consciousness wasn’t meant to be a weapon for overthinking

almost forgot that this is the point of life: an essay

sometimes i think we’ve evolved too fast for our own hearts to catch up.

we built cities before we learned how to sit with our pain. we created languages before we figured out how to say “i miss you” without shame. we invented electricity, crossed oceans in metal birds, stitched time zones together with glowing screens, but we still haven’t figured out how to cradle our own sadness without tucking it beneath layers of distraction. we got faster, sharper, louder — but not softer. and somewhere in this acceleration, somewhere between 3-second reels and unread messages, we forgot how to simply be.

to be still. to be human. to be in a room with someone and feel them. not perform, not impress, not scroll — just notice. the subtle inflections in their voice when they talk about someone they miss. the warmth behind their sarcasm. the weight of their silence when something hurts but they don’t know how to say it. we stopped hearing the pauses between words. we forgot how to sit in those pauses without flinching.

lately, i’ve been haunted by the quiet weight of everything we’ve lost simply by moving too fast. not just people, or opportunities, but the micro-moments that made us feel tethered to something real. the scent of sandalwood and old pages in the corners of my childhood home. the slightly uneven stitch in the shirt my mother once mended for me. the way the light hit my father’s face during golden hour, casting soft shadows that made him look younger, gentler. the echo of laughter from a room now empty. the sounds, the smells, the overlooked rhythms that once held the world together.

and then, out of nowhere, it comes back. the memory. the ache. a stranger passes me on the street wearing the same perfume she used to wear, and for one disoriented second, i turn around. heart first, logic second. there’s a split moment where time collapses and i think — maybe it’s her. maybe this time, she’ll stop too. maybe we’ll meet in the middle of the pavement like no time has passed and finally say all the things we were too proud or too scared to say. just to know, just to remember what it feels like to be known again.

there’s a grief that comes not only from what we lose, but from what we fail to notice in time. the subtle ways we betray ourselves. the moments we ignore our own yearning because there’s a deadline. the countless ways we silence our instincts for connection in favour of looking composed, efficient, successful. and we get good at it. we become masters at managing. we medicate with movement. we survive. but deep down, we know something’s off. something ancient and tender in us has been neglected.

because at night, when the world dims and there’s no one left to entertain or impress, the ache finds its way back. not in loud, dramatic sobs — but in trickles. like a quiet leak in the soul. the text we never replied to. the apology we rehearsed but never said. the warmth we withheld out of fear of being misunderstood. the soft parts of ourselves we shelved to be taken seriously. the touch we craved but convinced ourselves we didn’t need. all of it returns. sometimes in dreams. sometimes in the way our chest tightens at a song we haven’t heard in years.

and god, how we perform.

we wake up every morning and rehearse normalcy. we say “i’m fine” like punctuation. we measure our worth in output. we trim our needs so we don’t appear needy. we learn how to look confident even when we’re breaking. and the world rewards us for it. but under all that armor, we’re starving for someone to ask, really ask — “how are you, really?” and stay long enough to hear the whole answer.

for the longest time, i believed strength meant solitude. that the braver thing was to carry the weight alone. i prided myself on not needing help. i called it independence. but in truth, it was fear. fear of being too much. fear of being a burden. fear of being let down. so i buried myself in work. not because i loved the grind, but because silence terrified me. because stillness made the ache louder. and if i kept moving, maybe i could outrun the echo of my own loneliness.

but the ache doesn’t go away. it just shapeshifts. it blends into our habits. it becomes the endless scrolling. the overplanning. the staying busy for the sake of being busy. and yet, beneath it all, a question remains: who are you when there’s nothing left to distract you from yourself?

i’m learning, slowly, to answer that question. to peel back the layers. to trust softness again. i’ve found a few people who feel like home — people i don’t have to shrink around. people i can text in the middle of a breakdown without apologising for the mess. people who see me in the in-between spaces, the ones i used to hide, and choose to stay anyway. with them, i’m not a brand or a resume or a carefully crafted version of myself. i’m just human. trying. failing. feeling.

and it’s in those gentle, unremarkable moments — the shared silences, the offhanded jokes, the soft “hey, you okay?” — that something sacred begins to return. the self that remembers. the self that longs. the self that knows we weren’t meant to do this life alone.

i’ve started watching people more closely — not in a voyeuristic way, but with reverence. i see how their bodies soften when they feel safe. how they exhale when they’re not being judged. how their laughter becomes less performative and more from the belly. how love makes us childlike again. and i think, maybe this is what we evolved for. not the skyscrapers or accolades. but this. the coffee mug shared in silence. the laughter over inside jokes. the way someone’s hand lingers on your back a little longer when you’re sad.

maybe the point of awareness wasn’t to become more productive, but more present. maybe the point of consciousness isn’t optimization — it’s intimacy. it’s sitting beside someone in the dark and not needing to fix them. it’s learning to stay. not run. not analyze. just stay.

i think of coffee a lot. how it starts bitter but warms you if you stay with it. how its aroma can time-travel you back to a kitchen where your parents whispered good mornings. how love is like that too — an acquired taste, a slow ritual. ordinary, until you notice the sacredness of it.

like last night. sitting alone at the table, hands wrapped around a warm mug. i let the silence speak. i let the steam touch my face like a familiar ghost. and in that moment, i remembered: this is the point. not the inbox. not the self-marketing. not the treadmill of relevance. it’s this. this breath. this body. this moment of aliveness. this knowing that i can sit with myself and not flee.

we forget that we weren’t built for speed. we were built for warmth. for touch. for stories. for eyes that see and voices that soothe. we forget that the body is not just a machine for doing — it’s a vessel for feeling. for trembling. for aching. for remembering. and what saves us isn’t some grand philosophy. it’s the quiet grace of being seen. it’s a friend remembering how you like your toast. it’s someone reaching for your hand in the dark without asking why you’re crying. it’s the softness. always, the softness.

we spend so much time trying to become someone. someone admirable. someone chosen. someone that finally feels like enough. and in the process, we forget who we were before the world started measuring us. before we learned that love could be earned, and worth could be taken away. we forget the child who was just messy, wild, unfiltered and still deserved to be held.

and maybe that’s the great tragedy of growing up — not that we lose our innocence, but that we stop believing we were ever lovable without conditions.

we think salvation will come in a moment of glory. in the applause. in the realization that we’ve finally made it. but no one tells you that sometimes, salvation shows up in quiet, inconvenient places, like when you’re washing the dishes with shaking hands, or folding laundry after a fight you didn’t know how to end. sometimes, it’s in the way your body breaks down from carrying what your mouth never said. it’s in the sob you swallow mid-sentence so no one worries.

i firmly believe that’s where healing begins: not with fixing, but with staying. with letting the pain sit beside you without trying to suffocate it with silver linings. what i have experienced is that the ache will return. it always does. it knows the way back to you. it finds the exact time your guard is down — in the grocery aisle, in the shower, in the song you forgot used to mean something. and when it does, you’ll be tempted to run. to distract. to scroll. to silence it with noise and logic.

but maybe this time, don’t.

maybe this time, when the ache knocks, open the door. let it step inside. let it unravel your carefully built routine and loosen the armor around your shoulders. pour it a cup of something warm, something slow to sip. sit across from it with hands that tremble, hands that have been holding too much for too long and say, i know you. because you do.

because you’ve been carrying this ache in the shadows no one ever sees, in the tight clench of your jaw, the hollow politeness of your replies, the way you hold back tears until the door clicks shut behind you.

this ache is no stranger; it’s a worn companion etched into the quiet moments between breath and silence. this time, don’t turn away. don’t shove it out into the cold. lean into the tremble, the rawness, the unbearable truth. hold space for it, and in that holding, begin to find the fragile, aching thread that still ties you to yourself.

buy me a coffee

the fridge is a chapel of neglect