As a child, I was an introvert. Due to various circumstances, I didn’t have the opportunity to play any sports.

On many days, I see young children playing football or cricket in the large cricket park in front of my home. Various trainers from different sports clubs bring their teams of girls and boys to play football. They do stretches and warm-up runs, and I watch them from a distance.

I stop and watch them play, finding them incredibly adorable. Their brightly colored vests with their names on the backs, their sneakers, shorts, and backpacks all look so vibrant and lovely. I can’t help but feel how lucky they are; they don’t have to worry about anything and can play for hours. Observing their play brings me both joy and sadness simultaneously.

As I watch these children run, kicking the ball, laughing wholeheartedly, and shouting with excitement at the top of their lungs, celebrating every goal, my childhood memories flood my mind.

Whenever I watch them, I am reminded of my lonely and fearful childhood. I was that kid who spent all day reading books in a corner, hiding away. I had a hypersensitive nervous system and was always on edge due to the chaotic home environment and problems of daily life caused by extreme poverty. Any expression of my wishes was considered completely unacceptable.

I recall many happy moments and beautiful days, yet I can’t understand why our minds often focus on the worst memories—the unfulfilled wishes, regrets, and shameful moments. I don’t know why all the memories keep coming back these days, unlike the many years when I was living in a blissful state.

Today, I went for a walk in the park with my sister, who is visiting us these days. She got married five years ago and moved abroad. She visits us once every year. I was watching those children and, while observing them, I complained to my sister, “jab mein choti thee, mujhe kisi ne is club mein kyun nahi bheja?” (When I was little, why didn’t anyone send me to this club?)

She replied, “Daman, tab hum ghareeb thay.” (At that time, we were poor!)

She was willing to send me to sports classes, swimming, or any activity I wanted. She truly wanted to do her best to fulfill my desire to play freely. However, I reminded her that I don’t have time like those children do. I have a job that requires me to care for many people, which keeps me overwhelmed and occupied. At the end of the day, I’m left with no energy or time to consider any other activities. I have very few days off, and there are many other things I need to catch up on during the week. Plus, the fees for those activities would go to waste if I only went to the club for four or five days a month, when I could use that money for other essential things.

I remember when we were kids, and if I ever cried, she would say,

“Daman meri behen, na ro.” (Daman, my sister, don’t cry!)

There’s no one to wipe my tears anymore—actually, there isn’t even her now. According to her, I have no reason to cry. She can’t wipe my tears anymore because she doesn’t know what to do or how to make things right to help me become the happiest person on earth. She is struggling to understand why I am still stuck in that lonely and unhappy childhood, while she has moved on. Why do I cry over trivial matters when she appears so strong? Why am I hesitant to try new things, unlike her? Why don’t I have wishes like other young people around me? Why didn’t I grow up to be an energetic, bubbly, and motivated person like she is?

She believes I have no reason to feel sad because I have grown up, and my life has changed. Thank God she has no idea that I am still that afraid and lonely child inside.

A famous Urdu couplet (shair) goes like this:

“Mere dil k kisi konay mein ek masoom sa bacha / baron ki dekh kar duniya bara hone se darta hai.” (Within a corner of my heart, an innocent child resides, fearful of growing up as he observes the world of adults.)

Damane Zehra is a radiation oncology resident in Pakistan.