I used to love writing in my journal. I liked it less when it was new and full of blank pages, and more as it filled up and I could flip to see all my writings. I’d give updates, share challenges, and talk to the unknown.
Although it never talked back, the unknown provided space, space to sit, to breathe, and to reflect. It allowed me to vent and agonize. It showed me myself, scared but trying.
I feel scared more often than I care to admit. It’s an unshakeable feeling, deep within, that no matter how meaningful, lucky, or advantageous my life is, I can’t escape.
For the longest time, I could outrun it. But that’s not how it works, I’ve found. It’s also something if I go looking for, it poof disappears. So I try to stay somewhere in the middle.
And when it does show, I do my best to simply accept it exists. I nod to it, put my arm around its shoulder, and together we take some deep breaths. I let its ocean depth sadness fill me up and sweep me away.
Life is fucking hard. I mean it. My life is good, and it’s still really fucking hard. I watched a mother on TikTok today. Her daughter is seven and living with a neurodegenerative, terminal illness. She likely won’t live to see her tenth birthday. The mom copes by sharing her daughter’s story and being a part of a community that listens to what she’s saying.
I don’t know how we do it; a human being’s ability to cope with suffering is beyond me.
I don’t have anything else. Thank you for listening, and as always –
I love you.