Thirty‑five years.

A lot has happened.

Many things that were unexpected — both good and “bad.”

And yet… here I am.

I am fortunate to be where I stand today.

I am learning to look past the scars, not to deny them, but to finally see the life that exists around them. To be present in each moment. To cherish the breath in front of me.

Maybe I became a “high‑level thinker” because the details themselves were too painful to look at. Maybe it was safer to zoom out than to stare directly into the things I once could not face.

There are things I’ve had to accept I will never experience.

And there are things I’ve stopped pretending I might.

One of those things was an early yearning — a child’s longing that shapes everything:

I always wanted to feel unconditional love from my mother. I accept that this is something I will never know.

I was never good enough for her.

Or for my father.

And these past two years have been about dismantling that entire programming. 

The invisible force quietly driving my decisions, reactions, ambitions, and mindset. I didn’t even realize how loud it had become until I finally looked back at it. And this is what I realized.

When I was younger, I was excited for the future — for the day I would be older, freer, able to live a life I imagined would finally feel like my own. I didn’t think that so much of my adulthood would revolve around worrying about my older sister with schizophrenia. From October 2013 until March 2024… that was my life.

I didn’t think I would experience what it feels like to slowly die — inside and outside — while the world saw only the smile, the resilience, the career, the “good husband,” the appearance that everything was fine.

But I have come such a long way, from a place I never imagined I would need to climb out of. A path that never felt like mine to begin with. And that kind of dissonance creates a different kind of grief — the grief of realizing you were living inside someone else’s story, not your own.

It aches.

It aches in the places where intention lived. Where I always meant well, where I offered kindness, turned the other cheek, was the bigger person, the one people relied on.

And yet… I was alone.

Left to clean up the mental damage that silently built up over the years.

This grief is also the sadness of what could have been. Not necessarily with others, but more with myself.

 I wish I could wash it away.

But I’ve learned to process now. To sit with things. To breathe through them.

And yet, even in the happiness of where I am today, there is regret.

Regret of neglecting myself for the illusion of peace.

Regret of abandoning myself for roles I never should have carried.

Taking care of my sister was not worth it. Taking care of my brother was not worth it. Being reliable for my mom was not worth it. Bending over backwards for my father, trying to build a relationship that never existed, was not worth it.

This grief…is also the moment I stopped pretending that what I knew deep down wasn’t true. It was true. For so long, I just didn’t want it to be.

And yet, here I am. 

Fortunate. Despite the heartbreak.

Alive. Despite not wanting to be at times.

Breathing. Despite believing I wouldn’t be here.

They say life is a gift. But sometimes… it feels like slavery.

And still, I know I am one of the fortunate ones. I ask God to show me what the gift of life looks like.

I ask, and I am met with silence. I want to feel what someone feels when they genuinely believe life is a gift.

I’ve traveled. I’ve seen parts of the world many will never see.

I have things. So many things.

But the gift isn’t found in the external — I know that.

It must be internal.

There is one thing, however, that I do cherish: hugging my husband. Touching him. 

That is real. That… is a gift.

Maybe that is what the gift of life actually is. Unconditional love.

Which means I must learn to give it to myself.  And this is what makes life sometimes feel like slavery, instead of a gift.

Daily, I work on loving myself unconditionally. But I don’t want to “work” on loving myself.

I want it to just exist. To simply be.

I want the unconditional love I give to myself to be as natural as breath.

Not an effort. Not a task. Just truth.

That… is what I want.