Nothing is more powerful, more unstoppable, or more resilient than a broken spirit that’s determined to rise.
I never felt safe throughout my formative years of eight to sixteen. For that reason, ‘safe’ was the one emotion I desperately wanted to feel.
You will never be sure of where you are going until you first understand where you are coming from!
The only way I knew how to achieve ‘safe’ was ‘blanking’ out of my past. I wanted (needed) to forget my trauma. And the way to do that was to ‘re-invent me. There is nothing wrong with giving one’s life a makeover if it is done the right way, of course. But mine wasn’t. It is impossible to ascertain where you are going if you are unwilling to acknowledge the process that has led you to want to go there. Re-inventing myself was all well and good, but before that could successfully occur, I needed to confront the pain all the accumulated fears I had endured as a child. But the new Sarah just wanted to forget. She wanted all the fears to go away. To her mind, a total discard of the old was the only option. I would gladly have taken off the old me as one pulls off a shirt if that were possible. Since it wasn’t, I had to be satisfied with pretending all the terrible things that happened never took place.
The problem with that? I was trying to live my present from the future — a little bit like expecting to be at the 10th rung of a ladder whilst your foot is still on the first. Not possible at all. Besides, a person’s identity is made up of their past and their present. To make sense of their future, they have to have an understanding of their past. I was trying to get to the future without the help of the past. I only knew where I wanted to go. I wanted nothing, absolutely nothing, to do where I was coming from. The past was too painful. I did not want to dwell on it — especially since I had now fully bought into the lie that I was not good enough, that I wasn’t normal like other young people. They were light-hearted, flirty and playful. I was serious, intense and sometimes ‘too’ emotional.
Who you are is a culmination of all your experiences, past and present; own it!
The first time someone who knew a bit of my history suggested I told my story, something in me recoiled. Me, repeat the very things that had caused me so much anguish? Never!
Aunty (and the event in BUT HE CALLS ME BLESSED!) had done such a perfect job of shaming me: so much so that something that wasn’t even my fault still had the power to make me feel guilty and insignificant. I did not want anyone to know me that well. I couldn’t bear it if they too looked at me and thought I was insignificant. I didn’t want to be rejected again.
Self-knowing imbues you with the understanding that lessons from your sufferings are pointless if they don’t act as tools to heal others with similar pain!
Although I didn’t want people knowing what I had endured during my formative years, the experiences themselves birthed in me a fierce need to help others who were hurting. I knew what it meant to hurt; if I could help it, I didn’t want others to hurt the way I’d hurt. I knew what it meant to be surrounded by people and still feel terribly alone, so I was always ready to listen to someone in need and give a helping hand; and when I began to fight for my dreams, I knew what it meant to wish that a single person could believe in your vision enough to take a chance on you, to help you with a fraction of your school fees, so you didn’t have to drop out of school, so over the years, I’ve spent a considerable amount of my personal finances helping others fulfil their dreams — my family, community and all who know me, truly know me can attest to this. Finally, I knew what it meant to worry yourself sick, wondering whether to buy a new pair of much-needed sandals or put the money towards your upcoming tuition. I knew what it meant to wish that someone could look into your eyes and see beyond what most people chose to see: an unsmiling, permanently-frowning and worried-looking child or young woman, instead of a young girl full of hope and seemingly impossible dreams: to be something, to be able to afford (whatever the ‘affording’ might signify). I knew what it meant to sleep in an uncompleted building while your heart pumps in fear that you might be discovered by hooligans and raped. I knew what it meant to fall and get up and fall again — all the while wondering whether that would be the last time you would be able to get up. I knew all of these…and more. Because I had experienced it all. If I could help someone else, if I could prevent another young child, another teenager, another young person, another woman from going through similar experiences — I wanted to do that with every beat of my heart. I wanted that to be the epitaph on my tomb when my journey on earth was over — that everyone and anyone who sought my help found it, whether it was in the form of a simple hot meal when they were hungry, the right word of advice at the right time, or as emotional as allowing my tears to mix freely and unashamedly with theirs as they weep out their pain on my shoulder — I wanted that to be what Sarah Udoh-Grossfurthner is remembered for. I wanted the ability to see the pain and reach out to help rather than turn the other way. I wanted to be defined by my ability to be compassionate.
This exactly how I have lived my life ever since. It is a big part of my story. This is not a boast but a simple, humble admission of the truth. I have been privileged to change the lives of many for the better. I am exceedingly thankful to God for that.
In a way, this is the reason behind From Fearful to Fierce. More than being just an outlet to tell my story, it is a podium to help others: others who were, (perhaps) once just like me, or still are. People who haven’t found the courage to tell their stories. People who may even be living that story as I write this. I want them to know that they matter: regardless of whatever anyone else might say.
