There are so many things racing in my head, like waves crashing without rhythm or pause. Sometimes, I try to sit with them—feel them, name them. Anger. Sadness. Rush. Hopelessness. They come and go, especially when people approach me, their words like keys unlocking doors I wasn’t ready to open.

A co-worker once asked, “How are you doing?” Such a simple question. But I paused, my mind spiraling: Should I trust this person? Should I share how I really feel? I hesitated, balancing on the edge of vulnerability, then fell back into safety: “I’m okay. What’s up?” It’s easier that way. But is it better?

Do you ever feel that way—torn between honesty and the fear of being too exposed?

When someone asks you how you’re doing, do you tell the truth, or do you wear a mask?

Then there’s a friend who used to be bigger, now thinner, radiant in their transformation. They asked, “How are you?” I looked at them, smiled faintly, and said, “Fine.” But inside, a storm brewed. I suddenly felt the weight of my own body—am I fat? I asked, desperate for reassurance. They shook their head, “No.” But their answer didn’t quiet the noise. Insecurity lingered, whispering louder than their denial.

Do you ever feel like that—when no matter what people say, you can’t silence the voice inside your head?

Why is it so hard to believe the good things people tell us, but so easy to believe the bad?

I see wedding rings on other people’s fingers, a small circle carrying so much meaning. My gaze drops to my right hand—bare. Sometimes, I swear I still feel it there, like a ghost of something lost. That ache tightens when I remember Jenna’s words: “I didn’t wear it for myself. I wore it for you.” A sentence that felt like a blade. It carved regret and sadness into my heart. Was love supposed to feel like this?

Have you ever held on to something that’s no longer there, but you feel its absence like a phantom pain?

What do you do with memories that hurt but won’t fade?

There’s also a co-worker with a whirlwind of energy, her ADHD loud and unapologetic. She talks about her health, asks about my hand surgery over and over. I explain—“It was for trigger finger.” But there’s this odd sensation, like she’s trying to mirror my pain, wear my experiences like borrowed clothes. I can’t find the right word for it. Her energy overwhelms me, spills into my space, and I don’t know how to contain it. I don’t know if I should.

Have you ever met someone whose energy feels too big, too intense—like it fills the room and leaves no space for you?

How do you protect your own peace without feeling guilty for needing boundaries?

Suddenly, out of nowhere, a wave of urgent tasks crashes into my mind—important things I’ve been avoiding. DMV registration tags, submission papers for the car title, payments for auto insurance. I have to do them. I have to. But I don’t. The thought fills me with worry and fear, like a tight knot in my chest. What if I forget? What if something bad happens? Yet, I keep postponing. I tell myself it’s because of work, because of timing, because of everything else—but deep down, it feels like more than that. It feels like I just can’t. I don’t know why. Until today, I still haven’t done them. But I have to.

Do you ever get stuck in that loop—knowing you need to do something, but feeling paralyzed anyway?

What do you think holds us back: fear of failure, fear of starting, or just the weight of everything at once?

Every day, I try to decode the connections I have with people—the ones I give, the ones I receive. It’s like learning a new language with no translation guide. I’m trying to understand myself, too. But it’s hard.

I struggle with my body. My weight feels like an ever-present shadow. I’ve always wanted to be thin, to have that flat stomach that magazines idolize. But when I look in the mirror, all I see is “fat.” The word echoes in my mind, even when others shake their heads, “No, you’re not.” It doesn’t matter what they see; it’s what I believe. And I don’t know how to unlearn that belief.

Do you ever look in the mirror and see something different from what the world sees?

Why do our harshest critics live in our own minds?

I don’t know if I love myself. Some days, I don’t even like myself. Food feels like the enemy—don’t eat too many carbs, don’t gain weight, don’t lose control. My belly becomes a battleground, a source of shame. Seeing thin people triggers something raw and unkind inside me, even though I know it’s irrational. But feelings aren’t always rational. They just… are.

Have you ever felt at war with your own body, like you’re both the fighter and the battlefield?

How do you find peace with yourself when your reflection feels like the enemy?

I’m trying. Every day, I’m trying. To untangle my thoughts. To sit with my emotions without drowning in them. To figure out who I am beneath the layers of insecurity, regret, fear—and all the tasks I avoid because they feel heavier than they are.

Maybe that’s the hardest part—not just surviving, but understanding.

What do you think?

Are we all just trying to understand ourselves, one messy, complicated day at a time?

And maybe, just maybe, that’s enough for now.