Identity

I remember that over the years a kind of resistance began to form between me and giving advice to others. at first I thought it was because they were too lost to see . sometimes I thought they were not ready to heal . but the truth is simpler and harder to admit. the resistance existed because I was different.

I have learned something recently that I can finally say without arrogance. when you are naturally good at enduring something, you underestimate how heavy it feels for others. there is a friction that happens when your strength becomes someone else’s weakness. and instead of recognizing that difference, I was projecting my own structure onto them.

Most of the time we are afraid that we are not living in the best chapter of our lives. there is this quiet suspicion that something greater exists somewhere else, and that we are currently settling. so we cope. we gather friends around us to feel whole. we build small bubbles where we cherry pick moments, conversations, and people that make us feel temporarily complete.

It is a month later now. Wren has been going through something that feels painfully familiar to me, something close to the days I once lived without understanding . today he texted me, excited, talking about learning psychology and trying to understand the human mind and anxiety. I felt briefly happy for him. he sounded genuinely alive, like someone who had finally found a door he wanted to open.

Wren is not usually the type to dive into these themes. he is into anything but interoception, so when he spoke with that kind of curiosity, it caught my attention. then he said something that touched me. he said there were no days he hated himself more than those days. the moment I read that, I felt tightened inside.

I once emphasized how I see writing as a must , and how it helps me to understand myself . I did not say that lightly. At the time, I thought I was already being radical in my statement. I thought calling writing a “must” was extreme enough. But I have come to a stronger conclusion since then,

I don’t usually overthink how people read my titles. learning to be bothered , learning to feel again , those who are around me would probably get it. but I’m not writing for strangers anyway. I write to make things clearer to myself. and what I keep coming back to is this pattern in the things I choose to write about: the basic human functionalities, the ones everyone else seemed to pick up without thinking. politeness, warmth, asking for help, letting people in. I had to learn all of those. I was raised well, yes, but I had to do a lot of it alone. sometimes with the help of someone older who took the time. mostly by myself.