The Pain I Can't Talk About

I miss the feeling of being at home.

Not necessarily a house or a particular place. I miss the feeling of belonging. Of having people around you who know you, who share your history, who are your family.

It's a complicated feeling for someone who comes from a broken home.

I've only recently begun discovering my biological father's side of the family, and with it, my indigenous South African roots among the Sotho and Xhosa people.

There's something quite extraordinary about discovering parts of your own history that you never really knew. Learning where you come from, who your ancestors were, and recognizing that your identity extends far beyond the circumstances in which you were raised.

But discovering where you come from and feeling that you belong somewhere are not necessarily the same thing.

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I grew up in a Muslim household. It was the only world I knew. There was some love in that world, despite everything else that happened. There were familiar faces, family gatherings, traditions and moments I still remember fondly.

But there were also expectations about who I was supposed to be, what I was supposed to believe, and how I was supposed to live.

As a young teenager, I began questioning those beliefs. Eventually, I stopped believing altogether.

And that changed everything.

I couldn't simply be myself and remain part of the family I had grown up with. My identity, my name, and my place among them were tied to a religion I no longer believed in.

Leaving was one of the hardest things I've ever done.

Charles Leaven was the name I chose. Inspired by people I admired, by their ideas, and by the person I wanted to become.

The name meant something to me beyond its sound. Even the word leaven, with its references throughout the Bible, carried a sense of meaning and intellectual curiosity. It represented something I wanted to associate myself with.

Ten years ago, I was baptised as a Christian. For me, it was also a decision to become part of a community whose values I identified with, rather than remain bound to the religious upbringing I'd left behind.

It was a choice I made for myself, and I've never looked back.

And that is who I am today.

Yet, more than a decade later, my government ID still carries my stepfather's name. Even something as personal as my own identity has been a struggle to establish.

Some of my family refused to call me Charles, even years after I'd chosen that name.

I don't regret my decision. I know who I am.

But knowing who you are doesn't mean you stop feeling the pain of what you've lost.

I didn't leave because I wanted to be alone. I left because I couldn't continue living a life that wasn't mine.

And I had to survive.

For a while, I found another home.

Through civic work and community activism, I met people who were complete strangers but became something like family.

I remember waking up in my home overlooking the ocean, looking forward to whatever challenges the day would bring.

It was organized chaos.

Some days I'd be driving around the community with the ward councillor, identifying service delivery problems. Other days I'd be visiting construction sites, meeting contractors, checking on local workers, attending community meetings, or helping people find employment.

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People would stop me in the street to thank me for helping them get jobs. Sometimes those jobs meant they could finally put food on the table for their families.

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I was learning every day. I was becoming better at what I did. I had responsibilities, relationships and work that mattered.

I felt needed.

I felt useful.

I felt at home.

Then I lost that life too.

The work, the businesses I'd built, the money I'd invested, the relationships I'd spent years developing, and eventually even the roof over my head.

I also lost someone I'd come to regard as a mother.

One conversation has stayed with me. She suggested that I could find something else to do.

Perhaps to someone looking from the outside, it really was that simple.

But this wasn't just something I did.

It was a life I'd spent years building. A life that gave me purpose, responsibility and a place in the world.

Losing it was difficult to come to terms with.

For a long time, I struggled to let it go. There were days when even getting out of bed felt difficult.

Eventually, I found some relief in the gym. I took up jiu-jitsu and rekindled my interest in boxing. There was something therapeutic about the repetition, the discipline, the control.

You put in the work and you see the results.

I enjoyed that. I still do.

But I've also come to recognize that keeping myself occupied isn't always the same as feeling fulfilled.

I think I just need something to be devoted to.

Something that demands my attention and rewards my effort. Something that challenges me, teaches me, and gives me a reason to wake up every morning.

These days, I continue to work, learn and build things. I have ambitions, ideas and projects that demand my attention. I still want to travel, explore, challenge myself and experience everything life has to offer.

I haven't lost that curiosity or ambition.

But somewhere along the way, I've begun to feel trapped.

Like I'm living in a straitjacket.

It's a strange feeling, having so much you want to do and experience, yet feeling unable to move as freely as you'd like.

I've spent much of my life pursuing independence, and perhaps that's why the feeling troubles me as much as it does.

A friend recently sent me a voice note.

She spoke about how much I'd changed over the years, how much she admired my determination, and how happy she was to have known the person I used to be and to be getting to know the person I'm becoming.

It was a beautiful message.

I felt understood, and I appreciated that she could see something in me that I sometimes struggle to recognize in myself.

I suppose we don't always see ourselves the way others see us.

She sees the years of effort and growth. I sometimes find myself looking at the distance between where I am and where I hoped I'd be.

Both perspectives can be true.

I've accomplished things I'm proud of. I've helped people, built businesses, learned skills, made friendships and experienced moments that I'll always treasure.

I've also made mistakes, lost things that mattered to me, and spent years trying to make sense of experiences I cannot change.

I don't think there's anything particularly extraordinary about that. Life has a way of giving and taking, often without much explanation.

I suppose this is just part of being an adult. You have to keep things moving. Life doesn't stop because you're hurting. There are still responsibilities, things to do, and people who depend on you.

And I've come to understand that just because you're moving forward doesn't mean you're no longer in pain.

Both things can be true.

But there are moments when I feel small. Unseen. Unheard. Unimportant.

And sometimes, if I'm willing to admit it, worthless.

I know those feelings aren't necessarily a fair reflection of who I am. But they're feelings I experience nonetheless.

I want to become someone I'm proud of.

I also want to know what it feels like to be loved and accepted without having to become anything more than who I already am.

Perhaps that's something I've been searching for all along.

A place where I belong, not because of what I believe, what I can do for others, or what I've accomplished, but simply because I'm me.

I miss having a home in the world.

I miss belonging.

And while I don't know exactly what the next chapter of my life will look like, I haven't stopped wanting to discover it.

I still have things I want to learn, places I want to see, people I want to meet, and a life I want to build.

I know how to work. I know how to learn. I know how to survive and start over.

I've done it before.

I'm just tired of having to start over.

And some days, I feel the weight of everything I've carried along the way.