What can I do to change the world?

 As a child, I always dreamed of changing the world—to shape it into a place that reflected the love I longed to see but found painfully absent. The lack of love I witnessed all around me seemed to grow deeper with time, and I often found myself searching for a talent or gift that could help me create change on a grand scale. But back then, I didn’t feel like I had any particular gift. I struggled to express myself, so I decided to simply give my very best to whatever I found myself doing, hoping it would one day lead me to where I needed to be.

I also wrestled with the question of why I felt so different from other kids my age. For years, I struggled to read aloud, and even more than that, I was ashamed to be seen. Deep within me, there was a persistent turmoil—a vibrating discomfort that came from being misgendered even as a small child. It felt like an unending irritation, and everything said to me afterward only added to my frustration. As a result, I became outwardly rebellious. It didn’t matter how much I was scolded or punished; I didn’t care. At a young age, I couldn’t understand why no one seemed to notice my struggles, why no one saw that I was drowning. I didn’t know how to express all that I was going through, and since it felt like no one cared about me, I stopped caring about what anyone else thought.

This inner battle made academics feel insignificant compared to everything else I was experiencing. For my parents, physical health was the priority, but the emotional storms I endured were left unnoticed. Yet, amidst the chaos, my curiosity sparked a desire to read. I remember seeing the cover of a book—The Slave Boy. The sadness in the boy’s face caught my attention, and I wondered if his story might be like mine. I wanted to know more, but when I tried to read, I couldn’t understand the words. Frustrated, I gave up at first, but the pull to know his story brought me back again. I reminded myself of my mother’s determination: she had taught herself to read as a teenager after being left in the village by her single mother, who had been shamed by an early childbirth. My mother completed primary school in just one year and advanced to secondary school the next. Eventually, she became an educated graduate in estate surveying. Inspired by her story, I decided I could teach myself too.

Though stubbornness had always been my defense mechanism growing up—refusing to listen to anyone who didn’t seem to care about me—I saw the need to learn. That book became my entry point into reading. I started with a dictionary, looking up unfamiliar words, and sometimes relied on instincts to understand what the author was feeling. Slowly, I began to teach myself to read.

It wasn’t until my teenage years that I fully embraced reading. By then, I had grown to love it. As the saying goes, “You can’t become a writer without first becoming a reader.” Without realizing it, I was laying the foundation to become a writer. Through reading, I found a way to express myself. Books became my escape from the turmoil within. I could immerse myself completely in their worlds, my imagination carrying me beyond boundaries. I would read for hours, often forgetting hunger, because the experience was so exhilarating.

This practice of losing myself in books awakened my ability to visualize and imagine deeply. Over time, I began to recognize the flow of thoughts and ideas constantly running through my mind, like an endless narrative. I learned to live within my head, crafting my own stories.

 This self-isolation became a habit, one that allowed me to make sense of my inner world. Yet as I grew older, I realized that running from my reality wasn’t sustainable. Stillness forced me to confront my struggles. I began organizing the whirlwind of information within me, asking deeper questions, and reflecting intensely. Eventually, I became my words.

I came to understand that my words truly defined me. They expressed the essence of who I was, more than my physical appearance ever could. I had found my voice. But I didn’t yet grasp the full power of words—that they could change the world.

Now, I see the connection: the more words I gained, the more the dots of my life began to connect. Words became my roots. A union of words forms a sentence; the harmony of sentences creates a beautiful verse; and the union of verses shapes the universe. I see now that I am a reflection of that universe—a symphony of words, bound together by meaning, purpose, and love.

I am the universe of my words.

Now, I see the profound truth in this journey. In the beginning, there was the Word—and from that Word, everything else flowed. My words are not just tools for expression; they are the fabric of my existence. They hold the power to shape reality, to heal, to inspire, and to bring love into a world that so desperately needs it.

Looking back, the lack of love that surrounded me as a child was not a sign of my inadequacy but a reflection of the world’s own struggles. And in the face of that void, I chose to create love through the words I have grown to cherish.

Words are my offering to the world, my way of bridging the gap between the world I see and the world I wish to create. They are the love I pour into existence, the legacy I leave behind, and the answer to the question that little me asked so long ago: What can I do to change the world?

I can speak, I can write, and I can share love through the infinite power of words. And through this, I can change the world.