First,

let’s go back to my childhood.

I was born in Japan, in a quiet town where the air was still and the seasons taught me how to feel. In spring, I learned softness. In summer, I learned curiosity. In autumn, I learned to let go. And in winter, I learned to be still.

As a little girl, I didn’t speak much — not because I had nothing to say, but because I felt everything too deeply. I noticed the way light hit the tatami floors in the morning, how my mother’s voice changed when she was tired, and how people’s words didn’t always match their hearts. I observed, listened, and lived in a quiet world that only I seemed to understand.

My childhood was filled with contradictions. There was laughter, but also silence. Warmth, but sometimes cold spaces too. I learned early how to make myself small, how to hide sadness behind a smile, how to be a “good girl” even when I didn’t know what that meant.

I remember hiding under the futon with my art book, drawing and imaging stories about another life — a life where I felt free. I imagined growing up to be someone brave. Someone who could turn her tears into words and her quiet heart into something powerful. I didn’t know it then, but those silent dreams were seeds. And even though no one else could see them, they were growing.

I held so many questions inside me. Why do people hurt each other? Why do adults stop dreaming? Why does no one talk about how they feel?

But I also had hope.

Hope that one day, I could create a safe space — not just for myself, but for others like me. A space where we don’t have to be loud to be heard. Where softness is strength. Where healing is allowed.

Now, looking back at that little girl… I see her. I hold her hand through time. And I thank her. For surviving. For dreaming. For never giving up on love — even when it felt far away.

She is the reason I’m here now, living this story I once wrote in the dark.