A Million Sentences I Can Never Get Back.

"I will not talk back." 100 times.

“I will not lie.” 1000 times.

“I will not argue with my parents.” 500 times.

Examples of so many sentences I wrote over and over as a child. A punishment disguised as discipline, a ritual that turned words into shackles instead of wings. Each repetition carved out a little more of my voice, until writing felt less like expression and more like erasure.

It’s ironic, isn’t it? That the very act meant to silence me is now the act I return to willingly. I write a blog. I spill thoughts into paragraphs. I try to make sense of myself in sentences. And yet, the irony lingers: I can write endlessly, but when it comes to expressing my feelings out loud, or taking accountability in the moment, I stumble.

Maybe those punishments trained me to believe that words were dangerous, that speaking up meant consequences, that honesty meant shame. So now, even as I fill pages, I sometimes feel like I’m still stuck at that desk, repeating lines that don’t belong to me.

A million sentences I can never get back. A million chances to say what I really meant, lost to the rhythm of punishment. And now, when I try to speak, I find myself reaching for words that hide instead of reveal.

But here I am, writing anyway. Trying to reclaim the sentence. Trying to turn repetition into release. Maybe this post is my way of talking back after all.