“THE STORM THAT SHAPED MY LIFE” by Șugar Codruța-Pompilia, 18

Storms break out in the most unexpected places. They are powerful, relentless, violent, and devastating—but sometimes, they can also be miracles.

My storm was no different from the others: the same fierce gusts, the same terrifying thunder, the same piercing drops of rain. And yet, this storm had a very peculiar beginning—it started inside me.

At first, it was just a few small fears, a few insecurities. But over time, they deepened. Emotions became harder to control, and the monsters—impossible to tame. These weren’t the simple monsters kids are afraid of at night when they go to bed, or the ones hiding in the dark basement. No, they were everywhere around me. I could feel them. But they only came to life the moment I stepped into the school where I practically grew up.

I could feel their heavy presence behind me. I could hear them breathing by my ear. I could smell their disgusting odor. And all I wanted was to turn around, to observe them, to try to figure them out like puzzle pieces mixed with small, broken toys. But every time I tried to look behind me, the fear grew stronger. A massive terror would take over my body. I was numb, frozen in fear—my body seemed to wither away slowly, even though my mind was more alive than ever. Thousands of thoughts raced through my head, thoughts I couldn’t stop. I felt like I was losing control. And unfortunately, for the version of me back then, salvation would come far too late.

…

The truth is, every time someone asks me what my happiest memory from middle school is, I freeze. It’s incredibly hard for me to give an actual answer, and I need several long minutes of thinking before I end up inventing something I wish had been true.

The moment I left behind the friendly walls of kindergarten and lost my best friend, nothing was the same anymore. I spent my breaks feeling alone, isolated from everyone, even if I was always surrounded by “friends”—friends I hadn’t earned, but manipulated. Of course, I didn’t think that way at the time. I was convinced I was doing everything perfectly, by the book.

I thought there was no way I could be wrong—after all, I was the perfect child. I was always afraid to make the first move, to stand out, to be noticed. I liked staying in the shadows, but I had to maintain a perfect image—and with every passing year, that battle grew harder. And that darkness kept growing until it reached its peak: the general school years.

If before I thought my social life was bad and lonely, though I never admitted it to anyone, my new social life was completely broken—like a Victorian house abandoned for centuries, haunted by ghosts of the past, but painted with a shiny pink façade. It looked attractive from the outside but it was horrific on the inside.

I tried desperately to light a small flame in that darkness, but it was too thick, too overwhelming. Even though I kept trying to make friends, to communicate, to socialize, a part of me always remained frozen—trapped behind a tall wall I couldn’t climb over.

It wasn’t until years later that I realized my fears had evolved into something far more powerful: social anxiety. Looking back now, everything is crystal clear. I was just another misunderstood child, treated like an adult, carrying a massive weight on my shoulders.

Besides the pressure at home for perfect grades, the anxiety that turned everything upside down and sabotaged every attempt at communication, I also began experiencing serious burnout episodes.

From a young age, I was raised to be the “perfect girl”—the kind of girl who finishes everything on her plate, never talks back, is popular at school, and has everything she could ever want. But that was only the image I desperately tried to protect. It was my little dirty secret.

At least once a year, I went through weeks—if not months—of emotional burnout. I was drained of energy, constantly exhausted. And in those moments, I just wanted to destroy everything I had created—all the toxicity in my life. But things aren’t that easy when you’re the family’s golden child.

So the monsters grew with me. The storm became more violent. I became less and less of who I wanted to be. And the fear of disappointing my parents was simply unbearable.

Every time I had to make a decision—especially during school tests—all I could see in my mind were their disappointed faces, telling me I was a total failure. On top of everything, my social life completely collapsed.

If I felt devastatingly lonely on the inside before, now that loneliness became visible on the outside. My so-called friends turned against me, attacking me with everything cruel they had to say. The bullying episodes were absolutely exhausting. I constantly felt like I was in a battle— at school, at home, on the street, everywhere.

My inner brokenness worsened to the point where I began having serious physical symptoms. Every time I approached school, I felt the exact opposite of what lovers feel: instead of being surrounded by colorful butterflies, I was haunted by black moths that followed me for the rest of the day.

In class, where people whispered harsh words behind my back, I felt smaller and smaller. And in front of me, I could see the shadows of my monster gang, growing larger and larger behind me.

After months of medical tests and many doctors trying to find a physical illness, the answer surprised everyone: I had developed a terrifying school phobia, strongly associated with social anxiety. The shock was great—but for the first time, I was finally free of my monsters.

When the doctors explained my condition to my parents, I felt better than I ever had. I was still in the dark. The storm had only calmed, and the monsters had only faded. But I gained the most important friend of my life: a friend I had treated like an enemy—the darkness itself.

From that moment, my life changed radically. Because, for once, I chose to follow my own interests—not those of my parents or anyone else. In the end, I chose me.

Now, so many years later, I realize how wrong I was. Instead of building real friendships, instead of earning people’s respect, loyalty, and love—I manipulated them. I used my money, my appearance, my thoughts—but not me, not my true soul.

I gave them a perfect image, one they became more and more envious of—so much that they’d do anything to become that image. But the price is high. And at the end of the day, the illusion of a perfect life doesn’t matter—what truly matters is your inner peace. Because, in the end—what is perfection, anyway?