4. R.S. reminded me that strength doesn’t wait for permission.

Some of the deepest wounds happen when you’re still young. When your voice is soft, but your pain is loud. When you’re expected to stay quiet and stay small while the world just watches.

That’s where R.S.’s story begins.

Elementary and middle school she was bullied, disrespected, and dismissed. Not just by classmates, but by the very people who were supposed to protect her.

“I was bullied. I reported it. Nothing was done. We ended up fighting. I had to show him I wasn’t weak.” “No means no.”

Let that sit for a second.

This wasn’t just about a school fight. This was about being gas-lit by silence. Ignored by authority. Forced to defend yourself when the system failed you. She didn’t want a war. She wanted safety.

But when nobody showed up for her, she showed up for herself.

She told me:

“Stand up for yourself. Because you don’t know if or who will be in your corner.”

Whew. That part hit me deep.

Because how many times have we waited for backup that never came? How many times have we swallowed pain so the room would stay comfortable?

R.S. didn’t swallow it. She spoke it. She fought through it. She reclaimed her voice in a world that tried to erase it.

When I asked what gave her strength, she said:

“I was young… but I knew I was better than what people said about me.”

Do you know how powerful that is? To believe in your own worth when everything around you is screaming otherwise?

That’s not just confidence, that’s clarity. That’s healing in motion.

And now?

She’s not bitter, she’s bold.

She’s not wounded, she’s wise.

She’s not quiet, she’s claiming her story so that some little girl out there knows she’s allowed to fight back, and still be soft.

To R.S.: Thank you.

For surviving a system that failed you. For protecting the little girl inside you. And for teaching the rest of us that strength isn’t just something you build. Sometimes, it’s something you remember.