I was born in 2004, a year people romanticize as the beginning of a bold, fearless generation. Apparently, we are supposed to be confident. Independent. Unapologetic.

I am none of those things.

I am the youngest in my family, which sounds like a privilege when people say it out loud. The youngest are supposed to be adored. Protected. Spoiled. They call us the princess of the house, as if a title automatically comes with freedom.

But no one tells you that princesses can live inside cages.

By the time I was old enough to understand conversations, I had already become the silent witness to everyone else’s struggles. I grew up listening to stories of hardship, sacrifice, judgment, and survival. I knew who suffered, who endured, who compromised. I became the family’s listener. The quiet ear in the corner of every room.

What I never became was a voice.

I heard everyone’s pain, but I never found a place to put my own. There was always something more important. Someone older. Someone louder. Someone whose problems deserved more space than mine.

Maybe it is my fault. I replay that thought often. Maybe I am too quiet. Too hesitant. Maybe I don’t know how to hold on to people properly. Because whenever I try to build something real, something honest, it slips away. People leave. Conversations fade. And I return to the same position I have always known best: alone, but pretending not to be.

They say the youngest child has it easy. They say we are lucky. But what they don’t see is how often decisions are made for us before we even realize we had a choice. What to study. How to behave. When to speak. When to stay silent.

Every decision made on my behalf comes wrapped in love, but it still feels like control.

And slowly, something strange happens when you are never trusted with your own choices. You begin to doubt yourself. Even the smallest decisions feel heavy. Even simple preferences feel wrong. I hesitate before speaking. I question my instincts. I feel guilty for wanting something different.

It is difficult to grow when everyone assumes you are still small.

I do not feel like a princess. I feel like a carefully managed responsibility. A project shaped by other people’s fears and expectations.

And somewhere between being the family’s listener and being the obedient youngest child, I misplaced something.

Myself.

And sometimes I wonder when it started, this quiet shrinking of myself. Was it the first time someone said, “You’re too young to understand”? Or the first decision made for me before I even knew I had an opinion? Silence does not arrive loudly. It settles slowly, like dust in a room no one cleans. And one day you look around and realize you have been living inside it for years, breathing it in, mistaking it for air.

And start to doubt yourself.

( it's my first time writing something please ignore it if there's spelling mistakes. English is not my first language that's why . And I hope you guys will understand my feelings and the feeling that I am trying to express through the lines )

I did not start doubting myself alone.

It was taught to me. Casually. Repeatedly. In living rooms filled with relatives and laughter that did not include me.

Self-doubt does not enter loudly. It arrives disguised as advice.

It always starts the same way.

A family gathering. Bright lights. Too many voices in one room. Plates clattering in the background while laughter rises and falls like rehearsed music. I stand there, smiling on cue, adjusting the edge of my dupatta, pretending I don’t already know what is coming.

They never begin with cruelty. It arrives disguised as a concern.

“You shouldn’t wear heels,” one aunt says, looking me up and down as if she’s measuring me. “You’re already so tall.”

Another laughs. “And maybe eat a little less. You’re getting chubby.”

They say it casually. Effortlessly. As if they are commenting on the weather.

I tell myself I don’t care. I nod. I smile. I even laugh sometimes, because that’s what you’re supposed to do when older relatives make jokes. You accept them. You let them pass. You don’t create drama.

But words do not pass. They settle.

It is strange how people think comments about height or weight are harmless. As if the body is public property. As if they are helping. They look at me like I am something excessive. Too tall. Too big. Too noticeable. A “monster,” they joke, comparing their smaller frames to mine, laughing as though exaggeration makes it kinder.

I stand there wondering when my body became a family discussion topic.

I don’t argue back. I don’t know how. I was taught to respect elders, not challenge them. So I swallow it. Again and again. And something small inside me begins to rot, quietly. They don’t see it. They don’t feel it. But constant negativity is like leaving fruit in a closed room. From the outside, it still looks fine. Inside, it softens. Darkens.

And then there are my siblings

Being the youngest means comparison is almost a tradition. It happens at the dining table. During exams. In casual conversations. “Your sister was better at this.” “Your brother handled that more maturely.” “Why can’t you be a little more like them?”

Maybe it is normal. Maybe every family does it. But normal does not mean painless.

Each comparison feels like a silent ranking system I never agreed to join. I am measured against achievements, behavior, confidence. If I fall short, it is mentioned. If I succeed, it is expected.

When you are younger, you do not understand tone. You hear the words, but you don’t decode the intention. As you grow older, you start recognizing the shift in voices. The way sarcasm hides inside jokes. The way mean things are wrapped in laughter so they can never be accused of being mean.

“It’s just a joke,” they say.

But jokes are only funny when everyone laughs.

Sometimes I sit there listening to them speak about me as if I am not in the room. Or worse, as if I am too small to be affected. They laugh. They move on. They forget.

I don’t.

The words stay. They carve themselves quietly into memory, like lines etched into stone. I replay them later in my head, analyzing every tone, every smirk, every glance.

And the worst part is not what they say.

It is the doubt that follows.

Maybe they are right.

Maybe I am too much.

Maybe I am not enough.

That is how it begins. Not with one cruel sentence, but with repetition. With people you love speaking carelessly. With silence becoming your safest response.

And once doubt enters, it does not leave easily.