A Personal Note From My Journal – Today, the world placed in my hands the Global Youth Leadership Award 2025. It should have been a perfect moment — the applause, the photographs, the glow of recognition. Yet as I stood there, I felt something quieter, heavier. Success was mine, yes, but so was the silence that followed it.
This award, I realised, was not born only of vision. It grew from heartbreak. When love slipped away, when betrayal left me staring into nights too long to bear, I had a choice: collapse or rise. I chose to rise. I stitched my grief into long hours, turned sleeplessness into purpose. What might have ended in tears became a relentless march toward achievement.
And so, success became my revenge. Not a bitter cry, but a determination to build, to create, to prove that my spirit could not be broken. Yet tonight, holding this trophy, I cannot help but ask: did I heal, or did I only hide my wound beneath applause?
The Loneliness of Victory
People imagine awards bring joy. But joy is only joy when it is shared. After the ceremonies fade, I return to a room where only a glass of wine and a plate of cheese wait. Mehdi Hassan sings in the background, his voice curling through the night like smoke, carrying the sorrow I do not speak aloud.
What use is triumph if there is no hand reaching across the table? What worth has recognition if the heart remains hollow? The world claps; I hear only echoes.
The Paradox of Leadership
They call me a youth leader. The phrase makes me smile. Youth is not in age but in fire — the fire to rise again when betrayal tempts you to surrender. If this award proves anything, it is that I refused to bow. And yet, beneath that fire lies an ember of loneliness. You can lead many, yet still feel leaderless in your own heart.
I am grateful for the recognition. My work has lifted voices, opened doors, built spaces for others to grow. But the cost is one I cannot deny: evenings that end in silence, triumphs celebrated with no one beside me, a life that glitters publicly but aches privately.
This award is both gift and mirror. It tells me I have given to the world, but it also asks if I have forgotten to keep something for myself.
A Quiet Confession
And so, I write these words. Not as a speech, not as a proclamation, but as a confession whispered between lines. Yes, I rose. Yes, I achieved. But beneath the gold of this trophy lies a truth that trembles: success does not soften the absence of love.
Tonight, as Mehdi Hassan sings and the city sleeps, I sit with my award beside me. The glass of wine glows in the lamplight, the cheese remains untouched, and silence keeps me company.
If the world calls this victory, so be it. But I know — and perhaps you will too — that triumph carries its own sorrow. For what is success, if not a crown placed gently on an aching head?
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