Struggle is being pushed out of a womb with no idea if there will be arms to hold you.
Struggle is taking the first step and then falling.
Struggle is being made to choose between mummy or daddy.
Struggle is tying your shoelaces with no one to first teach you how.
Struggle is holding the pencil comfortably and writing only to realise you are doing it wrong.
Struggle is being bullied while having learned to keep silence.
Struggle is having your name mispronounced everywhere and having to pick an English one.
Struggle is not having friends because you are different in race, sexuality or religion.
Struggle is in being ostracised for not being enough of a stereotype.
Struggle is being marginalised but the privileged dismisses you; a vicious, toxic cycle.
Struggle is wanting one thing but being told to want another.
Struggle is trying to accept yourself but being criticised every other day in jokes, passing remarks or unsaid glances.
Struggle is keeping busy and no longer knowing what complete rest feels like.
Struggle is trying to fit into cliques that have closed their doors to you even before you start trying.
Struggle is breaking backs and limping down corridors to pick cardboard boxes at midnight.
Struggle is working all your life through wrinkled skin and weak bones for a country that no longer sees you.
Struggle is dying without a name, without a face and without a history.
Struggle is in the small, big and invisible things. Things so ingrained that they become habitual micro-aggressions that crawl under the skin. Relative, and of a different extent to every individual. We experience different, as well as react different.
It happens everywhere – every town, every state, every country.
That’s why the struggle is always real.
Because it can be anything, and just because it might not happen to you does not make it any less light or a lie.
And just because people don’t speak about it does not mean that it should go unheard.