She was seven when the world first felt too heavy.

Her house was always loud, but never warm. Voices clashed like broken glass, doors slammed, silence stretched sharp and punishing. Love, if it existed there, was conditional—given and taken without warning. She learned early how to make herself small. How to disappear without leaving the room.

At school, she smiled because she was supposed to. At home, she stayed quiet because it was safer. And at night, when the house finally slept, the anxiety crept in—tightening her chest, stealing her breath, convincing her that something was wrong with her simply for existing.

She didn’t have the words for it then. She just knew the pain inside her had nowhere to go.

So she turned it inward.

Not because she wanted attention. Not because she wanted to die. But because it was the only way she knew how to release the storm. At seven years old, she learned how to survive the only way she could. It became a secret she carried for years—one wrapped in shame, fear, and the belief that she was broken beyond repair.

As she grew older, the anxiety grew with her.

Middle school felt like drowning quietly in a crowded room. High school felt like walking through life with a constant tremor in her hands and a knot in her throat. Panic attacks hit without warning. Nights were sleepless. Mirrors became enemies. Family never noticed—or never asked.

She thought happiness was something meant for other people.

Then one night, everything shifted.

She was older now—tired, worn down, scrolling aimlessly just to keep her mind occupied. A song started playing. Loud. Raw. Honest. Voices filled with pain—but also defiance. Survival. Hope that didn’t feel fake.

Stray Kids.

At first, it was just the music. The way the lyrics spoke about loneliness, pressure, feeling lost. It felt like someone had reached into her chest and translated emotions she’d never been able to explain.

Then it became more.

She watched them laugh. Struggle. Fail. Get back up. She saw people who talked openly about fear, about not fitting in, about pushing forward anyway. For the first time, she didn’t feel strange for hurting. She felt understood.

Their music became her lifeline.

On nights when her anxiety screamed, she played their songs until her breathing slowed. On days when her family made her feel invisible, she clung to the reminder that people like her could still matter. When the urge to hurt herself returned, she stayed—sometimes only for one more song, one more lyric, one more promise that tomorrow might feel different.

And slowly… it did.

Healing wasn’t instant. She didn’t wake up magically okay. Some days were still dark. Some scars stayed. But something inside her shifted:

She started choosing to stay.

She learned that surviving was brave. That needing help wasn’t weakness. That pain didn’t cancel worth.

Stray Kids didn’t save her—but they reminded her that she could save herself.

Years later, she still carries anxiety. She still flinches at loud voices. Family wounds still ache. But now she has something she never had before: hope.

She writes. She listens. She breathes.

She looks at the girl she was at seven—the one who thought pain was all she’d ever be—and whispers, “We made it.”

And for the first time in her life, she believes it.

I don’t remember the exact moment my depression began.

I just remember always feeling wrong.

I was so young—too young to understand why my chest felt heavy all the time, why my stomach twisted whenever I heard footsteps in the hallway, why I learned to listen for moods before I learned how to play properly. I didn’t know words like anxiety or emotional neglect. I only knew fear, confusion, and the constant need to be careful.

My parents weren’t safe people.

Not physically—sometimes emotionally—always unpredictable. Love felt sharp. Praise disappeared fast. Anger filled rooms faster than air. I learned early that silence was protection and obedience was survival.

But what hurt the most was the hatred from my sisters.

The younger ones didn’t understand what they were doing, but their words still burned. Teasing that went too far. Laughing when I cried. Blaming me when things went wrong. I was always “too sensitive,” always “the problem,” always the one they could step on without consequences.

And my older sister—

She should have been my shield.

Instead, she became another storm.

Her words cut deeper because I trusted her. Her anger felt like proof that I really was unlovable. If someone older, someone who knew more, someone who was supposed to protect me hated me—then maybe I deserved it.

I was too young to understand that none of this was my fault.

I thought the sadness meant something was broken inside me.

I thought the fear meant I was weak.

I thought being treated badly meant I had earned it.

No one sat me down and said, “This isn’t normal.”

No one asked why a child was always quiet, always tense, always watching.

So I learned to carry everything alone.

The depression didn’t crash into me all at once.

It seeped in slowly.

It lived in the way I stopped asking for help.

In how I flinched at raised voices.

In how I felt guilty for taking up space.

In how I learned to swallow my pain because expressing it only made things worse.

I didn’t want to die.

I just wanted the pain to stop—and I didn’t know any other way.

Looking back now, it breaks my heart.

That little version of me didn’t need punishment or judgment.

She needed safety. She needed softness. She needed someone to say, “You are not the problem.”

But she didn’t get that.

So she survived the only way she knew how.

And even though I didn’t understand it then, that was the beginning of everything—the depression, the anxiety, the coping that turned into harm, and the long road it would take to learn that I was never broken… just hurt far too young.

...----------------...

...I don’t remember how I found the song....

...I just remember the moment it found me....

...I was alone—again. Sitting with that familiar heaviness pressed into my chest, the kind that makes breathing feel optional. I clicked play without thinking. I wasn’t expecting anything. I never did. Hope felt dangerous back then....

...Then the sound hit....

...“Hellevator.”...

...It wasn’t gentle. It wasn’t comforting in the way people think comfort should be. It was raw. Desperate. Angry. Afraid. Honest in a way I had never been allowed to be....

...It felt like someone finally said the things I’d been screaming silently for years....

...The lyrics felt like a confession I didn’t know how to make—about falling, about being trapped, about wanting to escape but not knowing how. My heart started pounding, not from anxiety this time, but from recognition....

...For the first time in my life, I felt alive....

...Not healed....

...Not okay....

...But seen....

...I sat there listening, replaying it again and again, letting the music fill the empty spaces inside me. It didn’t take the depression away—but it cracked something open. It gave my pain a voice. It told me I wasn’t the only one drowning quietly....

...But the house didn’t change....

...When my parents heard it, their faces twisted with disgust....

...“What is this dumb music?”...

...“Turn that noise off.”...

...“This is what you’re filling your head with?”...

...My sisters laughed. Mocked it. Mocked me....

...“Of course you listen to that.”...

...“No wonder you’re like this.”...

...Every word felt like a slap....

...They didn’t hear what I heard....

...They didn’t hear survival....

...They didn’t hear a lifeline....

...They just heard noise—and decided it was another reason to tear me down....

...So I learned to listen quietly....

...Headphones low. Door closed. Music hidden like another secret. I carried Stray Kids with me the same way I carried my pain—carefully, privately, protectively....

...Even when I got in trouble....

...Even when I was told it was stupid....

...Even when I was made to feel ashamed for loving something....

...Because that song did something nothing else ever had....

...It reminded me that I could feel something other than numbness....

...I was still depressed....

...Still anxious....

...Still hurting in ways I didn’t have words for....

...But now—there was a sound that reached me in the dark and said, “You’re not crazy for feeling this way.”...

...And in a house that constantly made me feel small, that mattered more than they ever knew....

By the time I turned twelve, I knew everything about Stray Kids.

Middle school was loud, chaotic, and cruel in ways that felt sharper than elementary school. Everyone was changing, everyone was watching, and somehow I felt more invisible than ever. I walked through the halls with my shoulders tense, my heart constantly racing, pretending I wasn’t afraid of being noticed—but terrified of being misunderstood.

Stray Kids became my constant.

I learned their stories, their lyrics, their struggles. I watched interviews late at night with the volume low, memorizing their laughter like it was something sacred. They felt real in a way people around me didn’t. They didn’t pretend pain didn’t exist. They didn’t act like strength meant never breaking.

And that’s when I found Lee Know.

Or maybe… he found me.

There was something about him that felt painfully familiar. The way he kept his emotions locked tight. The way he joked instead of opening up. The way his care showed in actions, not words. He didn’t cry in front of everyone. He didn’t let weakness spill out where it could be used against him.

That was me.

I was scared to show emotion.

Scared to cry in front of people.

Scared that if I let myself break, no one would help—they’d just use it as proof that I was weak.

So I held everything in.

I smiled when I was supposed to.

I laughed when it was expected.

And when the tears came, they only came when I was alone—late at night, staring at the ceiling, music playing softly like a shield around my heart.

Lee Know made me feel less strange for that.

He reminded me that being quiet didn’t mean being empty. That caring deeply didn’t require being loud. That strength could look like endurance.

But even then, I couldn’t escape ridicule.

My friends found out I liked Stray Kids, and suddenly it became a joke.

“Why do you listen to that?”

“They don’t even speak English.”

“That’s so cringe.”

“Of course you like them.”

I laughed it off like it didn’t hurt. I always did.

But every comment sank deep. Liking Stray Kids wasn’t just a hobby—it was personal. It was the one thing that made me feel understood. And once again, something that mattered to me became something people used to tear me down.

So I learned—again—to hide.

I stopped talking about them.

Stopped sharing what I loved.

Kept that part of myself locked away like it was something shameful.

But no matter how quiet I became on the outside, Stray Kids stayed loud inside me.

Their music walked with me through hallways.

Their words held me together when my hands were shaking.

Lee Know reminded me that I wasn’t cold or broken—just careful.

I was still depressed.

Still anxious.

Still learning how to survive.

But at twelve years old, in a world that kept telling me I was too much or not enough, I had something solid to hold onto.

And sometimes… that was the only reason I kept going.

...----------------...