Have you ever been at your lowest and wished that someone would simply understand you? I have. You know that exhilarating feeling? It excites me to the point that I feel seen—validated. Finally, someone feels what I feel. So, I carried that thought with me. Whenever I wasn’t okay, I found comfort in thinking that someone else was going through the same thing. Somehow, that made everything feel… fine. That sudden feeling of comfort would always find me whenever I thought about it. I held onto that for a long time. Yet, it never solved my problems, and in the end, it never truly comforted me.
I have been growing weary of life. I found my people, yes—people who understood exactly what I was going through. There is something comforting about two people carrying the same burden. It sounds ironic, almost like the blind leading the blind. But it isn’t. Somehow, it works. The laughter you share, the jokes only the two of you understand, and the thoughts that quietly consume your mind—you no longer have to carry them alone. You know exactly what words the other person needs to hear because you’ve been there too. Having someone like that almost feels like heaven.
But then I realized that comfort alone is not enough. It is dangerous when weariness becomes something we normalize. I admit, it isn’t life that I want to disappear from—it is the feeling of merely surviving that I want to escape. It is difficult to feel alive when you are constantly drawn toward oblivion. Sadness lingers so deeply that sometimes only a razor’s edge seems capable of silencing it, even if only for a moment. That heavy baggage that you need to etch into just to release. And when it is over, guilt follows. It is never freedom. It is only another weight to bear.
So, I started going out. I met people. They were different—not the kind of friends I used to search for, the ones whose stories mirrored mine. They carried something I didn’t have. They had a flame within them, a quiet fuel that kept them moving through life. They are good friends, I must say. Their perspective is different from mine, yet it is strangely contagious—not in a negative way, but in a way that slowly reminds you what living can feel like. They move with the rhythm of life, and without realizing it, I wanted to move with them. Little by little, I found myself allowing life back in.
Then it hit me.
Maybe I am far more different from them than I once thought. But that difference never stopped me from wanting to flow alongside them. I am still trying to keep pace with the rhythm they carry, and somewhere along the way, I began asking myself:
What is life really about?
Is it about surrounding yourself with people who drift in the same current as you? Or is it about becoming a rhythm of your own—one that may sound different, yet still belongs to the music of life?
Maybe that is for each of us to decide.
