The Life I Lived in the Dark

“Somewhere under the blanket, in the quiet no one knows, we become the selves we’ve always been meant to meet.” ~Goodmoodism

Before I begin this story, I would like to wish a heartfelt Happy Norooz (Persian New Year) to all my fellow Iranians, both inside and outside our beautiful Iran.

Norooz marks the arrival of spring and the beginning of a new year. For thousands of years, it has reminded us that after even the longest winter, life returns, hope rises again, and change is always possible.

After 47 years of injustice and horror, the voice of our people continues to rise with courage and resilience. And now, for the first time in almost 5 decades, it feels as if those voices have finally been heard by two powerful leaders who chose to listen.

I wish my people strength, hope, and brighter days ahead.

And to the brave souls who are not here this year to celebrate, those who gave their lives demanding freedom and dignity, taken by the brutality of the Islamic regime, you are never forgotten. Your courage lives on in the hearts of millions, and your memory and your names continue to light the path toward a freer future.

We honor you.

Javid Shah

Norooz Mobarak xx

Perhaps it is because freedom mattered so much that, as a child in Iran, I found my own version of it in the quiet darkness of my room.

I don’t remember my parents reading to me before bed. My mom says she did. Maybe she did when I was very young. But I don’t remember the sound of pages turning, or her voice drifting softly through the room in the dark.

I also don’t remember reading many books.

What I do remember is this:

I told myself stories. And honestly, I still don’t know where those ideas or that imagination came from.

Every single night, I couldn’t wait to go to bed. Not because I was tired, but because that was when my real life began.

Under my blanket, in the quiet darkness, I became free.

No one could hear my thoughts.
No one could see what I was thinking.
No one could correct me.
No one could ask why I imagined what I imagined.
No one could tell me I shouldn’t think like that.

In that small bed, I could be anyone.

I could travel to faraway lands.
I could run through forests.
I could climb mountains and jump across rivers.
I could go on adventures no one else even knew existed.
I always somehow found myself racing the boys, and I always won.

They weren’t about fantasy princess worlds.
They were about freedom.

I didn’t want a castle.
I wanted the open road.
I didn’t want to be rescued.
I wanted to be unstoppable, and the one doing the rescuing.

In real life, I was not the kind of little girl who played quietly with dolls. I didn’t want tea sets or pretend kitchens.

I wanted to be outside.
I wanted to run until my lungs burned.
I wanted scraped knees and messy hair.
I wanted to build things, climb things, and compete.

My family was not religious, but I grew up in a society that forcefully was. A place that was far harder on girls than on boys. And for as long as I can remember, I hated that imbalance.

I hated feeling limited. I hated the invisible rules about how a girl should sit, speak, behave, and dream. That feeling of being boxed in, told what I could or couldn’t do. But that’s another story for another time.

At night, though, in my bed, none of those rules applied. I could imagine my life exactly how I wanted it. No rules. No judgment. No punishments. Just me and the stories in my head.

The blanket became my shield.
The darkness became my stage.

Some nights I started new stories. Some nights, I continued the ones from the night before, whispering to myself, “to be continued” as my eyes grew heavy. Some stories lasted for weeks. Some were short. Some I retold again and again, editing scenes and details, changing endings, going back to fix something that didn’t feel right.

When I was little, the stories were about adventures, about me out in the world, playing, discovering, running wild. I climbed, jumped, and explored. I was always the cool girl who could do everything better than the boys.

As I grew older, the stories didn’t change, but something else became important too. Puberty softened some edges and sharpened others. I was still the cool, adventurous girl, but now I was also desired. Loved. Wanted.

Some stories became deeply romantic. Some dramatic. Some heartbreakingly sad. Occasionally, they turned darker, a mix of horror and love, especially if I had watched a scary film or heard unsettling news.

My mind could twist anything into a story.

And then, one day, I stopped.

We had moved to Sweden by then. I don’t remember when it ended.

There was no final chapter. No goodbye.
The stories just faded.

By the time I was eighteen, the nights were quieter.

Those stories were part of me. They were my secret world. The nights were my most creative hours. My imagination was alive and fearless.

Sometimes I wonder what would have happened if I had never stopped telling myself stories all these years.

Who would I be today?

Would my life have shaped itself differently around that wild imagination?

I never told anyone about this.

I thought people would think I was strange. Maybe even crazy. After all, I had never heard anyone else say they told themselves stories at night. So I kept it to myself.

This is the first time I’m saying it out loud.

I still talk to myself. I still have full conversations in my head. I imagine scenarios and replay moments, like scenes from a movie, but they’re not stories anymore. Not like before.

They don’t feel magical.

Sometimes, when I think of that little girl under the blanket, I feel:

Sadness.

Because she always felt different. Slightly misplaced. Like she had been handed a script that didn’t quite fit.

But I also feel proud of her.

She never stopped imagining something bigger.
She never accepted the limits quietly.
She created a world where she could exist fully, even if only in the dark.

Maybe I’ve always been chasing that same feeling.

Freedom.

It just looks different now.

And maybe writing this, sharing it publicly for the first time, is my way of lifting the blanket again.

Of finding that little girl.
Of remembering that the wild, imaginative, slightly different child never really disappeared.

She just grew up.

And maybe tonight, when the lights go out, I’ll let her tell me a story again.

Did you ever tell yourself stories in bed at night?

With a remembering smile
GOO:DMOO:DISM