A Letter from Tehreem Arif: The Melody of a Wounded Heart

The Childhood I Never Got

When I was a young girl, I was tested. Tested so much, and for so long, that somewhere along the way, I lost the noor in my eyes. I lost the effortless smile that once belonged to my face. I grew up before I had the right to grow up.

Sometimes I look at girls my age laughing over little things, being childish, making mistakes without carrying the weight of the entire world on their shoulders—and strangely, it feels unfamiliar to me. Almost awkward. I don't know how to be that carefree girl anymore. I don't know how to live without thinking ten steps ahead, without expecting something to go wrong, without preparing my heart for another test.

And sometimes, in the quietest moments, I wonder: Why me?

I know I cannot question Allah's wisdom. I know there are things He understands that I never will. I know perhaps every pain had a purpose, every loss carried a lesson, every difficult night was known to Him even when no one else knew what was happening inside me.

But I am still human.

And sometimes a human heart simply wants to ask, Why did my childhood have to be so different? Why couldn't I have been protected the way a child is supposed to be protected? Why did I have to learn certain things before I even knew what childhood meant?

The hardest part is not even what happened.

It is what it left behind.

The regrets became enormous. The memories became heavier. And after carrying them for years, I began to believe that perhaps I don't deserve anything beautiful anymore. Perhaps happiness belongs to people who were never broken this badly. Perhaps I have already used up my share of good things.

And just when I finally gather enough courage to move forward, another thought comes quietly:

What if it all happens again?

What if the next test is bigger?

What if Allah tests me with something I cannot survive?

What if I finally allow myself to hope, only to lose everything again?

I hate that fear. I hate that even after surviving so much, my heart still expects life to hurt me.

Maybe that is why I love babies so much.

Because when I look at them, I see the little girl I once was.

A child who should have been protected.

A child who should have been allowed to be foolish, loud, messy, playful, dependent, and innocent.

A child who should have been told, “Don't worry. I am here.”

Maybe I love babies because I want to give them what I once desperately needed.

I want to protect them from the things children should never have to understand. I want to hold them when they are afraid. I want to let them cry without making them feel weak. I want to make their little worlds feel safe.

Because when I was their age, there was a part of me that was desperately waiting for someone to do exactly that for me.

And perhaps that is why I feel so deeply for little children.

I am not simply loving them.

I am loving the childhood I never got to have.

Maybe the little girl inside me is still waiting.

Not for someone to rewrite the past.

Just for someone to finally tell her:

“You should never have had to be this strong. You were a child. You deserved to be protected. And none of what happened to you made you undeserving of love, softness, or beautiful things.”

Maybe I don't need to become that carefree little girl again.

Maybe I only need to stop punishing her for surviving.