Before I Knew Who I Was

“I’m writing this before my life becomes something special, because I’m afraid that if I wait, my story will never be told.”

My life didn’t begin with a clear purpose; it began with questions I didn’t yet know how to ask. As a child, I didn’t have the language to explain what I felt—only the feeling itself: a quiet sense that the world was larger, heavier, and more mysterious than people around me seemed to admit. While others moved through their days naturally, I observed. I noticed patterns, silences, and moments that felt important even when no one else reacted to them.

I don’t remember wanting much back then. I wasn’t chasing success or recognition. What stayed with me instead was curiosity—not the playful kind, but a deeper one. I wanted to understand why things were the way they were. Why people smiled when they were hurting. Why rules mattered more than truth. Why some questions were welcomed while others were quietly discouraged. I learned early that not every thought was meant to be spoken out loud.

As I grew older, I realized that life wasn’t only about existing; it was about fitting in. And fitting in came with instructions no one clearly explained. School, family, society—all of it carried expectations, and I tried to follow them, even when they felt unnatural. There were moments I felt invisible, and moments I felt exposed, but rarely did I feel fully understood. Still, I kept moving forward, because that’s what you’re taught to do.

With time, that sense of difference didn’t disappear—it sharpened. The more I learned about the world, the more questions surfaced. I became aware that life was slowly guiding me toward a path that felt safe, predictable, and approved. At the same time, my mind kept drifting elsewhere—toward ideas of distance, discovery, and meaning. I didn’t know what exploration meant yet, but I knew I was drawn to what lay beyond comfort.

Looking back now, I see that my early life wasn’t dramatic or extraordinary. It was quiet. But within that quietness, something was forming: a way of thinking, a resistance to shallow answers, a hunger to understand not just how to live, but why. I didn’t know who I was becoming—only that staying the same felt impossible.

When I think back to my childhood, I don’t remember specific dates or clear milestones. What I remember instead are feelings—the way certain moments stayed with me longer than they should have. I was present, but often inward, watching the world unfold while trying to understand my place inside it. Childhood, for me, wasn’t loud or dramatic; it was observant and reflective, filled with small experiences that quietly shaped how I saw people, rules, and myself.

My father played a central role in those years. To me, he was more than a parent. He was my role model, my close friend, and someone I deeply cared for. There were periods when my mother had to travel to Rwanda for her studies, and during those times, my brother and I grew up under my father’s watch. He worked as a chef in restaurants I barely remember, yet I remember his effort clearly. He would ride to work on his mountain bicycle, leave us in the care of our grandmother and relatives, and return home carrying bags of food—sometimes two of them. One for our grandmother, and one for us. He gave without complaint, even when we couldn’t afford much.

My father had a way of thinking that set him apart. He cared deeply for people, especially children. Even when life hurt him—through exhaustion, accidents, or hardship—his first concern was always us. He made sure we were safe before thinking about his own pain. His kindness extended beyond family. Friends, strangers, even friends of friends—he helped them all when he could, whether with food, money, or simply attention. He wasn’t rich, but he was loved, and his presence drew people of all ages toward him.

Weekends mattered to him. No matter how tired he was, he tried to make them special. Sometimes he took us to his workplace so we could see how he spent his days. Other times, he took us for walks as a family—my father, my mother, my brother, and me. He bought us ice cream, let us play in bouncing castles, and made sure we laughed. And when we stayed home, he made sure we ate well. Those moments felt small then, but they stayed with me.

One night at a supermarket still lives clearly in my memory. I was about seven years old when I met a girl who worked there with her mother, the cashier. She was confident, kind, and unusually bright to me. She invited me to play, and for that evening, she showed me different corners of the store as if it were a world of its own. We talked, we laughed, and for a moment, time felt suspended. When my father finished shopping, he called me and gently said it was time to go. She said goodbye, we exchanged names, and that was the last time I ever saw her. It was a simple moment—but it taught me how brief and meaningful connections could be.

Not all memories were gentle. One morning, when my mother was away, I refused to go to school. I didn’t want the day to pass without my father. I cried, rolled in the dirt, and made it impossible for my uncle, who was escorting me, to convince me otherwise. At the school gate, I vomited from the stress. The head teacher, noticing this was unlike me, suggested I be taken home. When we returned, my father was helping a friend lay bricks. He asked what had happened. When he heard I had refused school, he reacted harshly. The slap that followed didn’t hurt as much as the silence afterward. I went to bed and cried quietly, knowing I had crossed a line. That day stayed with me—not because of the pain, but because it taught me that love and discipline sometimes arrive together, even when they don’t feel fair.

Those were some of the moments that shaped me during the years my mother was away. And speaking of my mother—she is a very special person to me. Even now, I struggle to say the words I love you out loud. I don’t know where that fear began, only that it exists. Perhaps it formed in moments when emotions were felt deeply but spoken carefully. Her story, like mine, deserves its own space.