The Quiet Machinery of the Mind
Sometimes, it feels as if our minds are living things of their own — soft, clever, restless creatures that both shelter and sabotage us. You can wake up one morning with sunlight pouring through the curtains, the world perfectly still, and yet the weight of yesterday’s thoughts presses down before your feet even touch the floor. That’s the quiet machinery of the mind at work — endlessly spinning, endlessly doing even when you’re begging it to stop.
The human mind is an artist of stories. It paints meaning where none was meant, rewinds old scenes, and predicts tragedies that may never come. It takes what is uncertain and calls it danger. It takes what is kind and questions its truth. This is how it protects us — but also how it hurts us. We are wired to survive, not to be peaceful. The mind is a vigilant guardian, and it rarely knows when to rest.
But here’s the thing: you are not your thoughts.
You are the one hearing them.
When you begin to notice the mind’s movements — the “what ifs,” the “not enoughs,” the “maybe next times” — you start to see how it works. It clings to patterns. It feeds on repetition. It loves control. So, when you gently step outside that pattern — when you breathe before reacting, or choose silence instead of self-judgment — something miraculous happens: the machinery slows down. It doesn’t stop, but it softens. It starts to trust that it doesn’t need to guard you so fiercely anymore.
Going around your mind, in a personal sense, doesn’t mean fighting it. It means understanding it enough to step aside when it starts its noise. It means saying, “I see you,” to the fears and still moving forward anyway. It means letting your heart — quiet, patient, unhurried — take the lead once in a while.
Sometimes, going around your mind looks like taking a walk when everything inside you screams to stay still.
Sometimes, it’s forgiving yourself when your thoughts insist you don’t deserve it.
Sometimes, it’s choosing to rest, to love, to hope — even when logic tells you it’s foolish.
There’s no finish line to this work. The mind will always hum beneath the surface, spinning stories and seeking meaning. But each time you notice the hum instead of believing it — each time you reach for kindness over certainty — you create space. And in that space, life rushes in. Not perfect, not tidy, but real.
So, next time your mind begins its storm, remember:
You are not broken.
You are simply alive — human, feeling, thinking, surviving.
And sometimes, the most courageous thing you can do is gently, lovingly, go around yourself… and meet the world with open hands again.
Invisible Among the Living
Lately, I wake up with this dull heaviness in my chest. It’s not sadness exactly, more like dread — like I’m bracing myself for a world that feels too loud, too uncertain, too sharp around the edges.
Everywhere I go, there are people. Talking, laughing, scrolling, living. Yet somehow, I still feel invisible — like I’m standing in the middle of a crowded room and no one really sees me. I smile when I have to, I nod when it’s expected, but inside, I’m just trying not to crumble under the weight of my own thoughts. I am trying to fit in this chaotic world of aliens.
Maybe it’s harder because I’ve always been alone in some way. No siblings to talk to, no cousins close enough to call mine. I never really had that “someone to share with” — the person who just gets you without needing an explanation. So everything I feel, I carry by myself. Every small joy, every ache, every thought that needs a place to go — it all just stays inside me until it gets too heavy.
It’s strange — being surrounded by humanity but still feeling so far from it. Everyone’s busy pretending they’re okay, and I guess I’m doing the same. Maybe that’s why it feels so isolating — because we’re all silently scared, quietly hurting, but too afraid to say it out loud.
The world feels unpredictable these days. Every headline, every sound, every new day comes with its own kind of fear. And sometimes I wonder if we’ve all just accepted this constant state of dread as normal — this quiet panic that hums underneath our routines.
But even in the loneliness, I remind myself that feeling this way means I still care. I still want connection, even when it feels out of reach. I still want to belong, even when the world feels too heavy to hold. Everyone is just moving on with their lives.
Maybe one day I’ll find peace in the noise. Or maybe I’ll just learn to live gently with the fear — to carry it, but not let it consume me.
For now, I’ll keep breathing through the dread, even if no one notices.
Broken by the One I Called Home
It’s strange how quiet betrayal feels. People think it’s loud — shouting, slamming doors, big endings. But for me, it’s loud but most of the time its silent. A slow, sinking kind of silence that settled in my stomach and refused to leave.
When someone you love betrays you, it’s not just the act that hurts. It’s the shattering of something you believed was solid. You start questioning everything — every word they said, every moment that felt real. Were they lying then too? Did they ever mean it?
It’s like watching a movie of your own life, but suddenly realizing you don’t know the ending anymore. You thought you were safe, that you knew this person. And then one day, you see a different version of them — the one who could hurt you. The one who did.
I think the hardest part is the confusion. How can someone who once made you feel so loved be the same person who made you feel so small? It doesn’t make sense. You replay it all, over and over, trying to find the moment things changed. But maybe they didn’t. Maybe you just finally saw it.
There’s anger too, but underneath it, there’s grief. Grief for the version of them you believed in. Grief for the version of you that trusted so easily.
People say time heals, and maybe it does. But I think betrayal doesn’t really heal — it just teaches you where to build your walls. It makes you quieter, a little colder, and a lot more careful.
And I don’t know which hurts more — the actual act or that someone who you really trusted could hurt you so easily.
Are We Who We Say We Are, Who We Show We Are, or Who We Wish to Be?
In a world that thrives on presentation — from curated Instagram feeds to carefully worded bios — to who we describe ourselves to strangers on internet — the question of who we really are has never felt more complicated. Are we defined by the words we use to describe ourselves, the actions others witness, or the ideal versions of ourselves we’re constantly trying to become?
Who We Say We Are
The way we describe ourselves is often about our passion, beliefs, our name, job. But words are slippery. They can be honest, aspirational, or even protective — a way to frame how we want others to perceive us. Sometimes, “who we say we are” isn’t a reflection of who we truly are, but who we’re comfortable admitting to being.
Our self-descriptions are stories — and stories can evolve, twist, and contradict. The words we use can either anchor us in reality or float us toward illusion.
Who We Show We Are
Actions, unlike words, are harder to disguise. They’re the living proof of what we value. How we treat people when no one’s watching, how we react under stress, and how we show love or frustration — these glimpses often reveal more truth than any biography could.
Yet, even “who we show we are” can be performative. We all wear masks in different settings — the professional mask, the friend mask, the family mask. Each reveals part of us, but not necessarily the whole. We perform because we want to belong, to be understood, or simply to survive in the social ecosystems we inhabit.
Who We Want to Be
Then there’s the fantasy — the version of ourselves that exists in imagination or maybe we thought who we used to be decades ago. This isn’t necessarily deception; it can be motivation. The idealized self can inspire growth. But it can also become a trap — when we cling so tightly to that fantasy that we lose touch with the imperfect, authentic person underneath.
We post, pose, and edit — crafting not just photos but entire personas. In this digital age, the line between “becoming” and “pretending” has blurred. Our fantasies about ourselves can either lead us toward evolution or delusion, depending on how honest we are about the gap between who we are and who we wish to be.
The Truth Between the Three
Maybe authenticity isn’t about choosing one of these versions, but about acknowledging all of them. We are what we say, what we do, and what we hope for — in constant negotiation. Our identities are not fixed points; they’re moving currents.
Learning to love ourselves even when we’re messy, uncertain, or halfway to becoming who we dream of being.
Because at the end of the day, being real doesn’t mean being perfect — it means being honest.
And honesty, is where we finally start to meet ourselves.
Growing Up as an Only Child: Learning Loneliness Early
Growing up as an only child was, for me, both a privilege and a quiet kind of isolation. I often watched my friends pack their bags during summer vacation, heading off to visit cousins, grandparents, and big family homes buzzing with life. I remember standing in the balcony, feeling like I was the only one left behind — the silence in the house felt bigger somehow during those days.
At a very young age, I learned what it meant to be alone. It wasn’t always sad — sometimes I found comfort in my own company — but there was an ache that I couldn’t name back then. My mother did everything she could to fill that space. She was a full-time working mother, always trying to make my world feel full. And yet, no matter how much love she gave, there was a kind of companionship I longed for that only another child could have provided.
Maybe that loneliness did more than just make me independent — maybe it also made me crave the kind of love I used to read about in books. I read a lot growing up; I used to write all the time too; stories were my escape, but also my mirror. The way those characters were loved — fiercely, unconditionally, completely — made me angry at my own reality. Why didn’t I have that warmth, that chaos, that noise of belonging? Sometimes I think that’s where my fear of being alone comes from. I still get that sinking feeling, like I’m back in those quiet, heavy days. Maybe that’s why I hold on to people and moments too tightly, why letting go feels like tearing away a part of myself. The truth is, the adult me is just the child me, still trying to fill the spaces that once felt too empty.
But I’m learning that loneliness doesn’t have to be an enemy. It can also be a teacher — one that reminds me to create the kind of warmth I used to wait for, and to give love as deeply as I’ve always wanted to receive it. I’m starting to see that being alone doesn’t mean being unloved; it means having space to know myself better. The echoes of my childhood still follow me sometimes, but now, instead of fearing them, I try to listen. Because maybe healing isn’t about erasing the dreadful emptiness — maybe it’s about finally learning to live comfortably within it.
The Journey to Forgive and Let Go
Have you ever had your heart broken — not just in the usual way, but by someone you truly believed would never hurt you?
Someone who once felt like home… your safe place… and then one day, that same person becomes the source of your deepest pain?
It’s a kind of heartbreak that words can’t really explain. It’s not just sadness — it’s shock, confusion, disbelief. You keep asking yourself, how could they? How could the person who knew your heart so well choose to break it?
When you’re at your most vulnerable, you just want to be understood. You want to feel respected, protected — not betrayed. And when that doesn’t happen, it shakes something inside you. It makes you question not only them, but yourself.
You replay everything — the laughter, the moments that once made you feel safe. You think of all the times you showed up, all the love you gave, and wonder if any of it even mattered.
It hurts. Deeply.
And yet, somehow, life doesn’t stop. You still have people who depend on you — your kids, your parents — people who look to you for strength when you barely have any left for yourself. That’s when you realize: you can’t stay stuck in the pain forever.
Forgiving and forgetting… it’s not easy. Especially when it feels one-sided.
But for your own peace, for your own sanity, you have to.
Not because they deserve it — but because you do.
You deserve freedom.
You deserve peace.
You deserve to wake up one day without that weight on your chest.
Letting go doesn’t mean the love wasn’t real. It just means you’re choosing yourself now. It means you’re done letting their actions control your emotions. It’s realizing that forgiveness is not about saying “it’s okay” — it’s about saying “I won’t let this define me anymore.”
And yes, when you’ve had someone in your life for years — when they’ve become part of your every thought, they are a piece of your life or you as a person.
You can’t imagine life or breathing without them.
You can’t imagine laughter without their voice.
But over time, you start to learn that the pain dulls, little by little. One morning, you’ll wake up, and it won’t hurt as much. You’ll think of them, and instead of tears, you’ll just feel… peace.
That’s healing. It doesn’t come all at once. It comes slowly, quietly, almost unnoticed — until one day, you realize you survived what you thought would break you.
So if you’re in that place right now, holding your broken heart and wondering how to move on — please know this:
You will.
Maybe not today, maybe not tomorrow. But one day, you’ll breathe again without pain in your chest.
And you’ll know — that even though they broke you, they didn’t destroy you.
You’re still here.
You’re still standing.
And that’s your victory.
THE NIGHT YOU BROKE MY TRUST SILENTLY
I don’t think I’ll ever understand why you did what you did. I’ll always ask why.
Why to me?
What did I do to deserve this?
I was right there — maybe tired, maybe half-asleep, maybe just existing beside you, carrying your child, our child inside me. I was trying my best to hold everything together, to be enough for us, for what we were building. And still, you chose to reach for someone else, a stranger on internet.
In what way did I fail? Was I not enough? Did I not love you right, or speak enough, or look the way you wanted? What made you think it was okay to text another woman, a stranger, in the middle of the night?
It wasn’t just a message. It was a crack, a betrayal, a moment that made everything blur. You disrespected what we had — the love, the trust, the memories, everything we were becoming.
And it hurts. It hurts in a way that words can’t describe, a pain only I can truly feel. Because while you were pressing send, I was carrying your heartbeat inside me.
You say it was just a message. You say you don’t know why. But to me, it was a moment that changed everything.
I keep asking myself — how could you do this to me? why did you do this to me?
The one who stood by you, believed in you, trusted you with everything.
Maybe I’ll never get an answer.
Maybe all I’ll ever have is this question that never stops echoing:
Why?