Board and Pieces
Coping with my childhood trauma feels like I’m locked in a chess match I never agreed to play. My opponent—the memories, the pain, the fear—sits across from me, always patient, always ready to pounce on my missteps. The board is a battlefield of my life, and every piece I move feels heavy, like it carries the weight of the choices I’ve made just to survive. Sometimes, I can see a clear path forward—a bold move that might give me an advantage—but just as often, I feel trapped, backed into a corner by thoughts I can’t seem to shake. My pawns are my small victories: getting out of bed, reaching out for help, choosing to forgive myself for things that were never my fault. They move slowly, and sometimes it feels like they don’t matter, but I know they’re my foundation. The knights are my coping mechanisms, the unexpected ways I maneuver around the pain—music, writing, or just breathing through another hard day. The bishop is my intuition, guiding me diagonally through the fog, even when I ...