“Listen up kiddo—now ya better do this right this time, ya hear me?

Or ya’ll get it again…”

That’s what he said to me before every take.

My childhood wasn’t like any other normal one would have. It was full of flashy lights, cameras, and time spend on interviews late at night rather than kickin’ a ball or whatever children that age do.

I would spend hours and hours rehearsing before going up on stage—just so I don’t get it again by him.

I never understood why I needed to do this. Why instead of making friends and playing outside, I was locked up in studios.

But the cameras loved me. Big eyes, wobbly voice, and two missing front teeth—America’s perfect child at just six years of age. My face was on cereal boxes, my voice was heard on talk shows.

But no child can stand this kind of life for that long.

For an age like that, you do dumb things sometimes.

And so I did.

With no goodbye letter. No kisses. No hugs. No farewell.

I left this place at seven and a half years of age. Pretty young, I know, but what did I know better? It was like hell here anyway.

The clouds are always puffy where I am now, and the sun casts beautiful shades of gold. I slide down on rainbows, and play tag for hours. I don’t worry about anything else here. No one hurts me anymore—not up here.

Sometimes my friends ask me do I ever miss being famous.

No—I never do.

And never will.

Where I am now— it’s quiet.

No yelling.

Just light.