Behind The Sunglasses

Behind the Sunglasses — My Childhood

Apparently, I’ve been causing trouble since before I was born.

My poor mother was only 24 weeks pregnant when she had a fall.

And somewhere in all that commotion, I apparently decided I’d had quite enough of being inside her.

Right. That’s it. I’m coming out!

Never mind that I wasn’t due for another few months.

Never mind that the world wasn’t ready for me.

And certainly never mind that the odds weren’t in my favour.

I arrived.

Tiny. Premature. Fragile.

And against all odds, I survived.

I MADE IT.

I sometimes wonder whether my poor mother had any idea what she’d just unleashed upon the world.

Because apparently, that wasn’t enough excitement.

At six months old, I was accidentally dropped, hit my head, and needed stitches.

Yes. Six months!

Honestly, somebody should have wrapped me in bubble wrap.

But once again, I made it.

And if you think that taught me to be careful, well, you clearly don’t know me!

The Little Girl Who Wasn’t Afraid of Anything

By four years old, I’d developed a passion for riding on my dad’s motorbike.

There was absolutely nowhere I’d rather be.

Unfortunately, I hadn’t quite mastered the concept of a hot exhaust.

I burned my foot.

Not once.

Not twice.

THREE BLOODY TIMES!

You’d think after the first burn I’d have learned my lesson.

Not a chance.

Dad would give me lollies, and I’d sit there chewing away, refusing to cry because I didn’t want him to stop taking me.

Imagine that.

Four years old, foot burning, mouth full of lollies, pretending everything was perfectly fine.

Not because it didn’t hurt.

But because I wanted to go again.

I was fearless.

Not because I didn’t know pain.

But because I was adventurous, stubborn, and so completely surrounded by love that I believed the world was mine to explore.

And I wasn’t about to let a bloody motorbike exhaust stop me.

The Little Queen of the Household

My earliest memories of childhood in Mauritius are beautiful.

We lived with my grandmother and aunties while my parents were building our family home.

The house was full of people, laughter, noise, love, and one very spoilt little girl.

Me, obviously!

I practically ruled the household.

I was terribly fussy with food.

If I didn’t want to eat, I wasn’t eating.

End of discussion.

And my poor grandmother would be more terrified of my father’s reaction if I hadn’t eaten than she was of me!

So there she was, desperately trying to feed this stubborn little creature.

And there I was, probably negotiating the terms of my next meal like some tiny dictator.

I was adored.

I made people laugh.

I was loud, cheeky, mischievous, and completely convinced that everyone existed for my entertainment.

And at around six years old, I had a very serious ambition.

I wanted to be Miss Air Mauritius!

Not Miss World.

Not Miss Universe.

Miss Air Mauritius.

Don’t ask me why. Apparently, I had very specific career aspirations.

I’d parade around the house with sunglasses, one hand planted firmly on my hip, pretending to be a beauty contestant.

And naturally, I had important things to say.

About world peace.

Saving humanity.

Making the world a better place.

You know, the usual responsibilities of a six-year-old!

I had the walk, the attitude, the speeches, and absolutely no doubt that the world was waiting for me.

Looking back, I laugh.

Because even then, the sunglasses were there.

And so was the attitude!

My Sister — The Hand I Didn’t Know I Needed ❤️

And then there was my sister.

My elder sister.

The one who was always holding my hand.

And me?

I’d brush it away!

Because naturally, I was an independent little madam who didn’t need anyone looking after her.

Or so I thought.

We shared a bedroom, and like all sisters, we had our little disputes.

We would draw lines on the floor with chalk.

“This is MY section.”

“That’s YOUR section.”

“And this window belongs to ME!”

Imagine two little girls negotiating property boundaries with a piece of chalk.

Honestly, we should have gone into real estate!

But underneath those silly childhood arguments was something I wouldn’t understand until much later.

My sister was the light of my childhood.

She was there before I understood what it meant to need someone.

And she remained there when life became something I didn’t know how to explain.

I remember the rain in Mauritius.

The heavy rain.

The cyclones.

The wind howling outside.

I remember the metal bars on the windows and how safe I felt behind them.

And I remember being tucked beneath a blanket, close to my sister.

Outside, the world could be wild.

But inside, there was warmth.

There was familiarity.

There was my sister.

And somehow, that was enough.

I didn’t need to be brave.

I didn’t need to understand anything.

I was just a little girl, and someone was looking after me.

I didn’t know then how important that feeling would become.

My sister has always been there.

Not just in childhood.

Through university, when I was broke and struggling, she’d simply ask:

“How much do you need?”

No lecture.

No judgement.

No making me feel small.

Just my sister.

She has been there when things went right.

And when everything went terribly wrong.

I could write an entire book about her, and perhaps one day I will.

Because calling her my best friend would never quite explain what she means to me.

She is my sister.

The one who has seen every version of me.

The one who was there before I knew what it meant to be hurt.

And the one who stayed when I was no longer the little girl everyone remembered.

There are people who enter your life.

And there are people who are simply part of who you are.

My sister belongs to the second kind.

And Then the Unimaginable Happened

I wish I could tell you exactly when the little girl with the sunglasses stopped parading around the house.

When she stopped making speeches about saving the world.

When her laughter became quieter.

But somewhere around the age of six to eight, something happened.

Something unimaginable.

Something no little girl should have to experience.

And the world I had known changed.

I won’t tell that story here.

Some things are deeply personal, and I am still learning what I want to do with those memories.

But I can tell you what happened to the little girl.

She changed.

The fearless child became watchful.

The bubbly little girl became quiet.

The one who made everybody laugh began keeping things to herself.

And the eyes that once sparkled began losing their light.

Around that time, we moved into our new family home.

The household was different.

No longer the busy home filled with my grandmother, aunties, and people everywhere.

It was Mum, Dad, my sister, and me.

Later, my younger brother joined us.

There were still moments of happiness.

Still family.

Still love.

But inside me, something had shifted.

I didn’t want to be a burden.

I didn’t want to cause trouble.

I didn’t want anyone to worry.

So I learned to survive.

Quietly.

Books Became My Other World

I found comfort in studying.

And in books.

Oh, how I loved books.

They became my escape.

My imaginary worlds.

Places where I could disappear into someone else’s life and forget about my own for a little while.

I could travel without leaving my bedroom.

I could become someone else.

I could imagine a world where everything made sense.

Where I understood the rules.

Where the ending might be different.

Studying gave me something to focus on.

Something I could control.

And so I read.

I studied.

I disappeared into stories.

From somewhere around eight or ten, through my school years, I became a different child.

Quieter.

More serious.

More self-contained.

Perhaps from the outside, it looked like I was simply growing up.

But I know now that something more had happened.

I wasn’t just growing older.

I was learning how to live with things I couldn’t put into words.

And I became very good at it.

The Scars I Still Carry

Here’s something strange.

I still have the marks from those early childhood adventures.

The scar from the stitches when I was a baby.

The burns from my dad’s motorbike exhaust.

They’re still there.

All these years later.

Little reminders of a girl who seemed determined to collect battle scars before she’d even started school!

For most of my life, they were just marks on my skin.

But now, I look at them differently.

Some of my scars are older than my memories.

Others are invisible.

And not all of them came from adventures I chose.

But every one belongs to a part of my story.

I don’t want to remember my childhood only for what went wrong.

Because before the darkness, there was so much light.

There was my grandmother trying desperately to make me eat.

There were my aunties laughing at my antics.

There was my dad’s motorbike.

There were lollies and burned feet.

There was a little girl in sunglasses, hand on her hip, promising to save the world.

There were chalk lines on a bedroom floor.

The rain against the windows.

The warmth beneath a blanket.

And my sister.

Always my sister.

Finding That Little Girl Again ❤️

I’m older now.

A wife.

A mother.

A businesswoman.

A traveller.

A woman who has been through enough to fill several books.

I’ve been called strong.

Stubborn.

Difficult.

Fearless.

And a few other things that are probably best left unpublished!

But sometimes I think about that little girl.

The one who arrived at 24 weeks and refused to give up.

The one who survived a head injury before she could even walk.

The one who burned her foot three times and still wanted another ride.

The one who believed she could save the world.

And the one who didn’t yet know how much she would need her sister’s hand.

For a long time, I thought that little girl had disappeared.

But perhaps she never really left.

Because I’m still stubborn.

Still adventurous.

Still occasionally doing things that any sensible person would advise against.

Still laughing at inappropriate moments.

Still speaking my mind.

And yes, still wearing oversized sunglasses!

The difference is that when I was little, I believed the world was safe.

Today, I know it isn’t always.

I know how cruel life can be.

I know what it means to be hurt.

I know what it means to lose pieces of yourself.

But I also know that laughter can return.

That joy can return.

That the parts of ourselves we thought were lost can sometimes find their way home.

And perhaps that’s what I’m doing now.

Not trying to become someone new.

But finding my way back to the little girl who was there before everything changed.

The one who wasn’t afraid to take up space.

The one who laughed loudly.

The one who loved fiercely.

The one who believed she could do anything.

Because before life taught me how to survive, I already knew how to live.

And I want to remember her that way.

Not as a little girl defined by what happened to her.

But as the little girl who was loved.

Who was fearless.

Who was funny.

Who was a complete bloody handful.

And who, even after everything, somehow found her way back to the sunglasses.

No filters. No perfect life. Just Jo. 😎❤️

P.S. Mum, I’m sorry for all the trouble. Although, between you and me, I think Miss Air Mauritius turned out alright!

— Jo ❤️