My hidden strength became apparent when I was 18, a revelation that transformed my perspective on life. You might wonder, "What does a regular person like me have in common with a superpower?" The truth is, every remarkable strength often lies concealed.

Allow me to elaborate.

It was my inaugural job after finishing high school, and every Friday, I would treat my mom to flowers on my way to the bus stop. I typically picked out a small bouquet, just enough to cradle during the half-hour bus ride home.

One Friday, I noticed a small amber bottle adorned with delicate strawflowers peeking out. It struck me as the ideal gift; these flowers would endure and fit perfectly in the divided printing drawer she had hung on the wall. I purchased it and tucked it safely in my jacket pocket.

The buses in Pittsburgh during 1978 were far from modern. They rumbled along uneven roads, their engines competing with the cacophony of city life. I boarded at one of the last stops and often had to grip the overhead pole while standing. This particular Friday was no exception.

As I stood on the bus, balancing one hand on the overhead pole and the other gripping my purse strap, I felt comfortable enough. I had grown accustomed to this route after five months of daily rides. Weekdays were for work, while weekends typically included trips to the mall with my boyfriend, household chores, and church on Sundays.

The bus was nearing our home as it climbed the final hill, passing my old elementary school and the local grocery store. While waiting at the lone traffic light in town, I moved to the aisle and stood by the last seat, positioned just behind the bus driver, facing the right side.

I habitually exited the bus at the stop across from our corner lot. Occasionally, my younger siblings would eagerly await my arrival on the front porch. I loved to wave at them as we passed, and at my height of 5'2", I could easily see the house and the wide porch where they often gathered.

I need to provide this background to explain the story I am about to share. Although I haven’t revisited this memory in years, I feel compelled to recount it now.

What I’m about to describe took less than a minute, yet it plays in my mind in slow motion.

Gripping the overhead pole, I glanced to my left out of the bus's front window. An unusual number of people filled the sidewalks along my block, which struck me as odd for a Friday afternoon. As we passed my house, I froze, overwhelmed by a chilling sensation. Smoke billowed from the broken windows, and the front door hung wide open. My siblings were nowhere in sight.

In a panic, I yelled at the bus driver to let me off immediately, ignoring his protests about not reaching a designated stop. My frantic attempts to open the doors must have seemed frantic. He eventually halted the bus and opened the doors. I leaped out and sprinted toward our house.

As I approached, the acrid scent of smoke filled the air. The asphalt shingles on the second floor were blistered and cracked, while jagged glass framed the shattered windows. My eyes instinctively darted to the attic, where my bedroom was located, and I noticed that the windows there were also missing.

The porch was devoid of life. Where were my parents, my brothers, my sisters? It was eerily silent.

I stepped onto the concrete porch, directly facing the front door. Just before I could step inside, a firefighter emerged, calling out, “That’s it. They’re all gone now.”

They’re all gone now? All gone?

I moved to the big red porch swing still hanging from the roof. I sank into it and pushed off with one foot, lowering my head as tears streamed down my face. I kept my gaze down as I heard someone mention that the ceiling had just collapsed. I had been raised not to create a scene, so I remained hunched over, struggling to comprehend the unfolding tragedy. My hands instinctively found the small glass bottle with strawflowers I had bought just an hour earlier, and I closed my eyes.

The swing offered a gentle resistance, and then I felt someone sit beside me. A hand rested on my knee, but I couldn’t bring myself to look up. I sat motionless, shoulders hunched, as words floated around me, too painful to acknowledge.

Yes, I know, you’re curious about my hidden strength. I’ll get to that, just a little longer, please.

Amidst the chaos, I heard my name, prompting me to finally look up. It was my aunt, someone who typically didn’t visit our neighborhood at this time of day. She was usually busy with work and only came around during holidays.

Why was she here? Why wasn’t she upset? Did she not realize that my family was gone? I felt an overwhelming urge to shield her from the truth.

She informed me that my parents were at her home, half an hour away, accompanied by my siblings. They had called her earlier to inform her of the fire. My aunt had witnessed the neighbors attempting to douse the flames and saw the inferno engulfing the house. This had transpired hours before, while I was at work.

Then she spoke the words that revealed my hidden strength: they had forgotten to contact me amidst the chaos of the fire. For hours, while the fire department tackled the flames and my family evacuated, I had been left in the dark.

They had left me behind.

They had taken my younger siblings with them, counted them off as they drove away, but I had been forgotten. My aunt hadn’t returned for me; she had merely come back to retrieve my mother’s purse and was surprised to find me sitting there.

Because of my hidden strength, I learned that I was forgettable, invisible, and unimportant.

In that instant, I grasped a harsh truth, one that I have carried with me since that day. I am that young girl on the swing, enveloped by the scent of smoke, grappling with the realization of my worthlessness.

You see, I understand now what my hidden strength is. Can you see me?

This experience is real, and it took years for me to comprehend the profound lesson that I was invisible in my family, and how that shaped my life. I continue to fight against that lesson today.

If you know a child struggling with similar feelings, here are 10 steps to help them break free and embrace a more empowering truth: You Matter.