We humans wake up each morning and perform the same small rituals, as if washing our skin somehow resets our entire existence. We splash water on our faces, brush away the stale night, scrub off that faint smell of sleep. The routine is like an unspoken agreement with ourselves that a new day deserves a clean surface, even if the inside remains cluttered.
During the night our minds had wandered: nightmares chasing us through narrow corridors, or dreams offering sweetness too fragile to survive sunrise. Dreams rarely bring answers; they're just quick films projected by the brain to soften reality.
Some dreams soothe, some disturb, some feel like warnings no one interprets correctly. But morning always arrives, and we stand at the same sink, performing the same motions, preparing to walk into a day smimilar to the last.
Most lives repeat themselves with such stubborn precision that it becomes almost comical. You wake, clean yourself, swallow breakfast if you can afford it and step into the world wearing the face you practiced—brave, composed, maybe even cheerful if you're lucky.
Only a few small changes break the pattern: a surprise text, a sudden memory, the weather switching moods. Yet somewhere deep inside, you hope for a storm big enough to rewrite your life. Something dramatic. Something meaningful.
Even the wealthy, standing in front of their giant mirrors, feel the same tug. People assume rich faces are immune to longing, but longing is democratic. No amount of money can waah away the heaviness that hides inside the chest. That heaviness doesn't listen to bank accounts or last names.
I've learned this: showers don't clean the mind. They don't rinse away bad memories, painful childhoods, financial stress, or loneliness. They only prepare the body for another round of living. But the soul? The soul carries yesterday into today, whether you like it or not.
People talk about "moving on" like it's a simple button you press. But have you ever tried to push against everything holding you back? You gather determination like sand in your hands, you grit your teeth, you promise yourself you'll become better than the person you were yesterday. And then, just when you think you're rising, life tightens ropes around your ankles, pulling you back.
Destiny, fate, whatever name you give it—it sometimes feels like a prison warden with a clipboard, checking to make sure you don't climb too high.
For years I tried to blame fate instead of turning my questions upward toward the sky. It felt safer. You can't argue with destiny; it doesn't answer back. But ask too many questions about fairness and life starts to look like a game with hidden rules.
Growing up poor, I used to look at people who seemed blessed for no reason. Those who hurt others but lived comfortably, who cheated but thrived, who smiled like the world was designed exclusively for them. Meanwhile, those trying to be decent and holding onto kindness like a fragile candle walked through storms that never seemed to end.
It made no sense to me. Still doesn't.
People offered the usual comforting lines: suffering builds character, hardship shapes the soul, pain eventually transforms into wisdom. These explanations sound poetic but rarely soothe the person actually going through the fire. When you're drowning, being told that water strengthens swimmers doesn't help you breathe.
Some say life gives its toughest battles to its strongest fighters, but not everyone wants to be a fighter. Some of us were simply born on the battlefield and handed no weapon.
Whenever I confessed this confusion, people told me about stories of heroes who rose through difficulty. But one thing always struck me: many of these heroes started from high ground before they fell. They had a taste of comfort, safety, wealth, or love before life threw its punches. Falling from a mountaintop is painful, yes—but starting your life already in a pit is a different story entirely.
My story, like many others, begins in that pit.
I wasn't born into warmth or stability. Struggle wasn't an event; it was the background of my life. Like a soundtrack that never stopped playing. And perhaps I made mistakes. Many. I'm human, not a saint. I've tripped, regretted, tried again, failed again, grown again. If character is shaped by difficulty, then I should be carved like a sculpture by now but most days, I feel like unfinished clay.
Still, every morning I wake hoping for a gentler day, a slight shift in the winds of fate. Maybe today my efforts will matter. Maybe today my name will rise a little higher than yesterday.
But life isn't symmetrical. Some people seem to leap forward effortlessly, multiplying their blessings. They sign a document, make a call, click a button and success unfolds like a carpet at their feet.
Others, like me, climb steep hills with bare hands, scraping skin and losing breath. Progress arrives in inches. Small inches.
What puzzles me is how similar our inner struggles are despite our outer differences. The rich suffer quietly in mansions. The poor suffer loudly in small rooms. Pain doesn't choose sides. Life itself seems allergic to fairness.
This world is complicated, beautiful, cruel and doesn't operate on simple equations.
If you expect fairness, you'll break. If you expect balance, you'll drown in disappointment. The universe plays by rules humans try to simplify but never fully understand.
But here's another truth I've learned: everyone hides something. The bold smiles you see online are often made of thin light.
The perfect relationships, the expensive dinners, the trendy clothes—none of these reveal what fills people's hearts when the cameras are off. Jealousy is a slow poison; it makes you forget that everyone bleeds, just differently.
I sometimes wish I had the easy life I see others flaunting. But then I remind myself: some joy is artificial. Manufactured. A performance for likes, for attention, for validation. Real joy tends to be quiet. Soft. Earned. It appears in moments, not announcements.
Even people living in the worst conditions experience glimpses of happiness. A joke shared in the middle of chaos. A moment of warmth in a cold world. A small victory that no one else sees. Joy doesn't erase suffering , it just interrupts it for a moment.
And sometimes, that moment is enough to keep a person going.
I used to envy people attending parties, living carefree, enjoying youthful risks. But the truth is, I never felt comfortable in those spaces. Not because I hate fun, but because fear kept me cautious. My family history ran wild with mistakes, and I didn't want to repeat them. I didn't want to fall into the traps I saw others tumble into regretful relationships, addictions, self-destruction.
Caution became my armor, and writing became my refuge.
In school, while others solved equations and chased grades, I scribbled stories behind my notebooks. Writing was a sanctuary. The place where I could shape my own destiny, even for a moment. In fiction, I could give characters the victories I lacked. I could heal through imagination. Every sentence felt like a small rebellion against a world that kept telling me to stay small.
But as I grew older, I realised something: writing about imagined worlds wasn't enough. My real story was demanding to be told. My mind kept returning to the weight of my own life, the experiences I tried to outrun. It whispered: Your truth could help someone else survive theirs.
So here I am, writing not as an escape but as a confrontation. Each paragraph is a mirror I'm forcing myself to look into. My wounds, my fears, my hopes—they all spill onto the page. And maybe someone out there will read these words and feel less alone. Maybe my life, with all its rough edges, can become a small lantern for another wandering soul.
Progress is slow. Pain returns. Joy flickers. But I keep moving.
Some days I feel like the world is built on an unfair equation, where the majority of people struggle and only a minority succeed. If life were a democracy, happiness would rule by majority vote. But reality seems built on imbalance. Maybe that imbalance forces us to grow in ways comfort never could.
Still, there's beauty hidden in the messiness. Small victories matter. Achievements that seem insignificant to others can feel monumental when they're earned through hardship. And though sadness visits often, it doesn't always stay. It makes room for tiny bursts of hope.
Human beings are fragile creatures carrying enormous stories. We lose people. We fall sick. We fail. We stand up again. We keep learning even when the lessons hurt us. Pain and joy are siblings, constantly switching roles.
Life isn't something to fully understand. Even the brightest minds fail at that. Life is something to experience. To wrestle with. To grow through. It's unpredictable, painful, breathtaking, ridiculous, unfair, beautiful. All at once.
And we—you and I—we're still walking through it, step by imperfect step, learning as we go.