FALL AGAIN

The unreliable wheels of my roller skates would hit the concrete, I’d fall, and my knee would bleed.

Eight years later, I’m on that same concrete pathway in the park next to my house, halfway through my 8 km sunset jog. My earphones are blasting Disney soundtracks as I pass the playground, which I once called heaven. The metal on the swings has rusted now; the monkey bars are slowly deteriorating – sweaty palms and cheap paint have stolen their allure.

As I run past, I realise that this magical land of freedom and exploration is nothing but a memory, a childhood myth. I’ve come back to Romania alone, for the first time in years, revisiting places that my seven-year-old self never thought she would abandon. Yet so much has changed.

But even now m, there’s a fresh bruise on my palm. I had tripped again. Over the same bump that would send my pink roller skate flying. The same dent that taught me what pain and failure felt like. Then, perhaps, I’d start crying, asking for my mom to pick me up: I felt helpless and dizzy, waiting for someone to rescue me.

Now that I fall again, tears still roll off my cheek. But they’re not tears of agony and despair. Instead, they’re tears of acknowledgement– a bittersweet wave of nostalgia for the girl I used to be and a pride for the woman I’m becoming. Back then, to fall only meant one thing: failure. Now, after thousands of stumbles and cries, I’ve learnt to carry myself up again without needing someone else’s hand to hold onto.

The concrete hasn’t changed. The cracks remain. But the bruises on my body will fade, and the scars will eventually heal.

What stays is the grit I’ve built, not through avoiding the bumps, but from falling over them, again and again, until I no longer see them as obstacles.