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For so long, I was a prisoner to emptiness. I closed my eyes to the world, letting the voices in my mind take control. They told me there was no way out, that darkness was my destiny. And I believed them. I believed until the cold became a constant companion, so familiar I almost forgot what warmth felt like. There were days when every step felt like a Herculean effort and nights when the silence screamed louder than any noise. The scars I carry, invisible to others, burned as if they were fresh. The hole in my chest felt irreplaceable, a cruel reminder of all I had lost. But something changed. It wasn’t sudden, like in the movies. It was slow, like the first light of dawn after an endless night. One day, I felt something different: a tiny spark, a desire not to disappear. It was fragile, almost imperceptible, but it was mine.

I decided to hold onto that spark. At first, I stumbled more than I walked. There were moments when giving up seemed easier, but with each stumble, I realized something: I was still here. Still breathing. Still fighting. I started facing the voices head-on. Instead of silencing them, I listened to what they had to say and, for the first time, questioned them: “What if you’re wrong? What if there’s more for me?” The answer didn’t come immediately, but simply asking the question was freeing.

I discovered the cold wasn’t eternal. Every small victory—getting out of bed, feeling the sun on my skin, accepting a smile—was like lighting a candle in the dark. Slowly, the warmth returned, timid at first, then stronger. Today, as I look back, I see how far I’ve come. The scars are still there, but they no longer define me. The hole in my chest wasn’t filled by something external but by a strength that grew within me.

I found my own voice. And for the first time in what feels like forever, I don’t feel cold. I feel alive.