What am I really feeling when I wake up and everything feels heavy?
Lately, I've been waking up with a heavy feeling in my chest.
It starts with the usual thoughts—feeding the cats, cleaning the litter box, tidying up whatever mess they made overnight. Then, of course, getting ready for work. The routine itself isn't dramatic, but something about it feels heavier than it should.
The hardest part, I think, is going to work.
Spending the whole day sitting in front of a laptop, eyes strained, head aching from reports and endless analysis. It happens five days a week. Not even full-time, not 24/7—but somehow, I feel exhausted all the time.
Sometimes I imagine escaping.
Resigning. Staying home. Just playing with my cats and letting the world go on without me. But I need money. I need to feed them. And so, I keep showing up—even when my spirit feels like it's somewhere else.
😧What do I keep returning to in my thoughts, even when I try to move on?
I feel tired every time these thoughts return.
I try to distract myself—do something, anything—to move on. But they keep coming back, especially when I have nothing to do. It's like they wait for silence to find me.
Maybe I'm overthinking my future.
I compare my life to others, and it always feels like they're moving forward while I stay in place. I envy so many things—progress, clarity, confidence. And in that comparison, I forget to be thankful for what I already have.
I know I've been given a chance to live this life.
But I rarely feel like it's enough. There's a quiet ache inside me, a sense that I'm falling behind. I know I shouldn't think this way. I know it's not fair to myself. But somehow, I keep coming back to these thoughts.
😐What did I see, hear, smell, or touch today that stayed with me?
Today, a few things stayed with me—quietly, unexpectedly.
I saw someone's face. He looked about ten years younger than me, but something about him reminded me of someone I used to know. Not exactly handsome, but good-looking in a way that felt familiar. Turns out he's a K-pop idol. I laughed at myself for thinking maybe I could meet him someday, even though I know it's impossible. Still, the thought lingered.
I kept hearing K-pop songs—new ones with choreography.
I tried learning the moves. They were hard, and I wasn't sure if I looked cool doing them. But I kept trying anyway. Maybe it wasn't about looking cool. Maybe it was about feeling something different, something alive. I tried it as a workout. It actually made me sweat quite a lot.
And then there was the smell of my own sweat.
It wasn't comforting. It didn't smell good. It was annoying, actually—like a reminder that I've been pushing through days that don't feel like mine. I sniffed my clothes and couldn't smell anything, but when I sat still, the scent returned. Not strong, not unbearable—just enough to make me feel tired of myself.
👽What version of myself do I meet in my imagination—and why does she feel more real than the one I show others?
I often imagine myself as someone completely different.
Confident. Bright. Cheerful. Someone who smiles easily, speaks quickly, thinks fast. Cool, charismatic, pretty. The kind of person who walks into a room and feels like they belong. Sometimes, I feel far from that version of me. I know I can't change everything—especially the way I look or how I naturally move through the world.
At work, I'm quiet.
I don't speak much. I lose confidence when I try. I feel stupid sometimes, like I'm shrinking in front of everyone. And then, when I'm back home in my bedroom, I replay the same situations in my head. I recreate the conversations. I give "the right" answers, "the right" responses. I do it over and over until I find the version that feels good enough.
I don't know what's happening to me—haha, maybe it's strange.
But the thing is, I still make the same mistakes the next day. I freeze. I stumble. It's like I'm stuck in a loop—imagining the confident version of myself, rehearsing her lines, but never quite becoming her. I want to break the pattern. I just don't know how yet.
😎What kind of life do I quietly long for, even if I never say it out loud?
I think I quietly long for a life that moves fast.
A life where I could've done something amazing from a young age. It's not that I want to skip the process—but lately, I've seen people achieve so much so early, and I envy that. I wish I had started sooner, been braver, felt surer of myself.
I imagine living in a place that feels safe.
Safe from crime, from poverty, from unexpected harm. A place where I don't have to worry about money all the time. I realize that most of what I've said comes back to money—and maybe that's my biggest struggle right now. It shapes so many of my thoughts, my fears, and my decisions.
I dream of traveling freely.
Of seeing the world without worrying about language barriers, financial limits, or the dangers that might await in unfamiliar places. And as a Muslim, I know there are places where I might not be welcomed. That fear stays with me, quietly, even when I try to ignore it.
😶What kind of silence feels comforting to me? What kind feels lonely?
Some silence feel like comfort.
I love the sound of rain and flowing water. At home, my dad built a fish pool with a filter that lets water trickle from the tank to the pond. That sound—soft, steady—makes me feel calm, like the world is breathing slowly.
There's also the wind in the afternoon, when I come home from work and sit quietly with my cats. No words, just presence. They fall asleep beside me, and the light from my neighbor's roof catches the last bit of sunset. That silence feels like a hug I didn't ask for, but needed. I also love the pause after finishing a task—when my body exhales and says, it's a quiet kind of pride, the kind that doesn't need applause.
But some silences feel lonely.
Like the stillness at night, when my thoughts get loud and no one's there to hear them. That kind of silence doesn't comfort—it echoes. And sometimes, it makes me wonder if I'm the only one feeling this way.
🙊What am I afraid will happen if I speak honestly to people around me?
I tried to defend myself by telling the truth.
But surprisingly, the response wasn't what I expected. People started to distance themselves from me—avoiding me, whispering behind my back, even encouraging others to dislike me. In the end, I was left without real friends. Well, I still had a few, but they weren't close. We were classmates, nothing more. I didn't apologize, because I didn't think I needed to. I had spoken honestly. But that moment changed something in me. By the way, it happened decades ago, and I still haven't fully moved on.
I became quiet. Alone. And of course, loneliness found me.
Maybe that's why I'm now afraid to tell the truth. Afraid that honesty will cost me connection. So I became a people pleaser—saying what others want to hear, avoiding conflict, trying to be liked.
But lately, I feel tired. Tired of pretending. Tired of shrinking myself just to fit in. I don't know how to break the pattern yet. But I know I want to.
😞What part of me do I hide because I think it's "too much" or "not enough"?
I've learned to hide a lot of things.
When I learn something new—like Japanese or another language—I tend to keep it to myself. Not because I'm ashamed of learning, but because I don't want to seem like I'm bragging. Sometimes it's just a passing moment, and I worry that if it doesn't work out, I'll feel embarrassed for having said anything.
I also hide my fear of not being enough.
When someone asks me a question and I can't give the answer they're hoping for, I feel small. Especially when they turn to someone else and get what they need. After that, I started saying, "I don't know, maybe you can A or B." It's easier that risking disappointment.
There's a dream I've never really said out loud.
I want to live abroad someday. To have a settled career, a life that feels stable and free. But I haven't done anything yet to make it real. So I tell myself to start small—learn the language, sharpen my skills. Still, it's not easy. The dream feels far, and the steps feel away.
And when I'm angry, I hide that too.
Not because I'm calm, but because when I get emotional, I cry. And I hate showing that side of me. I think I look ugly when I cry. That's the only reason I keep it in.
😚What do I wish people would notice without me having to explain?
People often think I'm indifferent.
I get it—I don't always show my feelings the way others expect. i stay quiet. I don't rush to comfort or speak up in emotional moments. But that doesn't mean I don't care. I care deeply about the people around me. I just express it differently—through small gestures, quiet presence, or simply remembering the things that matter to them.
Still, feels unfair sometimes.
Because when people don't see my care, they assume it's not there. And I wish they understood that showing care isn't always easy. For some of us, it takes time. It takes safety. It takes trust. We do care—but in ways that aren't loud or obvious. It's not that we don't care at all. It's just that our care is quiet, like a soft light that doesn't ask to be noticed.
What does "being enough" mean to me?
It means I don't have to prove everything. I don't have to be louder, faster, prettier, smarter. I don't have to compare myself to others or rehearse my words in my bedroom after work. Being enough means I can exist as I am—and still be worthy of kindness, rest and belonging.
It's not about perfection. It's about feeling safe in my own skin. It's about knowing that even if I make mistakes, even if I'm quiet, even if I cry when I'm angry—I still matter.
Have I ever felt it?
Maybe in small moments.
Like when my cats fall asleep beside me without asking for anything.
Or when I finish a task and my body exhales, "I did it."
Or when someone listens without interrupting, and I don't have to explain myself.
But most of the time, I chase it.
I imagine it.
I rehearse it.
I long for it.
And maybe that longing itself means I'm ready on the way.
I feel most like myself when I'm alone.
In solitude, I can move freely. I can think clearly, rationally, and do whatever I want without second—guessing. There's no pressure to perform, no need to adjust my tone or posture. I can breathe, rest and just be.
But when I'm with others, something shifts.
I become a different version of myself-less calm, less spontaneous. I hold back. I hesitate. I feel the need to maintain an image, to appear composed, capable, likable. And in doing so, I lose parts of myself. Not because I want to lie, but because I'm afraid of being misunderstood.
It's exhausting sometimes.
To constantly manage how I'm seen. To suppress my natural rhythm just to fit in. I wish I could carry the ease of solitude into social spaces. I wish I could be fully myself—without fear, without masks.
👍Even when I feel lost, what am I still showing up for?
Even when I feel lost, I still show up for the small things.
I show up for my cats, for the quiet routines that make me feel human. I show up for work, even when I feel disconnected. I show up for leaning—language, hydrology, creative writing-even when progress feels slow.
I show up for the version of me I haven't met yet.
The one who lives abroad. The one who feels settled. The one who speaks gently and confidently, without rehearsing every word. I don't know how to become her yet, but I keep showing up anyway.
I show up for the people I care about.
Even if I don't always say it. Even if my care is quiet. Even if I feel misunderstood. I still try to be kind, to be present, to be useful.
And maybe most of all, I show up for the dream.
The dream of being enough. Of living freely. Of turning my quiet thoughts into something that matters. I don't always believe in it—but I keep showing up, just in case it believes in me.
Even when I feel lost, the sky keeps changing. Maybe I am too.
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