Survival through the wreckage

In today’s world, it’s not uncommon to encounter people quietly fighting their own battles—some relentlessly chasing their dreams, while others are left disheartened as theirs begin to crumble. As we navigate this ongoing tug-of-war between aspiration and reality, carrying the weight of unspoken struggles, I can’t help but wonder: have we, somewhere along the way, lost the true essence of hope?

Growing up, I have always the kind of person who believed she was in full control of her life—firmly holding the reins, meeting every challenge head-on, and never flinching in the face of failure. With unwavering confidence and a spirited energy, I stood tall against whatever life threw my way. Even as life ebbed and flowed with its usual highs and lows, I don’t recall ever feeling truly defeated—not even when my aspirations began to slip through my fingers. Instead, I welcomed the twists and turns, embracing the paths life chose for me with a smile. But all of that shifted… eight years ago.  

What started eight years ago has continued to ripple through my life, growing in intensity like a snowball gaining momentum. The relentless flood of self-deprecating thoughts, harsh inner criticism, and the haunting questions—“Why did this have to happen to me?” or “What did I ever do to deserve this?”—gradually pulled me into the darkest chapter of my life. Picking up the pieces and rebuilding from what felt like absolute ruin was the hardest thing I’ve ever done. But as I reflect on the path I’ve walked, I realize that my journey has been nothing short of a phoenix rising from the ashes. And yet, even now, the echoes of that pain continue to quietly linger.

While I managed to overcome the challenges that had once taken hold of one part of my life and pushed forward with resilience, I failed to realize that the pain hadn’t truly disappeared. It hadn’t dissolved or healed completely—it had simply shifted, quietly relocating itself from one corner of my world to another. What I thought I had left behind was, in fact, still with me, just wearing a different face, lingering in a new form, waiting to be acknowledged.

It’s been two years since this phase resurfaced—unexpected and uninvited—tearing me apart once more, forcing me to question my worth, my value, and my very purpose. It brought back memories I had tried so hard to release, resurfacing emotions I thought were long buried. The haunting thoughts that creep in during quiet moments, the tears that fall in silence at night, and the relentless drive to overwork—just to escape confronting the darkness—have led me somewhere I never intended to go. I've drifted far from reality, into a place that feels neither familiar nor safe. Just a deep, shadowed pit where hope feels absent, and the light at the end of the tunnel seems like nothing more than a distant illusion. And here I am—wondering if I’ll ever climb out of this darkness… or if, slowly, I’ll fade into it.

Each day feels like a battle I never signed up for—a conversation I wish I could avoid, a heaviness in my heart I desperately wish wouldn’t grow deeper, yet it all keeps slipping through the cracks. For someone who once clung to hope, who genuinely believed in the good life had to offer, I now find myself emptied of dreams, stripped of aspirations. When did simply living become so difficult? Why did it become this hard? I often find myself wondering what I could’ve done differently—what choices might have spared me from this spiral. These questions flood my mind, suffocating me, as I search for answers that never seem to come. This endless pursuit has left me adrift, caught in a delusion where the idea of "happiness" feels like nothing more than a distant illusion. These daily inner battles have consumed me so deeply that I barely recognize myself anymore. I often think back to who I used to be—the one who laughed freely, radiated warmth, and carried light wherever she went. Now, that version of me feels like a distant memory, fading further with each passing day.

And so, here I am—caught in the quiet wreckage of a life I no longer recognize, haunted by echoes of a past self I can’t seem to return to. The light I once carried within me now flickers faintly, overshadowed by the weight of questions with no answers and dreams that feel too far gone to chase again. I used to believe that time could heal, that hope would always find a way to rise—but now, even that belief feels worn thin. There are days when I wonder if I’ve already slipped too far, if the person I once was is gone for good, buried beneath the exhaustion of constantly pretending I’m okay. Perhaps the hardest part isn’t the pain itself, but the silence that follows it—the aching emptiness where joy used to live, and the slow realization that maybe, just maybe, I’ve forgotten what it feels like to truly live.