There comes a moment—often in the hush of a late night, long after the world has fallen asleep—when you ask yourself if the people around you truly see you. Not just your face, your words, or your achievements, but the trembling soul beneath it all. The person who stays silent when hurt. The one who keeps showing up, even when exhausted. The one who has given more than he ever dared to ask for in return.
In a world that rewards charm over character and noise over nuance, there will always be people who misunderstand you. Some will treat your kindness as a resource, not a gift. Others will befriend your usefulness, not your soul. They will smile and laugh with you, perhaps even call you their friend, but when the night grows cold and your spirit falters, they will not ask how you’re holding up. They will not notice your silence, nor care for your absence. They will never know that beneath the surface of “I’m fine,” something inside you has quietly shattered.
And so we compromise. We shrink ourselves to fit their moulds. We pretend we’re okay when we’re not, all in the hope of not appearing too much—too sensitive, too complicated, too difficult to love. We learn to play our roles with grace, to be the strong one, the clever one, the dependable one. But deep down, we ache. We ache from the weight of pretending, and from the loneliness that creeps in when we realise our presence has become a convenience, not a comfort, to those we once called our own.
There is an unspeakable sorrow in giving your all and still feeling invisible. I know this because I, too, have spent seasons of life surrounded by people yet feeling utterly alone. I have achieved nearly every milestone I set for myself—degrees, titles, distant lands explored, battles won quietly in the background—but happiness still slips through my fingers like sand. And I ask myself, “Is this what it means to live? Is this what success tastes like when shared with no one who truly understands?”
There are nights when the world feels unbearably quiet, and your breath fogs up the glass as you stare out at nothing in particular. You wonder if warmth will ever return, or whether the coldness you feel is not from winter but from the indifference of people you once loved. You begin to believe, in some cruel and convincing way, that perhaps you are not meant to be loved—not truly, not completely.
But here lies a gentle truth, wrapped in melancholy but also in hope: perhaps we are meant to love ourselves first. Not out of defiance, not out of pride, but as an act of survival. Because if the world forgets to care for us, we must be the ones to remember. We must be the ones who notice when our hearts need rest, who speak gently to our own weary spirits, who say, “You are enough. Even if they never say it. Even if they never stayed.”
It is hard. It is heartbreak, and silence, and disappointment dressed in borrowed smiles. But it is also where resilience lives. In the quiet decision to rise again. To keep walking, even if alone. To be our own sanctuary when the world offers none.
Friendship, when real, is a sacred thing. It listens without judgement, remembers without effort, and shows up without being asked. But until it arrives, until it stays—be your own friend. Be the one who sees yourself, who never walks away, who remains.
The journey is lonely at times, yes. But maybe, just maybe, it is in these moments of solitude that we begin to understand what love really means. Not the love we receive, but the love we choose to give—especially to ourselves.
And when the day comes that someone sees you—not your image, not your accolades, but you—hold them close. You’ll recognise them not by what they say, but by how you feel when they’re near. You’ll feel, at long last, like you’ve come home.
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