December 7, 2025, marked my return home after a five-day trip to a neighboring statea journey that began with anticipation and ended in the familiar ache of emotional dissonance. The trip itself was eventful, layered with fleeting moments of connection and long stretches of silence. Yet, despite the change of scenery and the temporary escape from routine, I came back to the same unshifting truth: the world operates on a cruel equilibrium. The poor grow poorer; the rich, richer. I joked in my mind that the only solution is annihilationbut of course, that's not a solution at all. It's resignation disguised as dark humor. There is no fix, I told myself. It's just "balance"a cosmic shrug to human suffering.
The most emotionally loaded part of the trip was dropping off my sister and her daughtermy nieceat their home. I had imagined visiting new places, exploring, maybe even rediscovering a part of myself through movement and novelty. Instead, I slept. Not out of exhaustion alone, but because there was little mutual enthusiasm for outings. It wasn't my lack of interest; it was theirs. When we finally prepared to leave and exchanged goodbyes, my niece didn't respond to me. Worse, she cried when I tried to hold heras if my touch was unfamiliar, even unwelcome. That stung more than I expected.
It's strange how deeply a small child's reaction can cut. She's so young that her emotions are raw, unfiltered by social niceties. Her tears weren't calculated; they were instinctive. And that honesty hurt. I kept telling myself, "We must move on from worldly possessionsattachments only hinder growth." It sounded wise, almost enlightened. But the truth is, it still hurt. Maybe more because it's likely we won't meet again for over a year. By then, she'll have no memory of me. I'll be a blur, a ghost from a time too distant for her young mind to retain.
And yetI don't feel sad. Or at least, I can't locate the sadness the way I used to. Is this emotional numbness? Have my feelings dulled from repeated disappointments, or is this some kind of protective mechanism my mind has built? It feels eerie, this calm in the face of loss. "Am I emotionless?" I wonder. The thought sounds cringey even in my headlike something out of a melodramatic novelbut it lingers.
Still, life doesn't pause for introspection. Shortly after returning, I went out to celebrate a classmate's birthday. Surrounded by laughter, music, and the easy camaraderie of shared youth, I allowed myself to feel light, even joyful, for a while. It was goodgenuinely. In those moments, I remembered how it feels to belong, even temporarily. But mingled with that joy was a quiet fear: Will they remember me? Not out of vanity, but out of a deep human need to matter, however briefly, in someone else's story. I admitI forget people too, not intentionally, but because my mind is often crowded with its own noise. Still, I hope I leave some imprint. "I hope people remember me," I thought, even as I walked home alone later that night.
There's a paradox in all of this. On one hand, I tell myself to detachfrom people, from expectations, from outcomes. I invoke philosophies about non-attachment as if they're armor. On the other, I'm painfully aware of how much I crave connection. My niece's rejection mattered because I wanted to matter to her. The birthday party mattered because I wanted to be seen. The desire to be remembered isn't about legacy; it's about proof that I existed meaningfully in someone else's world, even for a moment.
Perhaps this tensionbetween wanting to let go and wanting to be heldis what makes us human. We are creatures of contradiction: we seek freedom but ache for belonging, we cultivate detachment but mourn when we're forgotten. I don't think my emotions are dead. They're just tired. Tired from trying to reconcile hope with reality, from carrying responsibilities like being a Class Representative while feeling invisible in my own life, from smiling at parties while nursing silent wounds.
Maybe the real balance isn't in the world's unfair systems, but in learning to hold both pain and peace at once. To acknowledge the hurt of a child's tears while still showing up at a friend's birthday. To accept that people may forget youand still choose to care anyway. To keep moving, not because the pain is gone, but because moving is its own kind of resistance.
As I settle back into my routine watching reels, sleeping through daylight hours, eating half my lunch, taking my eleven pills without believing they'll helpI carry this trip with me. Not as a wound, but as a whisper: You are still here. You felt something. That means you're alive. And as much as the world feels harsh and indifferent, maybe that's enough for today.
Because where there is life, there is hope. Even if it's just the quiet, stubborn kind that keeps you walking home after everyone else has gone inside.