Anonymous
Photography by Ally Szabo
If you’re reading this, I need you to hear me: you don’t need to feel guilty for moving on.
I grew up in a house that felt like the remnants of a dying star – chaotic, suffocating, and collapsing in on itself. Addiction was the black hole at its center, pulling everything and everyone into its void. By the time I was 14, I wasn’t a child anymore. I was the one trying to keep the orbit from falling apart, staying up through the endless nights, checking pulses, and whispering prayers to the sky. I thought if I could just shine bright enough, if I could do enough for the people I loved, maybe I could save them. Maybe I could matter. Maybe I could be enough.
But no matter how hard I tried, the darkness always came back. My father’s rage felt like a supernova – explosive and destructive, burning everything in its path. And when I searched for love outside those walls, I found another type of black hole. I fell into an abusive relationship where the words were as sharp as broken glass. “You should kill yourself,” they told me, again and again, until their voice became my own, echoing in my mind like a cruel constellation I couldn’t unsee. I began to wonder if they were right – if the only way to escape the darkness was to let it consume me.
In my pain, I turned on myself. I tried to take back control the only way I knew how, and bulimia became my desperate attempt to dim the chaos. But it wasn’t freedom; it was just another shadow in the endless night. I looked in the mirror and barely recognized the person staring back. I was a dying star, fading under the weight of my own gravity.
For years, I felt nothing. Numbness became my shield, a cold, silent void that protected me from the weight of all I had been carrying. But when I got to college, the void cracked open, and every buried emotion came flooding in: grief, rage, guilt, shame. It was blinding and overwhelming, and there were nights when I felt like I might burn out completely. I sat on the edge of my bed, staring out at the darkness, wondering if I had anything left to give.
But somehow, I kept going. Maybe it was hope, faint and distant like a star on the horizon, or maybe it was sheer stubbornness. Slowly, I began to fight my way back. I let myself grieve for the person I had been. I let myself dream of a future I had never thought possible. And little by little, the light started to return.
Reflecting as a senior in my four years at Villanova, I have come to realize that college didn’t erase my past, but it gave me a new constellation to follow. I’m still the person who survived those dark years – the caretaker, the fighter, the survivor– but now I know I’m more than that. My pain and struggles will always be a part of my life, but they don’t define what it is. Those moments are just stars, scattered across the map of my life, shining alongside moments of hope and joy I never thought I would have.
I learned that life isn’t about escaping the darkness – it’s about learning how to live within it. The shadows will always be there, but so will the light. The two exist together, and I’ve learned to carry both. And even on the darkest night, there’s still something beautiful about the way the stars find their place in the sky.
If you, too, have spent your life trying to be the light for everyone else – if you’ve tied your worth to how much you could do for others – please hear me: it was never your fault. You were just a child. You did everything you could, and that was more than enough. But now, it’s time to let go of the weight you’ve carried. It’s time to choose yourself.
Moving on doesn’t mean you don’t care. It doesn’t mean you’re abandoning anyone. It means you’re finally giving yourself permission to shine for yourself. You deserve to live– not just survive, not just exist, but truly live. The road isn’t easy. It’s messy and imperfect, and there will be times when the shadows feel too heavy. But keep going. Even when the night feels endless, keep searching for the light because it’s there. You’re not just surviving anymore– you’re becoming. And when you finally see the sunrise, don’t feel so guilty for moving on. You’ve earned it.
With all the love that I have,
Anonymous- Someone who knows how heavy the darkness can be.
Anonymous, Villanova University
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