By Swastika Nepal

Growing Up with Silent Battles

The Feelings I Carried Since Childhood

There was a time when I believed everyone experienced life the way I did.

Growing up, I had never consciously thought about mental health or psychology. Around me, the words I occasionally heard were depression and suicide, but they felt like distant terms rather than concepts I truly understood. No one talked about anxiety, emotional regulation, childhood distress, or psychological well-being. More importantly, I had never learned that emotions could have names or that they were something worth paying attention to.

So, when I felt emotionally heavy, I simply assumed it was normal.

Looking back now, I believe some of those feelings began as early as class three.

I often experienced an unexplained heaviness, especially at the end of the day. There was a persistent sense of dissatisfaction and emotional exhaustion that I could neither describe nor understand. Since I had no language for those experiences, I never questioned them. I assumed everyone felt the same way.

The feelings themselves have not completely disappeared over the years. What has changed is my ability to recognize and understand them. Today, I can identify emotions that my younger self could only silently carry.

Interestingly, even before I knew what psychology was, I found myself drawn toward subjects related to the human mind. I enjoyed listening to discussions about healing, spirituality, and human behavior. At the time, I never imagined that these interests would eventually lead me to study psychology. Looking back, it feels as though my curiosity had already begun searching for answers long before I realized what questions I was asking.

There were also periods during childhood—particularly during school holidays—when I experienced an unexplained emotional heaviness. Years later, I came to recognize that I function best when my life has structure, purpose, and meaningful engagement. Those childhood experiences helped me understand a part of myself that I now describe as a strong need for purpose and productivity. What once felt like an unexplainable sadness gradually became something I could understand with greater clarity.

Recently, I tried recalling my memories from class three. Surprisingly, I could remember almost nothing about the events themselves. The classrooms, conversations, and daily routines had faded, but the emotional impressions remained.

Curious, I asked my parents what they remembered.

Their answers surprised me.

They told me that I often cried before going to school. Some mornings, I refused to leave home. There were days when my distress became so intense that it drew the attention of teachers, classmates, and people around us.

The most surprising part was that I had no memory of those incidents.

Psychology tells us that emotionally significant experiences are often remembered differently from ordinary events. Yet in my case, I remembered almost everything from my childhood except that particular period. I began wondering whether those missing memories reflected experiences that my mind had quietly buried.

As I reflected further, I started seeing my childhood from a different perspective.

School had not always felt emotionally safe.

Some friendships involved exclusion, bullying, comparison, and neglect. There were moments when I felt misunderstood, invisible, or emotionally hurt without fully realizing their impact. At the time, I believed these experiences were simply part of growing up. Looking back now, I wonder whether they influenced me far more deeply than I had recognized.

Around class nine, life became even more difficult.

Within a short period, I lost my grandfather, someone whose absence created a profound emotional change in my life. Gradually, fear became part of my everyday experience.

It appeared in different forms:

• Fear of examinations.

• Fear of failure.

• Fear of disappointing my parents.

• Fear of becoming the center of attention.

• Fear of making mistakes.

Rather than appearing as emotional pain, these struggles began expressing themselves physically.

I developed frequent headaches that occurred almost every day. Medical consultations and painkillers offered little relief because the pain was not simply physical.

At the time, neither I nor those around me fully understood what was happening.

Many people assumed I was exaggerating or trying to avoid school. Looking back with the knowledge I now have as a psychology student, I recognize that emotional distress often manifests physically, especially when emotions remain unexpressed.

The headaches were speaking a language that I could not yet understand.

As my fears increased, my world gradually became smaller.

I started avoiding classrooms, examinations, and situations where I might be noticed. Participating in class became frightening. Meeting friends felt emotionally exhausting. Every new day felt like another challenge to survive rather than an opportunity to learn.

Then something unexpected happened.

A school coordinator noticed what others had overlooked.

While many people focused on my behavior, he looked beyond it.

He visited my home, spoke with my family, and took the time to understand what I was experiencing. Instead of labeling me as lazy or irresponsible, he chose to listen.

That simple decision changed more than I realized at the time.

I still remember his words:

"I can see something different in you. I will help you complete your syllabus. I will walk with you to the examination hall, and I know you are capable of performing well."

Those words were more than encouragement.

For the first time, someone saw beyond my behavior and recognized the person hidden beneath my struggles.

Sometimes people do not need immediate solutions.

Sometimes they simply need someone who notices their silence.

That experience became one of the earliest lessons that taught me the power of empathy.

As time passed, I slowly began understanding myself.

I participated in mental health awareness programs, interacted with psychologists, psychiatrists, counselors, educators, and peers, and gradually learned that healing rarely occurs through a single life-changing event. Instead, it is built through countless ordinary moments: one compassionate teacher, one supportive friend, one meaningful conversation, one opportunity to learn, and one decision to keep moving forward.

Each experience became another piece of a puzzle that had remained incomplete throughout my childhood.

People often ask me why I chose psychology.

The answer did not begin after high school.

It began years earlier.

After completing higher secondary education, I initially prepared for medical entrance examinations because becoming a doctor had long been an expectation within my family. For years, I believed that was the path I was meant to follow.

But while preparing for that future, I found myself asking a question I had never asked before:

"Is this truly the life I want?"

The answer came quietly.

It did not come from another person.

It came from within.

For the first time, I chose a path that reflected who I was rather than who I was expected to become.

When I entered my bachelor's program in psychology, something remarkable happened.

The scattered pieces of my childhood slowly began connecting.

The theories I studied gave names to emotions I had carried for years.

Classroom discussions answered questions I had been asking since childhood without realizing it.

Assignments challenged me to understand not only other people but also myself.

Psychology did not erase my struggles.

Instead, it gave meaning to them.

It transformed confusion into understanding, self-criticism into self-compassion, and silent suffering into curiosity.

Today, when I look back, I no longer see a child who was "too emotional," "too sensitive," or "too difficult."

I see a child who was carrying emotions without the vocabulary to describe them.

I see headaches that may have been expressions of emotional distress.

I see school avoidance that reflected fear rather than unwillingness.

I see silence that was asking to be understood.

Most importantly, I have learned that healing rarely begins with finding perfect answers.

It begins when someone notices.

When someone listens without judgment.

When someone chooses curiosity instead of criticism.

My journey eventually led me beyond understanding myself. It inspired me to contribute to mental health awareness, work alongside mental health professionals, and continue learning from psychologists, psychiatrists, counselors, teachers, and individuals whose compassion has shaped my understanding of human behavior. Each conversation reminded me that every person's story is more complex than it first appears.

If my story carries one message, it is this:

Children often experience emotional struggles long before they have the words to describe them. Their pain may appear as tears, headaches, silence, perfectionism, anger, or avoidance rather than spoken language. When adults respond only to the behavior, they may miss the emotions underneath.

Looking back, I no longer believe my childhood was defined by anxiety or fear.

It was defined by a search for understanding.

Perhaps that is why psychology eventually found me.

Or perhaps I had been searching for psychology all along.

Today, as I continue my journey in this field, I hope to become the kind of professional who notices the silent battles others may be carrying—because I know how much a single person who truly listens can change someone's life.