nabibbaee

[nabibbaee]

A gentle reminder that even after the darkest clouds, the sun still finds a way to shine through — just like hope in our hearts.

[nabibbaee]

“Butterfly Bones”

I’m Nabi 🦋 — not my real name, but the one I’ve chosen as a reflection of who I’m becoming. ‘Nabi’ means butterfly — a creature I deeply admire for its freedom, its grace, and the quiet resilience it carries in every fragile wing. Butterflies are adored for their beauty, but few remember the storm they endure in the cocoon. I carry that story too. And now, I choose to share it — not as a cry for pity, but as a voice for healing, strength, and hope.

This is my story.

When I was 12, someone I trusted deeply took advantage of that trust and hurt me in a way no child should ever experience. That betrayal broke something inside me — not just my sense of safety, but my ability to believe I was worth protecting.

Instead of receiving support, I was blamed. My school treated me like I was the problem. I was bullied, isolated, and silenced. And the person who hurt me? He walked freely through the same hallways I did. No consequences. No justice. Just silence.

I started carrying pain that was too heavy for someone my age. I turned to self-harm — not out of attention, but out of desperation. It became my way of expressing what words couldn’t. For years, I felt ashamed of it. I was embarrassed to talk about it. I thought people would see me as “too damaged,” or “too emotional.”

And for a long time, I was ashamed of what happened to me, too. I buried my story deep down, thinking it made me weak. But I see now that silence only gave more power to the pain.

I’ve lived with depression, anxiety, ADHD, and borderline personality disorder — all of which were shaped or worsened by that trauma. They’ve made it harder for me to trust, to feel safe, especially in romantic relationships. I constantly worry that someone will take advantage of me again. That fear runs deep.

I’ve also let people hurt me, disrespect me, and take from me — because I care deeply. I feel everything. I’ve always believed that everyone has a reason for how they behave, so I forgave too much and gave too often. But I’m learning that kindness doesn’t mean self-abandonment. Empathy is beautiful — but only when it includes you.

I love people so deeply and dearly. I love love itself — the feeling, the connection, the hope it brings. I care too much, and that makes me vulnerable. When someone shows me even a little kindness, I hold onto it with my whole heart. That tenderness can be a strength, but it’s also made me susceptible to being hurt.

Last year, I turned the same age my perpetrator was when he hurt me. That realization hit me in a way I didn’t expect — it unsettled something deep within me. To be this age now, and to look at children who are the age I was back then, breaks my heart in a quiet, haunting way. I see their innocence, their smallness, their trust — and I can’t understand how anyone could take that away. It’s been one of the hardest parts of my healing — not just remembering what happened, but realizing how truly young and undeserving of that pain I was.

Through all of this, my parents and some of my friends have never given up on me. Even when I feel “too much,” even when I do “too much,” even after I’ve self-harmed — which has hurt them deeply — they’ve stayed by my side. They hide lighters, straighteners, and curlers not to ignore or invalidate what I feel, but because they want to protect me. Their kindness is a quiet, steady presence that reminds me I am loved, even in my hardest moments.

I’ve worked with therapists and psychiatrists — some helped more than others — but together, they helped me find a path forward. Therapy has been one of the most important tools in my healing.

Some friends have stood by me with love, patience, and understanding. Others have dismissed my feelings, made me feel “too much,” or invalidated what I went through. That hurt — deeply. But it taught me a vital truth: not everyone deserves access to your heart. Choose people who protect your softness, not exploit it.

And now, at 18, I feel like I’m finally turning a page. I graduated high school with great marks. I got into my dream college. And for the first time in a long time, I believe in new beginnings.

I used to be ashamed of my story. I used to think it made me unworthy. But now, I understand that sharing your truth is an act of courage. I’m no longer embarrassed. I’m healing — and this is part of that process.

To anyone out there who feels alone in their pain: you’re not.

Studies show that 1 in 4 women will face some form of sexual violence in their lifetime. You are not the only one. And your pain is never too small to matter.

You are not what happened to you.

You are not your scars.

You are not “too much.”

You are still here. Still healing.

And it does get better — especially when you ask for help, seek therapy, and surround yourself with people who see the light in you even when you can’t.

I am Nabi 🦋 — I am still healing. Waiting for my wings to grow .And I am finally learning to fly.