November 1, 2025
What began as a holiday a day many marked with rest or celebration turned into something quietly extraordinary for me. I woke not with obligation, but with a soft intention: to go to college and "help" my classmates. The quotation marks around "helping" in my mind weren't born of irony, but of humility. I didn't expect to change anything monumental; I just wanted to be useful, to offer a presence that might ease someone else's burden, even slightly.
The campus was quieter than usual, bathed in the golden haze of autumn afternoon light. Fewer people meant more space not just physically, but emotionally. In that stillness, I found myself wandering without urgency, letting my footsteps decide the direction. Sometimes, in the absence of structure, meaning reveals itself in unexpected places.
I met a close friend by chance, or maybe by fate. We hadn't planned to cross paths, yet there we were two familiar orbits aligning on a day meant for solitude. We spent hours together, and it was lovely. Not in a grand, cinematic way, but in the way that true companionship often is: quiet laughter over shared fries, the comfortable silence between sentences, the gentle rhythm of walking side by side without needing to fill every pause with words.
We ate at Subway, a modest ritual turned meaningful simply because it was shared. There's a kind of intimacy in choosing your sandwich toppings with someone who knows your usual order by heart. As always, I ate only half of mine habit, perhaps, or subconscious restraint but the act of sharing the meal felt complete anyway.
When it was time for my friend to leave, I walked them to the gate. There was no dramatic farewell, just a nod, a smile, and the unspoken promise that we'd see each other again soon. But as they disappeared down the path, I didn't head home. Instead, I turned back toward the emptying campus, stepping into a role I hadn't claimed before: the adventurer of my college.
It sounds playful, almost whimsical but it felt purposeful. With fewer eyes watching and fewer voices filling the air, the buildings and corridors became mine to explore, not physically, but emotionally. I returned to the classroom—not because I had to, but because I wanted to. There, I found a few classmates still lingering, wrestling with assignments or lost in thought. I offered help where I could: explaining a concept, proofreading a paragraph, or simply sitting nearby so they wouldn't feel alone.
Then came the moment that anchored the day: consoling a friend going through a hard time. I won't share their pain it isn't mine to tell but I will say this: being present for someone in distress is one of the most human things we can do. I listened without rushing to fix, spoke without pretending to have answers, and held space without expectation. I did my best. Not perfectly—but sincerely. And in that sincerity, I hope I gave them even a sliver of comfort.
Now, back at home, the calm settles over me like a worn blanket. The day wasn't filled with grand achievements or public recognition. But it mattered. To me. To them. And sometimes, that's enough.
I still carry my own weight my 11 pills, my disrupted sleep, my questions about purpose and connection. But today, I didn't let that weight stop me from reaching out. In a world that often feels isolating, choosing kindness even when you're struggling yourself is an act of quiet rebellion.
And as I write this, I hold tightly to the belief that has carried me through darker days: Where there is life, there is hope. Today, I lived and in living, I hoped.
Content Warning:
This reflection contains themes related to mental health, including emotional distress, social isolation, and the ongoing management of a psychiatric condition (schizophrenia). While the narrative emphasizes connection, purpose, and small moments of joy, it also implicitly acknowledges inner struggles such as fatigue, self-doubt, and the daily reality of medication and disrupted routines. If you are experiencing emotional or psychological distress, please reach out to a trusted friend, counselor, or mental health professional. You are not alone, and support is available.