When I was younger, before I fully understood the world, I carried an invisible burden—a unibrow and early facial hair that made me a target for cruel words. Kids didn’t see me; they only saw what was different. “Why do you look like a man?” some would sneer. “Are you a monster?” others whispered behind my back. Their words cut deeper than any bruise, leaving me feeling so small and unsure if I belonged anywhere at all.

Walking into school each day felt like climbing a mountain I wasn’t prepared to face. The hallways filled with laughter felt more like trapdoors waiting to snap. But there were moments that refused to be drowned out by the noise of cruelty. I remember with sharp clarity the thrill of winning my school district’s spelling bee—heart pounding, hands shaking, but proud. At the science fair, my project was more than just an assignment; it was my voice screaming that I was so much more than the names they called me. Those wins were my secret armor, small victories against the world’s cold judgments.

Yet the loneliness lingered. Friends I once had drifted away. I became invisible to many, beneath the weight of whispered jokes and pointed fingers.