Words by Danuza Silva
The world teaches women, from the earliest days, that our pain must be tucked away neatly, hidden, softened, silenced. We learn to keep our struggles sealed in boxes, to hold our tears until no one is watching, to pretend perfection even when life break us in places we don’t know how to mend.
I grew up believing that to be worthy, I had to hide my insecurities, my trauma, my fears. But the truth is, those hidden pieces of us are often where our deepest strength lives. And discovering that changed everything, not only for me, but for my daughter.
For a long time, I believed life had already given me all the heartbreak I could handle. My life began with loss far earlier than any child should experience. My parents and grandparents passed away when I was still very young, and later, the grandmother who stepped in to raise my siblings and I also left us.
Grief was not a concept to understand, it was a reality I breathed for so many years. Resilience, for me, wasn’t a choice, it was the only way forward. And so I dreamed of building the kind of loving family I never had the chance to grow up with… one filled with warmth, safety, laughter, and unconditional affection.
And for a beautiful chapter of my life, I truly had that. I married a good man, and together we welcomed our beautiful daughter, Sophie. She became the sunlight I had always longed for. In her giggles, her tiny hands, her bright curiosity, I felt something I had never known before, wholeness.
But life is never still, never predictable. Soon, it would challenge me in ways I could not have imagined.
As Sophie grew older, she began asking for a sibling, specifically a sister. I also felt the pull of expanding our family. Losing my own parents so young had shown me the irreplaceable value of siblings. My siblings and I grew leaning on one another, and I wanted Sophie to know and have that same lifelong bond. After many heartfelt conversations, my husband and I agreed it was time to grow our family.
My first pregnancy had been beautiful and joyful, so I expected the second to be the same. Instead, it marked the beginning of a devastating chapter… one that nearly silenced me completely.
I experienced four consecutive miscarriages, including the loss of twins. In total, we lost five babies. My body was exhausted and my heart was broken. But the worst part wasn’t the physical pain, it was breaking the news to little Sophie, who waited so innocently for the sister she dreamed of.
As women, we’re taught to grieve quickly, to pick up the pieces before they even hit the ground. We’re told, “It’s common,” as if common means painless. We are expected to smile through heartbreak, to keep the family afloat, to swallow the shame of a body we fear is failing us.
I still remember sitting in the car (alone, as my husband was away at work), after the doctor told me that I was expecting twins but unfortunately at fourteen weeks, there was no signings of heartbeats in either of the babies. And I thought to myself, here I go again. I sat there for 30 minutes, sobbing so hard I could barely breathe. Then I wiped my tears, swallowed the pain, and drove to pick up Sophie from daycare. That moment lives inside me forever. I carried myself as if I were fine… but deep inside I was shattering.
Even though miscarriage is common, the suffering is enormous. And yet we whisper it. We hide it. We pretend we’re okay while the world moves on and expects us to move with it. I wanted to scream, “Why me?” But I stayed silent, believing people would judge me for my grief or, worse, dismiss it entirely.
After countless tests, doctors recommended IVF. I could conceive, but something out of my control prevented the pregnancies from continuing. My husband and I discussed it for months, weighing our hopes and fears. Eventually, I found the courage to try. And then life, once again, shifted without warning. Just weeks before starting IVF, my marriage ended abruptly. And with it, I collapsed too. Everything collapsed. Not just the dream of another child, but the family I had poured my whole heart into building.
Holding myself together for Sophie was the hardest thing I’ve ever done. I was broken in ways I didn’t yet understand, and yet I still had to be someone’s safe place. I had to hold Sophie through her confusion and heartbreak while drowning in my own. That pressure, that responsibility, is something only mothers truly know.
In the quiet moments when I didn’t know how to keep going, I began to write. What began as scribbles in a notebook slowly became a lifeline. I wrote to make sense of my pain. I wrote to build a bridge back to myself. And eventually, I wrote with Sophie by my side. Together, we began creating new rituals, small healing routines that helped both of us find our footing again.
Daily affirmations became part of our mornings, our afternoons our bedtime. We spoke them aloud even when we didn’t fully believe them. At first, they felt strange, almost forced. But over time, they softened us. They reminded us of who we were beneath the pain. “We were brave. We were loved. We were capable.” Little by little, those words planted seeds inside us.
And from that healing experience came the inspiration for my first children’s book, Sophie and Her Magical Backpack.
The story follows a little girl, much like my own Sophie, who sometimes feels unsure of herself. She carries a magical backpack filled with affirmations that help her remember her power: brave, creative, capable, loved, and beautiful. What started as a private tool to help Sophie and me heal soon became something I felt called to share with other children. If these words could help my daughter rebuild her inner world, maybe they could help others too.
The book helps young readers navigate negative self-talk, understand their emotions, and build emotional resilience. It gives them a place to return to when they feel small, scared, or unsure. After its release, I received messages from parents and teachers telling me how their children now carry their own “magical backpacks” filled with notes, drawings, and affirmations. Hearing that still brings tears to my eyes.
I wrote this book to help children, but the truth is, it healed parts of me I didn’t know were still hurting.
My journey has been filled with loss, heartbreak, and moments when my voice felt invisible. Yet through writing, through mothering, through choosing to believe in myself again, I learned that pain does not make us unworthy. Sharing it does not make us weak. And healing is not something we do alone.
I want young girls to know their voices matter, both the quiet inner ones and the loud outer ones. I want them to trust their strength, their intuition, their potential. I want them to know they don’t have to hide their pain to be loved, and that we are all brave, capable, creative, beautiful…we just need to believe.
Life will challenge us in ways we never expect. But with love, discipline, and a commitment to hope, we can turn even our darkest moments into something beautiful. Sophie and I found light in places I once believed were only shadows. And now, we carry that light forward and together.
