Why is it that from such a young age, we are told stories about princes saving us from towers with dragons and princesses who live happily ever after with their rescuers? And we believe them...
I always felt different. As a kid, I was like one of the boys—climbing fences, wild, free, and not caring about being a “proper lady.” They called me a tomboy because I did things that were "for boys." I was fearless, adventurous, and loved helping others.
In first grade, I started a group with friends to help “Doña Lidia.” Doña Lidia was an old woman (she was probably my age now, haha) who was very humble. At just six years old, we would clean her house, serve her tea, bring her treats, and keep her company. I can still remember her smile and the smell of the wooden floor. It made me feel good. I had been taught the great value of giving without expecting anything in return.
We lived in Río Gallegos, Argentina, a place "where the devil lost his poncho," as they say. In the summer, it stayed light out until very late, and because it was a safe town, we played outside well into the night. My best friend, Mirta, lived across the street, and I also had my cats, who I used as dolls. I was so happy! I felt freedom in every part of my body. The world was my safe place, and the beings around me were my friends.
Second grade came at the Catholic school just two blocks from home. My classmates, whom I now only remember from a black-and-white photo, seemed so far away in my memory, but thanks to Facebook, I’ve reconnected with several—especially Mirta, my neighbor from across the street.
My parents often traveled to Buenos Aires because we lived so far from family. Usually, they didn’t travel together; one stayed with us—three of us at the time: my sister Gloria, my brother "El Gordo," and me. But on one of those trips, they both went together for some reason, and we were split among family friends.
I was left with a trusted family friend. It was a couple with a daughter my age. The father, Coco, and the mother, Lidia, an extraordinary woman who made cakes filled with whipped cream that were just amazing.
My parents didn’t go away for long—maybe a day or two, I don’t remember exactly. But I remember that night, the night that would leave a mark on my soul for the rest of my life.
Who could have imagined that on that night, that wild, fearless little girl would have her freedom, her world, stolen from her?
Another one on the list, another little girl who would never see the world the same way again. One more story in a long line of stories that reveal the darkest miseries of human beings, sometimes even making me doubt if humanity was ever perfect.
That night, I felt disgust, uncertainty, and the desperation of being frozen, unable to react to something I couldn’t comprehend, something I could only experience as if watching a movie happening to someone else. But my body couldn’t disappear, and it was left with a fatal wound that shattered my soul.
One more story, one more little girl, from too many stories. “Once upon a time” of far too many times. It is a story that should never be repeated, yet it keeps happening.
With what little courage and bravery I had left, I told my mother. I wasn’t afraid of anything because I had her. She would protect me and make Coco pay for what he did.
But it didn’t go that way. My mother asked me to stay quiet: “Dad will kill him if he finds out,” she said, and she was probably right. She ended the conversation with, “Nothing happened here, and we won’t talk about it anymore.”
In an instant, everything collapsed around me. That fearless, brave girl dimmed, the world became hostile, and I felt very alone. That little 7-year-old, the shortest in the class, shrank even more and didn’t say anything. That little girl with big sky-blue eyes no longer looked up that day. That day, this little woman lost her connection with her body and with the person she loved most in the world: her mother.
It’s incredible how women walk through life with broken hearts and souls, yet it doesn’t show on the outside. We carry on with life as if nothing happened—we get married, have children, study, build a career… and yet, with all of that, there’s a deep void that opened up on that day, probably in our childhood, when someone, through their abuse of power and the power of their abuse, took away that pristine, light-filled part of us. A part that many never get back.
And we, as women, feel dirty, broken, worthless. It is as if those men, through their abuse, took away our power—the power to be happy, the power of choice, the power not to settle, the power to choose, knowing that we deserve everything. Isn’t it crazy how the victims become the prisoners of those actions? Prisoners for life, burdened by that emotional and toxic load these predators leave behind, make us believe that we’re no longer worth anything.
Another story, another little girl—there are too many of them—one more who becomes one less so many times, and the world keeps turning without her.
I could tell you the rest of my story, how the big decisions in my life were colored by that day, how the men I chose, how I didn’t know how to enjoy life, or how I raised my children were all affected by that. Inside of me, for many years, lived that little girl disconnected from her body and herself. Without even knowing who she indeed was. I was unable to forgive, filled with rage and pain, feeling unloved, and pushing others away with that aggression that I used as a defense against the hostile world I had created.
A girl filled with pain, who just wanted to be loved but wouldn’t let anyone get too close. Who could truly love someone who didn’t love herself? Does this story sound familiar?
Maybe it’s yours, your friend’s, your daughter’s, or your sister’s. We are so many! TOO MANY!
But you know what? My story doesn’t end there, and neither does that of my inner child. One day, I said ENOUGH, and that day, I started to look deeply into myself and ask if there was another way to live.
And that’s when the rest of my life began. Along the way, I found teachers, mentors, and so many people who showed me endless possibilities, bridges, and hearts.
They taught me to heal each wound in my heart one by one. I discovered that inside me, that beautiful girl with sky-blue eyes was waiting for me to play with her, heal her, protect her, and, above all, love her deeply.
I started questioning everything, reclaiming my power, and understanding that my past doesn’t define me—what defines me is what I do with what happens to me. I stopped being a victim and became the creator of each day, for better or worse, because I’m not perfect, nor do I want to be, but I do know that I can be whatever I wish if I believe in it in order to create it.
On this healing journey, I’ve been to hell and back many times. Some wounds I closed with pain until I learned to love myself and to close them with love. There were so many teachers, opportunities, and the desire to find meaning in my life.
On this journey, I found my mother again; I found love. I started looking for it deep inside me, and when I found it, I realized it was in every part of my being; I hadn’t recognized it before. Today, I see it everywhere—in my children, my grandchildren, my love, in you, in every woman who comes to me for guidance, for me to show them the path I’ve walked and take their hand so they don’t get lost.
Today, I know that my mother, my first great love, did her best to protect me. No one had taught her how to do it. Today, I love her with all my being and am so happy to have her in my wide-open heart.
Today, I know that love is completely different from everything we were taught by the media, the movies, the songs, and even what our parents and grandparents learned. Today, I know that love is beautiful, simple, adventurous, passionate, beautiful, and everything good in the world. And it’s worth traveling the hardest, most rugged road to find myself… in the reflection, the mirror shows me every day.
Today, I know that everything that happened in my life brought me to this moment, to these words, to this encounter, and to the woman I am, fulfilling my great mission of showing the world what love is. And I wouldn’t change a thing, not a second, because I love who I choose to be.
I love my eyes, which today look at the world with so much love; I love my life, my encounters, and missed connections. Above all, now I know that each challenge is a new adventure to live with my loved ones, with the love of my life, in this body that is, too, a miracle.
P.S.: Never wait for a prince to save you from the dragons—you’re the one who holds the key to your tower.
Sylvia Chavez
Note: this is a translation of a chapter written by me, published in the book: “Diamantes”, by Celina Cocimano
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