After kindergarten, primary school came. A whole new world stretched before me, one I did not yet understand, one that would shape my future in ways I could not imagine. New people, new rules, new faces, new routines. I did not know how much this day would matter, how it would echo through the years to come. Even the first steps into the large gym, which our school had reserved for the welcome party, felt overwhelming. The gym was enormous, its high windows letting sunlight spill across the wooden floor, casting long, moving shadows that danced as children ran about.
The boys were loud, showing off, half-shouting, half-laughing, proud of new shoes, new voices, small feats of strength. Each movement seemed designed to grab attention, to prove something, though I could not say what. The girls were already whispering and gossiping in small clusters, their laughter light, secretive, knowing. I stayed slightly to the side, watching, feeling a mixture of anxiety and a small spark of hope. Maybe here I would find someone who understood me, who did not care that I was different, who would see something soft inside me.
The room smelled of baked goods, of sweet frosting, and warm dough. Food was everywhere, stacked on tables, plates full of cake, bread, and cookies. Parents seemed to enjoy the cake most, while children preferred pizza, pasta, or the simpler treats. I picked a small piece of cake, careful to avoid spilling crumbs, and sat down. I watched the other children run, talk, and play. Reactions were mostly neutral. No one really noticed anyone else, and that made it easier for me to breathe, to feel invisible and safe. The noise and movement were like a soft curtain, a space where I could exist quietly without drawing attention.
Then the project was introduced. It would continue throughout all fourth graders in primary school. Every month, a woman from the organization would come to teach lessons about health, courage, handling bullying, and ways to find calm. Most kids barely listened, too busy running, jumping, or talking to each other. But I noticed. Her words were quiet sparks, soft flickers of light in the room, like tiny chances of hope that seemed almost invisible. Maybe someone cared about these things, maybe someone understood the struggles that were hard to put into words.
The teachers introduced themselves slowly, one by one. They looked relaxed, lightly dressed, but with a subtle sense of effort. They balanced authority with friendliness, smiles with careful observation. Each teacher said their name, gave a small nod, and moved on. The environment felt welcoming, but under it, I sensed the silent weight of expectations. Everyone was being watched, measured, judged, though softly, almost invisibly.
After the introductions, we were guided to our assigned classrooms. Four rows with three tables each, every table with two chairs. I walked in carefully, upright but nervous, my hands slightly trembling, heart holding onto a small flicker of hope. My friend from kindergarten was not in my class. He had been assigned to another, and the small absence stung more than I expected. It reminded me that this was a new beginning, a world separate from the one I knew, where I would have to find my own place.
I sat at my table, glancing around. The chairs, the tables, the scattered children, everyone seemed both excited and unsure, wrapped in their small universes. I noticed small details: the paint on the walls, the shine on the windows, the quiet hum of the radiators. Every movement, every laugh, every shuffle of feet added to the rhythm of the room. I took a deep breath. Perhaps this place would show me that it was okay to be different. Perhaps someone would share my quiet thoughts, my tiny dreams, my imagined worlds.
The day began, a mix of anxiety and anticipation. Lessons started slowly, and we were told to introduce ourselves one by one. Names, favorite colors, favorite animals, and small hobbies. Everyone listened and smiled politely. Some laughed at jokes, others whispered to friends, and I learned how subtle the balance between fitting in and staying myself could be. I realized for the first time that school was more than learning—it was people, rules, expectations, and life itself. I sat upright, nervous, but holding onto hope that maybe this could be the start of something good.
As the day moved forward, I felt the first small stirrings of possibility. A few children looked my way and smiled. I returned the smile, quietly, almost shyly, and for a moment felt a tiny connection. Perhaps here, in this vast, bustling space of noise and motion, I could exist without fear. Perhaps I could be seen for who I was, not who I was told to be. Perhaps the world could be soft, just for a little while.