She wears her hair in pigtails most days, a devotion to her favourite YouTube character, a pink-haired amusement meant to teach its young watchers to read and find shapes in everyday life. She often carries a smile that appears at the mere mention of her name, a small infatuation.
She has grown and become mighty in the time I’ve had to know her, yet her frame still speaks of her fragility and youth. With a small vocabulary she has learned, her spirit shines, always finding a way to tease, joke, or spread laughter with the few words she’s become comfortable using. This has always been her—her personality radiating through—a shining image of a world within a beautiful mould of a girl unknown.
As she sets off each day on her multitude of elevated lessons, she climbs most steps with ease. She’s more confident with the heights, aware of her own weight, and more often, I see her taunting the next step. Without being taught, without always having the words to say, she’s always known who she is.
It has been my job to help her rise—up and out—so she can view her unfurling capabilities, so she can meet herself, discover more of who she is, and show that to the world. It has been nothing short of magic to witness.
Today was different—a different kind of magic.
I wait for her at the door, the time always the same. The room is loud with boisterous bodies surrounding her, yet she always seems to find solace away from the crowd. Is it a necessity born out of fear? Fear to join in? Or fear of being known? She has more to say than her face reveals.
She peers back at me.
Her face lights up, as seeing me often brings her comfort, but this time she halts, puzzled by her inner emotions. It is strange to see me, her friend and confidant, suddenly unfamiliar and distant. She takes my hand and tries to fight the fear, holding herself still—paralysed by change.
I ask her about her day as we begin to walk down the stairs outside, towards the field and the freedom of the afternoon. The cold cement stairs and railings reflect the chill of the moment. We are like walking statues, guarding our belonging. Despite the higher levels of connection we’ve reached through our friendship, today feels heavy.
She walks beside me, sullenly holding my hand—a pulse I hadn’t yet felt from her. Something that I’ve always valued in our relationship is how we only felt joy. This strange moment breaks me out of my role as her guide and teacher. Now, I am just my heart.
She’s had a day—the weight of it crunching her beautiful brown eyes, wrinkling her soft forehead, lifting her lower lip. I sink my soul to find her.
“Hey,” I say, hoping to reintroduce her to the comfort of our shared world.
Her mouth moves slightly, whispering to herself, “Don’t cry, don’t cry…”
She speaks as though reciting—regurgitating lessons to hide herself, as if suppressing her pain is the only answer. It stuns me, opening a raw wound within. My body tells me how my heart bleeds hotter.
I am with her in this moment, told countless times to hide, told in glances and stares to stop showing our humanity. But her humanity is one of the most magnificent I have ever seen.
How dare anyone tell her to mask that, or to keep it locked away during times of confusion and uncertainty?
She knows she feels different. That part is real. This sadness is real.
I meet her gaze with a moment of clarity, yet she looks on, worried—as if seeking approval, asking if she’s doing it right, if this is how to help herself.
Someone has started to lock her up—a frail frame full of wonder beginning to bar itself. I am too wild for that kind of restraint. I care too much about reaching inside, more than any societal boundary I might cross.
So we move beyond the “Are you ok?” and “What happened?” questions. She needs out.
I begin to unravel the wires that have confined her all day, with words she’s come to trust from me.
I tell her how proud I am of her. I tell her how amazing she is and how well she’s doing. I tell her she is extraordinary.
As my eyes fill with emotion, tears pour forth, intrinsically tied to hers. We are in sync. Moments like these—so rare and rich in new beginnings—are precious.
I believe she is better for having experienced it, and I am fuller for witnessing it.
The day’s weight—the unfamiliar pathways—has formed uncomfortable passageways. Without someone to guide us who has reached the other side, we can become blind to those shutting it out.
This is a way out I wish to teach.
I don’t need to understand the difficulties of the day in that moment. We only need to honour the emotions it brought.
That it is ok to be here.
That we don’t need to “don’t.”
That we can, and we should.
I ask if we should just sit.
She nods, wrapping her palm in mine.
Maybe we will work, maybe we will run wild and free as we are meant to. As we walk, she smiles. Her pulse beats through her whole body, bouncing with life.
When we sit, I wipe away tears. She asks me if I’m sad, if this is sadness.
I say yes, but it is ok to cry.
I tell her I am proud.
I tell her they are tears of love.
I explain that there can be joy in tears, as there can be sadness, as there can be love—so much that it overflows.
I tell her she is meant to release it.
I release it with her.
I want her to see how much love I have for her—so much that it flows out with her pain.
And then we ran.
We ran wild for a bit.
DoubleSpeak 