“I can't anymore! Someone come to me!”. Where were the adults when the child being tormented by the mother shouted that?

The story of Sabrina, the daughter of the gymnastics coach Camelia Voinea, can be seen in the material published by Golazo, which brought to light the harsh treatment she was allegedly subjected to as a child by her own mother and coach. The video recordings from when Sabrina was 8-9 years old caused strong reactions and numerous interpretations in the public space. In all this noise, however, the moment remains when Sabrina said, with a sincerity that adults rarely have: “I can't take it anymore! Someone come to me!”. That's where our message below starts, an outstretched arm to today's Sabrina, a girl who grew up too fast, too alone and under too much pressure. We would like our encouragement to be, for her, a touch of gentleness in all that she is experiencing now.

There are many adults today who are giving opinions about you, Sabrina, about what you have lived and what you have said. I don't want to talk about you, but with you. As an adult who knows what it's like to be left alone in a place where you were supposed to be safe. I write these words for you, the girl who will read, these days, all kinds of interpretations, accusations, projections and analyses. For the girl who is perhaps trying to cling to meaning at a time when everything seems to be falling apart. I'm writing because I know what it means not to have an adult next to you to tell you: you didn't do anything wrong! And I know something else: it's okay to feel like things are fighting in your soul. It's okay to love your mother and at the same time be hurt by what you went through. That doesn't make you a bad kid. That makes you an honest child.

There is no need to revisit things that are pressing you now. Nor analyze every detail of what it was. You are not obliged to answer questions, give details, clarify anything. It's your right to stop, breathe and take care of yourself. You've already done something that requires a strength that many adults don't have: you've said “I can't do it anymore!”. And that is a form of courage.

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