I am sick of hearing you talk about my morals, about my beliefs, about what I do with my life. You don’t know me. You haven’t even TRIED to get to know me. You tell me that I don’t know the hardships of life? My parents were taken from me when I was six days old. I was raised by my grandfather. For the first year, he was only distant. On my first birthday, training began. He taught me to write. He taught me the languages I know. He never showed love. He never showed pride. The only kindness I received was when he decided to be merciful in a punishment. When I failed at any aspect of my training, I was beaten. If I disappointed him, I was beaten, if he was bored, I was beaten. Ever. Single. Day. If I made him angry enough, I spent the night in a coffin. A coffin. Almost every night. Until I was sixteen. Then he threw me out. My first and only friend was a bird. Then I met Windy ride, my first pony friend. My first Love. I watched her die; torn apart by a trio of griffons. I left her to die, I ran like a coward. Ever since, I have tried to be a good pony. That is my goal, Lyra. Not Happiness, not survival. When I wake up, My goal is to look myself in the mirror before bed. There are nights when I cannot. I have risked AND LOST my life and limbs to be a good pony. I live ONLY to help others. I fight through the pain and the voices every day to help other ponies. So don’t you EVER tell me that I do not know about hardship again.

You are not the only one that had a hard life.