Chapter Seven: Little Dreams, Big Fire
Age 18 – Six Months Later
Alora stared at the blinking cursor on the donated desktop in Mama Ladi's office.
The screen was blank.
So was her mind.
Except for the pounding of her heart.
What if no one reads this?
What if they do… and laugh?
She clicked backspace and deleted the title she had typed — for the third time.
"Just write it like you're writing to yourself," Mama Ladi had told her that morning after handing her a cup of tea and whispering, "Today's the day."
Alora had shaken her head. "I don't think I'm ready."
"You'll never feel ready," Mama Ladi said with a wink. "You just do it scared."
And now here she was. Staring at a white screen with trembling fingers, trying to pour truth into words.
Finally, with a breath, she began to type:
"For the girls who feel invisible."
I see you.
The girl in the same hoodie three days in a row.
The one who hides in the back of class hoping no one asks why her lunch bag is empty.
The one who stares at glossy magazine covers and wonders if her stretch marks, frizzy curls, and secondhand shoes make her unlovable.
I know you.
Because I am you.
They say you need money, connections, or a last name that opens doors.
But here's the truth: all you need is fire.
Fire in your bones. In your spirit. In your story.
You're not too late.
You're not too broken.
You are becoming.
By the time she stopped typing, her eyes were wet.
She hit "publish" on the blog — titled "Phoenix Rising" — then immediately regretted it.
She almost closed the laptop entirely, but the screen blinked with a notification:
Post published.
That was it.
Her words were out there.
The next day, she checked the blog again, mostly out of curiosity. She expected one or two pity views — probably from girls in the house or Mama Ladi.
But there were 47.
By the end of the week, 253.
By the end of the month, over 1,200.
And then the comments started rolling in:
"This made me cry. I've never felt so seen."
"I shared this with my sister. She needed this. Thank you."
"Please don't stop writing. We need your voice."
Alora was stunned.
She had no fancy graphics. No promo. No followers.
Just honesty.
And people were listening.
One morning, she woke to a knock on her door.
Mama Ladi walked in holding a printed email. "You got a message from a women's college out west. They want you to speak at their youth leadership day."
Alora's mouth dropped. "Me? Speak?"
"You. The same girl who once whispered her name like it was a secret."
Alora sat slowly. "I don't have clothes for something like that. I've never spoken in public before."
Mama Ladi handed her a neatly folded burgundy blazer. "You do now. And we'll practice."
The week that followed felt like training for war.
Every evening, Alora stood in front of the mirror in the dining room while the other girls pretended to be the audience. She stumbled. Forgot her words. Fidgeted with her sleeves.
But each time, she got back up.
She rehearsed until her voice grew louder, her shoulders straighter.
Until she began to believe the words coming out of her own mouth.
The day of the talk arrived.
The auditorium at Queensbridge College was packed. Young women filled the rows, notebooks in hand, eyes curious and eager. Alora sat backstage, knees shaking. Her palms were clammy. She clutched a folded paper of her speech so hard it wrinkled.
"Ready?" asked the event coordinator.
No.
Not even close.
But she stood anyway.
On stage, the lights were hot. Her eyes couldn't find a single familiar face.
She cleared her throat and leaned into the microphone. "Hi. My name is Alora Jordan. I used to believe I was invisible."
A hush fell.
She continued, slowly at first, then with growing strength:
"I thought no one would ever care about what I had to say. I thought my story didn't matter because it wasn't shiny or clean. But I was wrong. Our stories — the real ones — they matter most. Because there's always someone out there who's surviving the same storm you already came through."
Applause erupted.
She smiled — not because of the applause, but because she had finally heard her own voice. And it didn't tremble anymore.
That night, back at Mama Ladi's house, the girls greeted her with hugs, a chocolate cake someone had scraped together, and a card that read:
"To our Phoenix. You're already flying."
In her room, Alora opened her journal and wrote:
I didn't know my words had wings.
But they do.
And I'll keep writing —
not because I'm healed,
but because I'm healing.
I don't want fame.
I want impact.
If my voice can help even one girl believe she's worth something…
That's enough for me.
But she didn't know that thousands more were listening.
That this blog would become a global platform.
That the girl who once slept on a bench would soon sit on panels with world leaders.
All she knew was this:
She had fire in her bones.
And it was finally catching light.