The Way the World Moved When I Was Four

At four years old, the world around me shimmered, pulsed, and hurt all at once.
Light wasn’t just light — it was too much. The kind that made my eyes burn until I’d have to squint or turn away.
At Walmart or the grocery store, those bright fluorescent lights felt like they were crawling into my head, making everything blur and hum.
Even the sun could sting if it hit just right.
Sometimes, when the lights flickered or the world around me felt too bright or too fast, I’d get dizzy — like the floor was moving under me, and I couldn’t quite catch my balance.

I was a clumsy little girl — always running into things, spilling things, tripping over my own feet.
It was like my body was trying to keep up with a world that never stopped spinning.

But then came dance.

My parents had had me in dance class since I had been three years of age, and it gave me something nothing else could — purpose.
My teacher never let me say, “I can’t do it,” or “I’ll never get it.” She would look right at me and say,

“Hold your head up high, Brandy. Yes, you can. Now try again.”

For her, I’ll forever be thankful. She taught me my very first life lesson: When you fall, you get back up and keep dancing.

And so I did.

When I danced, I wasn’t the clumsy little girl anymore.
I wasn’t the one who couldn’t read, who couldn’t keep up, who got dizzy and lost trying to watch everyone’s mouths and words.
When I danced, I didn’t have to read any words or try to guess what someone was saying. All I had to do was feel.

And oh, how I could feel.
I could feel the rhythm running through me — flowing straight through my heart like the river God made when He first taught water how to move.
It was pure.
It was peace.
It was me.
When I danced, I felt magical.

For once, I wasn’t lazy or dumb or stupid or clumsy.
I was alive.
I was graceful.
I was good at something.
I could feel it in my whole body.
I loved dancing.
I knew I was good at dancing.
I felt it deep — like my heart was too big for my little chest, overflowing with something beautiful.

Sometimes I think that’s what I’ve always been best at — feeling.
Feeling everything too much.
Too deep.
Too wide.
Like my whole heart was born open.

But outside the studio, the world still moved too fast.
Voices didn’t come to me like they did for others.
Words floated in the air, heavy and strange — like they were wearing masks.
I learned early to watch mouths, to read lips, to find meaning in how teeth and tongues and faces moved.

But as I stared, trying to keep up, I was also trying to make sense of what I was hearing.
The more I tried to focus, the more everything slipped away.
The harder I tried to understand, the more I forgot.
Sometimes I’d watch their lips so long my head would start to spin — I’d get dizzy from trying to keep my eyes on every tiny movement, desperate to make it make sense.
I’d be left feeling disappointed, confused… and stupid.

And deep inside, I was confused why I felt all of this so strongly.
Why did everything seem louder, brighter, heavier to me than to everyone else?
Why could no one else see me the way I saw myself — struggling to make sense of the world spinning too fast?
I remember feeling trapped inside my tiny body, screaming silently, desperate for someone to see what I was feeling, but no one could.
My baby heart was crying out, but the world stayed quiet.

When someone said “tree,” I heard tahtwee.
When they said “orange,” I heard on-ch-an-ing.
Nothing ever sounded quite right.
Everything echoed in my head in my own language, one no one else could hear.

I didn’t understand why my world sounded so different.
I just knew it did.

At that age, I could feel things more than I could name them.
When someone said, “Look at the baby,” or “That’s a cute dog,” I didn’t just see them — I felt love for them.
A kind of deep, aching love that didn’t need words.
But when I saw those same words in a book, the letters wouldn’t stay still long enough to let me match them to what I already knew in my heart.

It was like something inside me was scrambled — a web of wires tangled tight — and no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t untie them.

Even at four, I knew I was different.
Even before kindergarten, I knew something inside me worked another way.

But how do you tell your momma that, when you’re too little to even say the words that scare you?

Some of my favorite memories are sitting on the floor beside my mom and brother, coloring.
My brother’s crayons glided so easily — smooth, bright, perfect.
My mom’s colors stayed inside the lines like they were dancing.
Mine... didn’t.

I wanted it to be fun, I really did.
But every time I picked up a crayon, I felt that ache rise up — that heavy sadness I couldn’t name.
Not jealousy, not anger... just hurt.
The kind that whispers, I wish I could do what they can.

That’s when I first started to hear that other voice.
The one that didn’t belong to God, didn’t belong to love.
The one that whispered:

“You stupid, stupid little girl. Don’t even try. Just watch. You don’t even know the colors. You can’t color like them. You can’t say the words right. You can’t hold it right. You’re not like them.”

And I believed it — for a while.

I remember fighting back tears, trying not to let them see that my heart was breaking right there beside them.
My mom would smile and help me color, thinking she was just teaching me.
She couldn’t know what was going on inside me.
How could she? I never told her.

At night, when everyone else was asleep, I’d talk to Jesus.
I’d whisper into the dark, asking Him why I was made this way.
Why my eyes hurt. Why words danced. Why my mind got tired just trying to understand.

And every time, right before I fell asleep, the noise would fade.
The voices would go quiet.
And I’d feel that peace only He can give.
Because even at that early age, I understood something — a spiritual battle was happening over me.
I was a child of God, and all those voices of self-doubt and shame — they were not from Him.
Even as a little girl, I knew there was light fighting for me in the dark.

Even then, I noticed the patterns — the lights that hurt, the noises that blended, the books that blurred until my eyes burned red and heavy.
I’d strain so hard just to read one line that my whole body would feel tired — like my brain was running a race it could never win.
Sometimes I’d have to stop because the page itself felt like it was spinning.
I’d get dizzy, rub my eyes, and wish everything would just sit still for a minute.

But somehow, even when everything inside me screamed give up, something deeper whispered try again.
And that’s what I did.

Because even at four, even when I didn’t have the words, I had the heart.
I just wanted to make my momma proud.
And I still do.

To be continued…
(Stay tuned for Part Two: “When the Words Wouldn’t Sit Still” — where I’ll share what it felt like when school began, and how the world around me changed once letters started to move for real.)

🌙 Until next time,
Yours truly,
A little girl who never stopped dancing through the words —
Brandy Lawhon