The Sound of Footsteps

My name is not important. Not because I don't matter, but because there are so many girls like me.

The girls who smile at school, who tell their friends they are fine. Girls who have learned how to hide things they should never have to hide.

I am nine years old, I have a little brother who is seven.

Everyone tells me how lucky I am to have a little brother. Everyone tells me he is lucky to have me as his big sister, they say he is special, he needs extra love. And I do love him. I really, really do.

I loved him before I understood what autism was, before I understood why somethings are harder for him, why sometimes his feelings became to big for his body.

I remember when I was younger, I wanted to be the best big sister I could possibly be. I wanted to teach the world, make him laugh. I wanted to hold his hand and show him everything.

I never wanted to be afraid of him.

But somewhere along the way things changed, life had chosen a different route.

Our house became a place where everyone listened. Not for happiness. Not for us playing together. We listened for signs.

The kind of signs that meant everyone needed to be careful. The kind of silence that made my tummy hurt. The kind of moments where I could feel the whole room changing.

Everyone walks of eggshells.

Mum does.

Dad does.

I do.

Especially me.

I learned things other children my age never had to learn. I learned to read footsteps. I learned how to tell what mood someone was in before their words even left their mouths. When to leave a room. When to stay quiet. When to make myself smaller.

Because sometimes my brother gets angry. And sometimes when he gets angry...

I get hurt.

I do not always understand why.

And sometimes, that's the part that hurts the most. I can understand being upset. I can understand having a bad day. But what I don't understand why the person I love can hurt me.

I have had bruises on my arms. Scratches on my skin. Cuts that sting when I wash them. But the marks that hurt the most are the ones nobody can see. Them ones sit in my chest. The ones that make me wonder:

"Did I do something wrong?"

"Am I not a good sister?"

"Does he hate me?"

Sometimes I sit in my bedroom with the door closed. My bedroom is the only place where I feel like I can breathe.

It's my safe place. My quiet place. The place I don't have to watch every movement I make. Most importantly the place where I can cry without anyone seeing me.

Sometimes I hear my parent talking downstairs.

I know they are tired. I know they are trying. I know they love me. I see it in their faces. I see how worried they are. I see how worried they are. I see how much they carry.

That's why I don't always tell them everything. I don't want to add more weight to their shoulders. I don't want to be another problem. So I say:

"I'm okay"

Even when I'm not. I became really good at saying those two words. "I'm okay"

Two little words that hide so much.

But there is one sound I will never forget. The sound of footsteps coming up the stairs. The sound gets louder. Closer.

My heart starts beating faster. My whole body freezes. Because I know what might happen.

I sit there looking at my bedroom door. Wishing I could disappear. Wishing I could be somewhere else. Wishing I could be somewhere else. Wishing I could be a normal girl worrying about normal things.

But not this. Not fear.

Not wondering if today is going to be the day I get hurt again.

And then one day.....

I couldn't keep it inside anymore. I sat on my bed. Crying. My tears wouldn't stop.

My parents came in and sat beside me.

And finally, after holding it in for so long, I asked the question that had been breaking my heart for so long.

"Why?"

My voice was quiet. Because even my pain had learned to be quiet.

"Why does he hate me?"

My parents looked at me, and I could see the sadness in their eyes.

"I don't understand" I whispered.

"Why does he hurt me?"

I wiped my face with my sleeve. "Why does my own brother want to hurt his sister?"

I wasn't asking because I hated him. I wasn't asking because I wanted him gone. I was asking because I loved him and I couldn't understand how someone you love can also be someone you're scared of.

Nobody had an answer that could fix it. Nobody could say words that would make everything disappear. Because sometimes there just aren't any easy answers.

Sometimes families love each other deeply and still struggle. Sometimes people can need help and support, but someone else can still be hurting too.

And I needed someone to remember I was hurting. I needed someone to remember that I was only nine years old. I wasn't a grown up. I wasn't strong becaue I wanted to be, I was strong because I had to be.

I didn't want to be the perfect sister. I didn't want to be the brave one. I just wanted to be a little girl. I wanted to laugh.i wanted to play. I wanted to feel safe in my own house.

I wanted someone to look at me and see me.

Not just the sister. Not just the child who 'copes'

Me.

Because I matter too. My brother is not a monster. He is a little boy who struggles with a world that can feel overwhelming. But through all that, I am not invisible. I am not forgotten. I am not less important because someone else needs more help.

I am just a little girl who loves her brother. A little girl who has been hurt. A little girl who still hopes that one day things will be different. And all I have ever wanted was for someone to open my bedroom door... sit beside me... and say:

"I see you"

"You matter."

"You are still my little girl too."

Years later, I would look back and realise something I couldn't understand when I was nine.

My brother never meant to take my childhood away. He was a little boy trying to survive a world that often felt too loud, too confusing and to overwhelming for him.

But I was a little girl trying to survive too. And my pain was real. For a long time, people saw how much he needed support. They saw his struggles, his fears And the things he couldn't control. But they didn't always see mine. They didn't see the little girl hiding behind her bedroom door. They don't see the child who learned to be careful with every word she spoke. They didn't see the child who lived her brother so much that she blamed herself for the things that hurt her. She carried that for a long time and still sometimes does to this day.

I wish someone had told me sooner that loving him didn't mean I had to disappear. That understanding him didn't mean ignoring me. That protecting him didn't mean leaving me unprotected.

Because both things could be true. My brother deserved compassion. And I deserved safety. I deserved to be seen. I deserved to be heard. I deserved to know that I was just as important.

And if there is one thing I want other children like me to know, it Is this:

You can love someone deeply and still admit that something hurts.

You can understand someone's struggles and still speak about your own.

You are not selfish for needing kindness.

You are not forgotten because someone else needs more help.

You are not just the sibling who has to fend for themselves.

You are a child too.

And YOU matter too.