The Day My Childhood Changed - By Samarah Aftab

Written By: Samarah Aftab

Category: Creative Non-Fiction

Competition: Global Poetry and Creative Writing Competition 2026

Samarah Aftab brings a compelling narrative to the Global Poetry and Creative Writing Competition 2026 with her entry, "The Day My Childhood Changed." As a participant in the Creative Non-Fiction category, Samarah opens up about a life-altering event from her childhood. This piece is a testament to the power of storytelling, reflecting on personal trauma and the enduring journey of healing and resilience.

About the Work

In "The Day My Childhood Changed," Samarah Aftab crafts a vivid account of a traumatic childhood experience, capturing the confusion, fear, and eventual resilience that followed. Her narrative is rich with emotion and introspection, exploring themes of loss, recovery, and the silent strength required to cope with life's unexpected challenges. The detailed imagery and candid reflection invite readers to engage deeply with her journey.

The Day My childhood changed

Original Submission by Samarah Aftab

Global Poetry & Creative Writing Competition – HASHTAG KALAKAR

NAME – SAMARAH

THEME – Poetry and Creative writing

Creative Non-Fiction

Real life experience – By Samarah

“The Day My Childhood Changed”

I was eight years old when I learned that life could change in a matter of seconds.

It was 2013, and I was sitting in the front seat of a car with someone who was more than just a friend. We were close, comfortable, and completely unaware that an ordinary journey was about to become a memory we would carry for the rest of our lives. We were children. We were not thinking about hospitals, surgeries, scars, or trauma. We were simply sitting together, surrounded by family, living a normal day.

Then came the accident.

There are moments in life that the mind remembers differently from everything else. They do not feel like memories. They feel like fragments, sounds, movement, fear, pain, and then silence. I remember the sudden impact. I remember being thrown forward. I remember my eye hitting the dashboard.

And then, everything changed.

My friend was badly injured in the head. I was injured in my eye. Within moments, the ordinary world we knew had become an emergency. We were taken to the hospital and admitted to the ICU. I was only eight years old, but somewhere inside me, I understood that something was terribly wrong.

The hospital became my world.

The bright lights. The unfamiliar voices. The machines. The smell of medicine. The constant movement of doctors and nurses. The fear on the faces of the people I loved.

I spent days in the ICU, and although I was too young to understand everything that was happening, I understood fear.

I understood that the adults around me were trying not to cry.

I understood that every time a doctor entered the room, everyone became quiet.

And I understood that my eye was no longer the same.

What followed was not one operation, not one hospital visit, and not one difficult day.

It became years.

Multiple surgeries.

Appointments.

Tests.

Waiting rooms.

More procedures.

More uncertainty.

More moments of wondering whether things would ever return to the way they had been before.

But they never did.

I eventually lost the vision in my left eye permanently.

Those words are simple to write, but they carry a weight that is difficult to explain.

Losing vision was not the only thing I lost that day.

A part of my childhood disappeared too.

While other children were growing up without thinking about hospitals, I was learning words that no child should have needed to know. Surgery. Treatment. Trauma. Recovery.

I learned what it meant to be afraid of the next appointment.

I learned what it meant to look into a mirror and notice something had changed.

I learned that healing is not always visible.

There were wounds on my body that doctors could treat, but there were wounds inside me that took much longer.

For years, the accident followed me.

Sometimes it appeared in memories.

Sometimes in fear.

Sometimes in the smallest things.

A sound.

A journey in a car.

A sudden movement.

A reminder of what happened.

There were days when I wanted to forget everything. I wanted to wake up and discover that 2013 had never happened. I wanted to be that eight-year-old again, sitting in the front seat, unaware of what was coming.

But life does not allow us to go backward.

It asks us to move forward carrying what happened behind us.

My friend had her own injuries and her own journey. We both had to face the aftermath of something we never chose and never deserved. We were children when it happened, but the consequences followed us as we grew older.

Sometimes I think about how strange it is that two children could sit together in a car one moment and wake up in an ICU the next.

We never asked for this story.

But somehow, we learned how to live with it.

There were surgeries that frightened me. There were days when I felt exhausted from being strong. There were moments when I looked at other people living ordinary lives and wondered why mine had to become so complicated.

And yes, there were times when I cried.

There were times when I felt angry.

There were times when I asked questions that had no easy answers.

Healing did not happen because one morning I suddenly became fearless.

It happened slowly.

Painfully.

One day at a time.

I began to understand that being strong does not mean pretending that something didn't hurt.

Being strong means admitting that it hurt and continuing anyway.

I still have treatments going.

I still have difficult days.

I still carry the trauma.

Even after all these years, I am still learning how to cope with something that began when I was only eight years old.

But I am here.

And so is my friend.

That matters.

The accident changed our lives, but it did not end them.

It took something from us, but it did not take everything.

I lost the vision in my left eye, but I did not lose my ability to dream.

I lost a part of my childhood, but I did not lose my future.

I carry scars, but they do not define the whole of me.

For a long time, I thought healing meant becoming the person I was before the accident.

Now I know better.

Healing is not always about becoming who you were.

Sometimes healing means learning to love the person you became.

The person who survived.

The person who still goes to appointments.

The person who still has fears.

The person who sometimes remembers the accident and feels that eight-year-old child inside her again.

The person who gets tired, but keeps going.

I have learned that courage is not always loud.

Sometimes courage looks like waking up and trying again.

Sometimes it is sitting in a hospital waiting room and telling yourself, I can get through this.

Sometimes it is undergoing another treatment when you are already tired of treatments.

Sometimes it is smiling on a day when your heart feels heavy.

And sometimes courage is simply saying,

"This happened to me, but it will not be the only thing my life is about."

2013 feels both very far away and strangely close.

Years have passed, but the story is not completely finished.

I am still undergoing treatment.

I am still learning how to live with the loss.

I am still learning how to make peace with the memories.

I am still healing from something that happened when I was just a child.

And perhaps that is something people don't always understand about trauma:

Time does not erase everything.

Sometimes you don't “get over” what happened.

You learn to carry it differently.

You learn how to live beside it.

You learn that some scars remain, not because you are weak, but because you survived something that left a mark.

My friend and I were once two children sitting in the front seat of a car.

Today, we are two people still trying to make sense of what happened to us.

We are not pretending that everything is easy.

But we are still here.

Still trying.

Still healing.

Still hoping.

Still strong.

And perhaps that is the part of our story I want people to remember most.

Not the accident.

Not the hospital.

Not the surgeries.

Not the vision I lost.

But the life that continued afterward.

Because sometimes survival is not one heroic moment.

Sometimes survival is thousands of ordinary mornings when you choose to get up and keep going.

I was eight years old when that accident changed my life.

I thought that day was the end of something.

Now I understand that it was the beginning of a different kind of strength.

A strength I never asked for.

A strength I never knew I needed.

And even after all these years, my story is still being written.

The scars are still there.

The treatment continues.

The memories remain.

But so do I.

And so does my friend.

We were children when we survived the accident.

We are still healing from it today.

But we are not defeated.

We are still here.

And sometimes, being still here is the bravest thing of all.

* REAL LIFE STORY/EXPERIENCE BY SAMARAH

* BITS OF MY LIFE

About the Competition

The Global Poetry and Creative Writing Competition 2026 hosted by Hashtag Kalakar is a prestigious platform celebrating diverse voices in literature. This competition invites participants worldwide to share their unique stories and perspectives through poetry and creative writing, fostering a global community of artists dedicated to the transformative power of words.

Thank you, Samarah Aftab, for sharing your profound story, "The Day My Childhood Changed," with the Global Poetry and Creative Writing Competition 2026. Your courage and insight offer inspiration and understanding to many, reminding us of the resilience found in every human spirit. We appreciate your contribution and are honored to feature your work.

About Hashtag Kalakar

Hashtag Kalakar is a creative platform dedicated to providing artists, writers, singers and other creative talents with opportunities to showcase their work and reach wider audiences through competitions, features and creative initiatives.