Dear Me: Rising From Pain to Break the Cycle of GBV

Dear Hellen,

I am writing to the girl you once were—the girl who learned how to swallow pain before she learned how to speak her dreams out loud. The girl who tried to shrink her voice because the world around her made her believe she wasn’t worth hearing. The little girl who sat outside the house as her stepfather’s words cut deeper than any blade ever could.

Dear Hellen, I remember how he looked at you with eyes that carried nothing but rejection. I remember how he called you “chokora,” as if you were something thrown away instead of a child craving love. I remember how he refused to take you to school because “you are not his blood,” as if education was a privilege reserved only for children he chose to love.

You watched your siblings prepare for school with excitement while you stayed behind sweeping the compound, your heart breaking quietly.

You wondered if something was wrong with you.

You wondered why your existence offended him.

You wondered why your childhood felt like a punishment.

But dear Hellen, even in that darkness, you carried a light—small, trembling, but unbreakable. Even as the world tried to convince you that you were unwanted, something deep inside whispered:

“One day, I will rise. One day, I will become someone I can be proud of.”

And you did.

You rose from insults meant to shatter you.

You rose from rejection meant to silence you.

You rose from gender-based violence that tried to bury your dreams.

You fought for education when the world tried to deny you one.

You held onto your future even when your present was filled with pain.

You grew into a young woman whose voice now carries the weight of truth, resilience, and courage.

Today, dear Hellen, your story is no longer just a memory of suffering—it is a mirror reflecting the silent battles thousands of girls still fight in their own homes. It is a reminder that GBV does not always appear as bruises on the skin; sometimes it is the violence that crushes confidence, steals opportunity, and erases childhoods.

And this is why you speak.

This is why you write.

This is why your story matters.

Dear Hellen, this is the moment your pain transforms into purpose.

This is where the girl who was once rejected becomes the woman who protects.

This is where your voice becomes a refuge for others still hiding their tears.

You tell this story so the world can see what GBV steals from children.

You tell it so no girl will ever be denied education again.

You tell it so no child is ever called “chokora” in the place they should be loved.

You tell it because silence protects abusers, but stories protect survivors.

Dear Hellen, you have risen from a past meant to break you.

And now, with the strength of every wound you survived, you stand boldly to say:

This is my story.

This is my rise.

This is my stand against GBV.

Never

again—not to me, not to any girl, anywhere.