prize, no winner in this grim contest. There is only the quiet, unremarkable truth: I am a survivor, like so many others, and that is enough.
B🤍
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