Once upon a time, a little girl was handed a crown.
It was dazzling, golden, studded with ambition — a crown meant for Everest.
Her father placed it on her head with love.
He saw her strength before she even knew her own name.
He wanted to protect her, to lift her high, to make her untouchable in a world that can be cruel.
But the crown was heavy.
Her neck was still soft, her shoulders small, her spirit tender.
She tried to walk, but it cut into her skin.
She thought: “Why would he give me something that hurts me so much?”
She stumbled. She resented him. She longed for a simpler, lighter life.
Years passed. The girl was tested — by mountains of exams, valleys of heartbreak, storms of pressure.
She burned, she broke, she healed. She learned to breathe, to steady her steps, to listen to her own rhythm.
And one day, she lifted the crown again.
This time, her neck was strong. Her shoulders broad. Her heart wise.
She realised: “The crown was never the problem. The timing was.”
Now, she places it on herself — not because he gave it,
but because she knows it belongs to her.
It no longer feels like a punishment. It feels like her own name.
She was always meant for Everest.
The crown fits her perfectly now.
