The cycle I can’t break

I died hoping for a brighter, more peaceful life.

The moment I graduated, I truly believed I’d finally be free, free from the pain, the noise, the dark memories I never asked for. I thought stepping into the “real world” would let me cut the string tied to my past. But it haunts me wherever I go, whenever it wants.

I try to act like it’s nothing. I laugh when expected. I work hard, stay quiet, follow the rules. But little by little, I’m dying. Quietly. Slowly.

In my first year at work, I was killed over and over, not by bullets, not by wounds, but by words, by silence, by judgment. They called me names. They questioned my capability. They made me feel small, like nothing. I isolated myself. That’s when I started to fight, not for promotion, not for recognition, but simply to breathe.

During those first six months, my heart drifted in and out of my profession. I tried everything to be seen, to prove I was working hard. But in their eyes, I was invisible. A mistake. Not enough. It was a good thing that my students saw me. They saw my effort. They appreciated me. They gave me reasons to keep fighting, even when everything else screamed to give up.

For two consecutive years, I was rated “Outstanding.” Yet, nearing my third year, I’m losing the reason to stay. No matter how many times I explain, they only see what’s wrong with me. I’m tired.

I should have been promoted. But they took it away because they judged me differently. They believed rumors. They never asked. I was too weak to defend myself, just like when I was in elementary school. I was sexually abused for two years by our principal. What could I do? I was a child with no voice, no power. I kept it all inside, hoping it would go away.But it didn’t. And it never really does.

Then came junior high. I was robbed of honors because they said I missed one performance task—a task I did. But no one admitted their mistake. No one tried to understand. I fought for what I deserved, and they bashed me. Called me names. Made me ashamed for wanting fairness. I cried until I couldn’t anymore. I missed my moving-up ceremony because I couldn’t face anyone.

I went to senior high school in the city, hoping for a fresh start. But it got worse. I was abused again. Controlled. Silenced. And again, I couldn’t protect myself.

That’s when I promised I’d be stronger. That I’d fight harder. That I wouldn’t let anyone break me again.

College came. I held onto that promise. But the cycle repeated. Professors treated me unfairly. Classmates destroyed my image. Their lies almost cost me Latin honors with a low grade meant to hold me back. But I rose above it. I still received most of the awards. I proved I was more than their lies.

So I applied for work. I worked hard to get the job, entering full of hope and fire. But the cycle was the same, the injustice, the judgments, the system that breaks people like me. Again, I was misunderstood, painted as someone I’m not, unable to protect myself. It’s always the same. From elementary to junior high, to senior high, to college, to work—same pain, different faces; same silence, different places; same death, over and over. I’ve died multiple times already, quietly, alone, silently. But no one sees. No one ever did.

I guess that’s how the system works. If you don’t let them control you, you’re left with nothing but yourself, no protection, no support, just your voice, small, shaking, unheard. You die without being noticed, without being remembered. Until one day, you give in, let them control you, let them shape you, let them own you. But I just can’t. I can’t pretend. I can’t surrender. I can’t see myself dying again and again because I’m tired of a world that keeps breaking me just for choosing to live my truth.

But I am still here.

I am still fighting. Still breathing. Still hoping.

Maybe one day, this cycle will break. Maybe my story will be heard, not to punish, but to change. Maybe my silence will become a voice loud enough to shatter the walls that keep us trapped. I don’t have all the answers yet. I don’t know how to heal completely.

But I know that my pain will not be wasted. And my truth will not be silenced.

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Edsel Harry R. Turda, 25, is a dreamer.

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