My understanding of trauma did not begin with a textbook or a diagnosis. It grew little by little over many years; from the sounds of missiles and bombs we had to sleep through every night to watching my father be carried to us, soaked in blood, a collateral damage of war.
In Somaliland, displacement was not a single event but a continuous state of being. We moved again and again, escaping danger or searching for so‑called stability across places that never felt like home. With each move, something was lost: peace, routine, normality, and a sense of belonging.
I did not immediately recognise what I was carrying. At first, it felt like constant exhaustion, fear without a clear reason, and an overwhelming sense of pressure to stay strong. Over time, I became numb, I withdrew, I felt lonely even when surrounded by people, trapped in a life shaped by uncertainty, and deeply desperate in moments I could not explain to anyone else. There were days when the weight of survival left no room to process grief, fear, or sadness.
