A boy who threw a rock at the moon

Today is an important day in my life. But before I tell you why, let me share a story.

Every person carries a story.

Just like the trees and leaves around us—each with its own shape and color—our lives too are unique tapestries woven with different experiences, emotions, and memories. Like rivers that carve their own paths, we journey through joy and sorrow, love and loss, courage and fear.

Some of us boldly share our stories with the world, hoping to inspire others or find healing in the telling. Others carry their stories in silence, never revealing them, letting them rest eternally beneath the soil along with their bodies. And then there are some who only whisper fragments of their stories—just enough to keep someone else from giving up.

I don’t know exactly which of those I am. Even now, as I write this, I’m unsure of what feelings might rise or whether I’ll ever publish this. But one thing I know for sure: if this story, buried in pride or shame, never sees the light of day—and never gives even a flicker of hope to someone else—then it serves no purpose.

So I write.

This may be my story, but there are countless others who carry similar scars, silent wounds, and hidden fears. If you ever meet someone whose story echoes this one, tell them: You are not alone. There were others like you. Because once, I believed I was the only one. I believed no one else could possibly carry the pain I did.

Not in my youth. But in my childhood—I thought so.

I hope no child with a similar story grows up thinking they are alone in the world.

Because they’re not. Just like I wasn’t.

“A Boy Who Threw a Rock at the Moon”
Let me begin with that…