By Brittany Moore 
Bedtime is when my kids tend to open up the most. The lights are low, the day is winding down, and their guard finally comes down with it. One night, my son told me he had been having a really hard time at school. Some boys had been so relentless that he left the cafeteria before finishing his breakfast, deciding it was better to go hungry than face more teasing. Because he’s such a kind boy with a big heart for others, seeing him face that kind of cruelty made my heart ache even more.
It wasn’t the first time he had talked to us about being targeted. Before, it had felt like occasional incidents we could help him navigate. But this felt different. Seeing how much it affected him—leaving his meal unfinished—was the turning point. That’s when we realized this wasn’t just an isolated problem anymore. It was ongoing, and it was taking a real toll.
As I listened, memories and feelings I had tucked away for years stirred. Sometimes your child’s experiences echo your own, reminding you that the past never fully leaves you. When those moments resurface through your children, the pain feels heavier – because now it’s happening to someone you love so completely.
I never spoke about the bullying I faced starting in 5th grade to anyone, not to my parents, siblings, or grandparents, until well into my 20s. Back then, I believed that if I acknowledged it, it would become my reality, and if it became real, I would have to face it. I had grown so comfortable avoiding it, building walls around the reality I wasn’t ready to confront, that I hid it well. Outside of school, I put on a brave face, making sure no one saw what I was really going through. By doing so, I went through it alone, which only made an already difficult situation even harder. Looking back now, I know with certainty that my parents would have been the most supportive people I could have turned to. They loved me fiercely and always showed up, but I had become so skilled at hiding my pain that they never knew it was there.
What I went through wasn’t “kids-will-be-kids” teasing. It was relentless, exhausting, and excruciating, and a daily occurrence. Even before the bullying began, I struggled with deep insecurity, and being targeted only intensified those feelings. I would hide in the bathroom to skip class or pretend to be sick to stay home and avoid more pain. I spent those years trying to shrink myself, hoping it might make me less of a target. Instead, the more I withdrew, the worse the bullying became. I grew quiet, withdrawn, and distant, always bracing for the next insult. Even though part of me wanted to disappear, another part of me still hoped I might someday find a place where I belonged.
At times, I got involved in unhealthy friendships and relationships, clinging to connections just to feel included. But fitting in with the wrong people never outweighed staying true to myself. Those connections offered brief relief, but following what felt right often came at the cost of ongoing loneliness.
I’ve spent much of my life trying to undo the damage, working through insecurity and anxiety that had taken root during those years. What began as struggles with confidence eventually grew heavier after years of being targeted. Even now, I sometimes feel uncomfortable in my own skin, though I’ve learned to carry it differently with time and healing. I often wonder who I might have been if I hadn’t gone through it, and I pause at times, feeling the weight of that lost version of me shaped by lonely, painful experiences. Those reflections are bittersweet; a reminder of what I endured, but also of how far I’ve come and the strength I carry forward.
Those years also shaped parts of me I truly love. They made me compassionate and sensitive to the feelings of others. They gave me empathy and taught me how to listen without judgment, to sit with someone in their pain, and genuinely care for them. I understand what it’s like to feel unseen, to feel alone in your pain, and that awareness has made me protective of the hearts I love and attentive to those who may be struggling. It has taught me to notice the small signs of pain in others, to offer support before being asked, and to create spaces where people feel safe being themselves. Through those experiences, I’ve gained a stronger sense of responsibility and a heartfelt commitment to offer the kindness and understanding I once longed for but didn’t always receive.
After hearing my son share his experience, I felt a clear sense of purpose to walk beside him in a way I once needed but didn’t know how to ask for. My husband and I shared some of our own experiences, talked through the situations he’s faced, and role-played ways to respond—when to walk away, when to stand firm, and how to remain kind yet resolute in his boundaries without compromising his heart or who he is.
We’ve taught him to be brave and to speak up, whether to a trusted adult at school or to us at home, so he knows he never has to keep his fear inside. We also talked about the hard truth that hurt people hurt people, that their behavior has far more to do with them than with him. And we remind him often that he is not walking through any of this alone. We pray over him and remind him he has an almighty God who goes before him, strengthens him, and fights battles he cannot see. At the same time, we are teaching him how to stand up for himself with courage and confidence. Through these lessons, we hope our children carry forward a legacy of faith and resilience, rooted in Christ, knowing no hurtful words can ever change who they are.
Part of me will always carry the weight of those early years, and I know my healing will never be perfect. There will always be a few cracks and scars. But I’m grateful for the endurance and resilience it built, the kind of strength that prepared me for this moment with my son. Every tear, every lonely day, every painful experience shaped me into the mother he needs today. In many ways, helping my son walk through this has also been part of my own healing, because the confidence and reassurance I’m trying to build in him and our daughter are the very things I once struggled to find in myself. And if I had to go through it all again, I would, because every lesson I learned now helps me guide my children with greater wisdom and care.
If my story teaches anything, let it be this: words matter. They can linger far longer than you realize, shaping someone’s sense of self in ways you may never see. Never be the reason someone feels unseen, rejected, or inadequate. Teach your children to notice others, to include, to speak with kindness, and to be the person who steps up when someone needs a friend; to be someone who offers hope, reassurance, and a reminder that they are not alone. When children learn to act with this kind of compassion, they become a force for healing in a world that often forgets the power of small acts of kindness. And that’s the difference this world desperately needs.
by Chris Illuminati 
by Lori Singaraju 
