May life grant you peace, even if peace has rarely visited our doorstep. Lately, I am haunted by the weight of all we’ve lost—not just time, but lifetimes of tenderness we never knew how to hold. I miss the fragile joys of youth, the moments that slipped past us unnoticed, the laughter we swallowed, the dreams we buried.
Their ghosts walk beside me still.
Even if I wanted to forget, I couldn’t. And perhaps, I shouldn’t. They are etched into me, and I into them.
I ache for the good days we imagined we had—but never truly did. I remember sharpening pencils over and over, hoping it would make someone sit and write, to follow the rules I thought were best. I was young, certain, foolish. I believed discipline could shape success. I had no idea that I was trimming wings.
Dearest siblings, forgive me for my smallness—for mistaking conformity for care. I didn’t recognize the brilliance in you, the way your minds worked outside the lines. I only wanted you to thrive in a world I didn’t understand myself.
This letter is for you—for the versions of you that never got to live freely. The world still owes you a life untainted by expectation and fear.
And I owe you, too. I owe you everything.
I see now how we—all of us—were failed. And yes, I carry that failure. I carry it in every breath, in every ache. Back then, I longed to speak of sorrow, of longing, of hope. But to whom could I speak? We had no language for pain.
Still, I won’t pretend innocence. I judged you. Compared you. Criticized you. Let go of your hands when I should’ve pulled you in close. In my silence, I betrayed you.
We were never taught the language of affection. Our home—more outpost than haven—was ruled by discipline, not connection. And so we grew without the tools for love.
They say life can be learned. I believe that now. Even love, even cruelty, even silence—they are all passed down. And we? We are miswritten texts from a broken lineage. We were denied joy, and handed shame.
But I no longer blame. I have come to see: they did not know any better. We are the echoes of an unfinished war, survivors of an education that taught obedience and fear—but not compassion.
If only we’d learned from Rumi, from Shams, from Saadi. If only poetry had raised us instead of pressure.
Growing up, I thought we shared nothing. But now, I see we are bound in wounds we could never name. I bury myself in history, philosophy, sociology—trying to decode our damage. Perhaps you’ve never read those books, but I know you’ve lived their truths. The ache in your silences, the brilliance behind your defiance—they say more than words ever could.
You are meaning to me, and I to you.
Today’s children know more than we did. Or at least, they have more tools to make sense of their world. We must be careful. Our children are watching. Our actions will shape what they believe they deserve.
You cannot understand today if you are still shackled to yesterday. Let go of the rusted rules. Think beyond our broken culture.
We were test subjects in a failed experiment. The system burned, and we were blamed for the smoke. Then they rebuilt the cage, only tighter—hoping this time, it would hold. But we are not the same. We are the children of fire now.
And I love you. Fiercely. Quietly. Endlessly.
I admire you—not for what you became, but for surviving what you were never meant to endure.
I know some of you should’ve been out in the open—on fields, on courts, in places full of light. Instead, you were imprisoned—by silence, by pain, by expectations. Forgive me. Forgive me for living while you were locked away.
Even now, unanswered calls pull me back into that panic—the fear that I won’t know if you’re safe. That I’ll be left guessing again.
Come with me now. Walk back with me through the ruins of our childhood. Remember the bicycles? The first poems memorized by heart? The cousins who challenged us without ever understanding what they were up against? You were not ordinary. You were lightning. And we—we missed it. Forgive us.
You were extraordinary, and we were just trying to keep up.
There’s still more I want to say—so much more. Will you walk this memory with me?
We had to memorize a verse five times to remember it. You absorbed it in one go. Because you were wired differently—beautifully.
I envy every athlete I see. Not for their strength, but because they remind me of yours. And I mourn what we lost. What we didn’t see in time.
Let me tell you everything from the beginning. Let me unbury the stories of our survival—and my guilt.
As a girl, I wanted to live simply. I wanted to go to small gatherings with friends, to laugh without burden. But I couldn’t. I had to watch over you. You, with your wild hearts, made me feel embarrassed and ashamed when I should’ve felt proud and protective. I was selfish. I was too young to be anyone’s guardian.
And then—like thunder—it was gone. My youth. Your childhood. Both stolen by time.
We were bent by forces too large to see. And I learned too late that time only makes you regret—not responsible, just haunted.
When I left, you gave up. On school, on hope. And I—fool that I was—thought I had finally escaped. I didn’t know I had left my heart behind.
I dreamed of leaning on you, of having a sibling strong enough to protect me from life. But I hadn’t stayed to help you grow into that role.
And your distance—the walls you built—became my prison, too.
I blame myself.
If only I had sat with my conscience sooner. If only we had spoken, truly spoken, as equals. Perhaps we could have saved something.
But I was still just a girl. And fear was all I knew.
Years later, I understand: had I taken responsibility, perhaps our lives would look different. A piece of my heart always beat for you. But I wasn’t a good sister. Nor a good mother. I was always trying to return to my first duty—but I never arrived.
And now, I walk like a ghost. Alive, but without soul. Every breath is borrowed.
You wanted freedom, and we—small-minded and afraid—forced tradition upon your wildness. I can’t untangle my guilt from your pain.
I owe you the dreams you lost because of us. The ones we shamed. The ones we silenced.
We never taught you how to say goodbye to them gently. We tore them from your hands.
From the start, we built walls around your mind—because we feared what was inside. And what society feared, we feared more.
We feared you, because you were free.
You were never like us. And that terrified us.
You lived on your own terms. And we—who lived in fear—resented you for it.
We accepted our cages. You broke yours.
We forgot that you were not cursed—you were brave.
No one saw the storm inside you. And when it broke, they called it rebellion. Or madness. Or worse.
But you were never alone.
You are not the only one whose brilliance was beaten into silence. I, too, lay on the floor—helpless, voiceless. But I saw you stand.
You stood tall when others would’ve fallen. The more they tried to break your pride, the stronger you became.
Even when it was us, your own, doing the breaking.
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