There were times—maybe even now—when I’d catch myself wondering how it feels to be hurt again. To be in pain. And then I'd stop myself and say, “God, no!” But the truth is, I’ve carried so much for so long that sometimes it feels like the weight of the world is on me. I’ve felt it so deeply that eventually, I went numb.
I remember how I used to react to things—especially when my sister would tell me what relatives were saying about us. My response used to be, “WTF?” I’d take everything seriously, let it consume me. But somewhere along the way, I just stopped caring. I stopped reacting. Whatever people said, even those closest to me—it didn’t matter anymore. I carried my life alone. If I got sick, so be it. If I was in pain, then so be it. Angry? Fine. I didn’t care. I just didn’t give a damn.
All I did was focus—on studying, working, and teaching. Those things grounded me, helped me survive in a world that once terrified me. I used to be so afraid to face life. I lived in the shadows of expectations until I burned out. And then, I felt nothing.
At one point, I started to worry: why couldn’t I feel anything anymore? Why didn’t I care? Why did love and empathy feel like distant memories? Then I remembered—when my niece was born, I smiled for the first time in months. I held her in my arms, and for a fleeting moment, I felt something again. When she would reach out to sleep beside me, when my sister and brother-in-law would leave her in my care—I saw something in that tiny human. A glimpse of beauty. A reason to keep going. Life still had meaning, even if I had forgotten how to see it.
I didn’t hate the world; I just didn’t want to feel anymore. I had gone through so many rough times all at once that I couldn’t process it all—not in my head, not in my heart. I had been strong for so long. Too strong. I poured myself into achieving something, anything, just so no one could look down on us ever again. I didn’t want to succeed to prove others wrong—I wanted to rise so I could lift others up too.
I thought I had already made it through the worst. But now I’m realizing maybe this is just the beginning.
Back in college, I had a self-development class. I remember breaking down—not with visible tears, but with a silent scream no one heard. It was one of those moments where I let it all out because I had to. And it helped. It helped me grow. Pain does that. It changes people. It can either destroy you or shape you—it’s all in how you choose to carry it.
Now, here I am again—with so much on my plate. I try to check in with myself, but I don’t know what’s missing. I don’t know what will help me heal. I’m trying. Really, I am. But it never feels like it’s enough. Not for anyone else—but not even for myself.
I want a break. But not like before—not the kind of break that came at the cost of my health. That kind of break changed me completely. And yes, things got better after that. But here I am again—feeling scared by the stop-and-start of my dreams.
Still, I try. Every single day, I try to be better. To cope. To live—day by day.