For the Ones Who Were Too Young

This piece is written from lived experience, shared in a way that protects the privacy of those I love. It speaks to themes of trauma and justice.

Please read with care and take what you need.

For the ones who were too young.

Too young to understand the weight placed upon them.

A weight that never should have been theirs to carry.

Too young to make sense of why they must remember so clearly,

why their truth must be repeated,

retold,

relived,

again and again, in spaces that do not feel like safety.

For the children who sat across from unfamiliar faces and were asked to explain the unexplainable,

all without the steady presence of someone they know,

someone they trust,

someone who could hold their hand when the words became too heavy to speak.

For the ones who were questioned,

tested, and doubted.

Not because they were not telling the truth,

but because a system demands proof in ways that do not understand the language of trauma.

For the ones whose stories were never fully heard,

never fully known by those tasked with deciding what is proof “enough.”

For the ones who have not yet found the words,

who are too young to name what has happened,

or to understand it themselves.

For the truths that live without language,

that are felt before they are spoken,

that exist even in silence.

For the truths that sit just beyond what can be proven,

yet live on.

Held in memory,

in the body,

in the lives that continue around them.

For the families,

the ones who witness the aftermath,

who carry what cannot be undone,

who hold a truth that was not recognised in the way they had hoped.

For those who must find a way to keep moving forward,

to tend to healing,

to hold their loved ones close,

all while carrying the weight of what remains unresolved.

This is for you.

For the ones who carry both truth and grief,

love and anger,

strength and heartbreak,

all at once.

There are no words that can undo what has been done.

No system that can fully repair what has been broken.

But your truth exists.

Even when it is not recognised.

Even when it is not upheld.

Even when it is not enough for the standards set before it.

It exists in the quiet knowing.

In the body that remembers.

In the love that continues to hold what was never yours to carry.

And though systems may fall short, your truth does not disappear.

It remains.

It matters.

It always has.

And always will.

- Michelle Valerie

If this piece brings up anything for you, consider reaching out to someone you trust or a support service in your area.

This essay is part of The Pause.

You can explore more writing from The Pause here