Life Stories and Everyday Drama

I don’t even know where to start. For as long as I can remember, there’s been this feeling deep inside me, a constant whisper that I’m not good enough. Every day, I ask myself, why do I hate myself so much? And every day, I come up empty. It’s like I’m stuck in this loop, and I can’t figure out how to break free.

The crazy part is, from the outside, you’d probably think my life is fine. I have a decent job, supportive friends, and a family that loves me. But none of that seems to matter when the voice in my head tells me over and over that I’m a failure. It’s not like I choose to feel this way—it’s just there, like a shadow I can’t escape.

For me, the self-hate started small. I’d beat myself up over little things, like saying something awkward in a conversation or getting a bad grade in school. Back then, I thought everyone did that. But over time, those thoughts got louder, and now it feels like they’re all I can hear. No matter what I do, I’m constantly second-guessing myself. Did I handle that situation right? Did I offend someone without realizing it? Am I even worth anyone’s time?

Social situations are the worst. I’ll be in a group, and instead of enjoying the moment, I’m obsessing over whether people actually like me. I’ll replay conversations in my head for days, analyzing every word I said and convincing myself I sounded stupid or needy. The worst part is, even when people tell me I’m fine or that I’m overthinking, I don’t believe them. It’s like my brain won’t let me accept anything positive about myself.

And don’t even get me started on my appearance. Some days, I can barely look in the mirror. I pick apart every flaw, every imperfection, and wonder how anyone could find me attractive. I know it’s unhealthy, but it feels impossible to stop. Social media doesn’t help either. I’ll scroll through Instagram and see all these perfect people with perfect lives, and it just makes me feel worse. I know it’s fake, but it still gets to me.

At work, it’s the same story. I could spend hours on a project, pouring everything I have into it, but as soon as I hand it in, all I can think about are the mistakes I might have made. Even when I get good feedback, it doesn’t stick. Instead, I focus on the one piece of criticism or the one thing I think I could’ve done better. It’s exhausting.

The thing is, I don’t even know where this self-hate comes from. I didn’t have a traumatic childhood. My parents were strict, sure, but they loved me and did their best. So why do I hate myself? Why can’t I shake this feeling that I’m not enough, no matter what I do?

I’ve tried all the usual advice—positive affirmations, journaling, even therapy. And while those things help in the moment, the feeling always comes back. It’s like there’s this wall between me and actually believing anything good about myself. I’ll write down things I’m proud of or things I’ve achieved, but they always feel small compared to the weight of everything I think I’ve failed at.

One of the hardest parts is how isolating it feels. I know I’m not the only one who feels this way—there are forums and articles and videos about it—but in my daily life, it’s hard to imagine anyone else struggling like this. Everyone around me seems so confident, so sure of themselves. Meanwhile, I’m over here just trying to make it through the day without falling apart.

Sometimes, I wonder if I’ll ever feel differently. Will there ever be a day where I wake up and don’t feel this weight on my chest? Or is this just who I am—a person who’s destined to hate themselves no matter what? I want to believe that things can change, but honestly, I don’t know how to get there.

If you’re reading this and you’ve felt the same way, I wish I had answers for you. I wish I could tell you how to stop feeling this way, but I’m still trying to figure it out myself. All I can say is, you’re not alone. And maybe that’s the first step—just admitting that we’re struggling and trying to find a way forward, even if it’s messy and imperfect.

I don’t know what tomorrow will bring, but for now, I’m just trying to hold on to the hope that it doesn’t have to be like this forever. Maybe there’s a way to break free from this cycle. Maybe one day, I’ll look in the mirror and see someone worth loving. Until then, I’ll keep asking the question, why do I hate myself?—and maybe, just maybe, I’ll find an answer that helps me heal.

My spouse, Michael, and I cherish a petite yet profoundly significant ritual that blooms each year since we exchanged vows. The essence of this tradition isn't elaborate but holds immense significance in my heart. Each November, specifically on the weekend preceding Thanksgiving, we embark on a serene journey to a quaint town nestled by a lake, merely an hour's drive away. This tranquil outing involves leisurely strolls, heartfelt conversations, and the selection of a unique Christmas ornament. This ornament, tenderly chosen, symbolizes the essence of our year together. It’s a modest day out, yet it profoundly enriches our festive season.

Michael recently befriended a man at his gym named Jake. Their friendship flourished quickly which I think is wonderful, as Michael often shies from forming new friendships. Jake, a hiking and gaming enthusiast, shares numerous interests with Michael, making their bond even more special.

However, a predicament arose when Jake invited Michael for a weekend getaway, coincidentally planned for the same weekend as our cherished tradition. Michael approached me somewhat reluctantly about possibly rescheduling our annual trip so he could join his friend. I was taken aback at first; the thought that he would consider altering our plans wounded me slightly. Michael argued, perhaps sensibly, that changing the date wouldn’t impose any logistical issues.

Despite understanding his point, I couldn’t mask my dismay. This tradition is our sacred communion—a token of our shared life that perhaps holds more esteem in my heart than his. On expressing this, Michael seemed both taken aback and slightly agitated, insinuating that I was making a mountain out of a molehill.

After a brief discussion, Michael agreed to maintain our planned tradition, although I could sense his disappointment, which inadvertently filled me with guilt. Now, wracked with doubt, I ponder if my insistence on maintaining our ritual, pivotal as it may seem to me, is an overindulgence on my part.

Suppose this scenario played out in a reality show setting, the audience might revel in the drama, eagerly awaiting my reaction or criticizing my insistence on tradition. The appealing appeal of reality TV often lies in observing how individuals navigate personal conflicts under the public's scrutinizing gaze. Would viewers champion my dedication to tradition, or would they perceive me as overly rigid and unsupportive of Michael’s new friendship?

Am I unreasonable for wanting our tradition to take precedence over his new friend?

This is probably going to be my final post anyway let me get into it.( for my context check my last post) Currently I’m just in the idgaf stage Ive truly lost pretty much lost a lot of hope almost all of it. I’m also just at the point where I don’t care to get better, I don’t want to get better, and I don’t want better for myself. I’m considering distancing myself from everyone(including friends,family, even teachers) and potentially cut off people as a whole. I’m also going to refrain from making new friends and telling people how I feel period it’s no one’s business. Honestly my plan going forward Is to just turn myself in and do my time and then after I finish my time I’ll kill myself. And my goal for being an astronomer is most likely dead at this point I’ll probably be dead before then and not do I really want to put in the effort to achieve it and improve my math skills so basically I’ve given up on it and to be honest it’s upsetting to think about. I’m also pretty apathetic and resistant to the idea of therapy now I’ve accepted that I don’t want to get better and it would be a waste of money for my family members to even pay for it because I wouldn’t cooperate and I would be hard to work with and it would also be a waste of time for the therapist. Anyway that’s all I wanted to say and I appreciate those who gave me support on my last post.

Lately, I’ve been asking myself a question I can’t seem to answer: why do I hate myself? It’s not like I want to feel this way, but it’s there, lingering in the background every single day. No matter what I do, that voice in my head keeps reminding me of every mistake, every failure, and every reason I’m just not good enough.

It’s not like there’s one big thing that happened to make me feel this way. It’s more like a build-up of little things over time. I’ve always been my own worst critic. If I mess something up at work, I can’t just move on—I replay it in my head over and over, thinking about what I should’ve done differently. Even when people tell me I’m doing fine, I don’t believe them. It’s like they’re just being polite, and deep down, they see the same flaws I do.

Socially, it’s even worse. I overthink EVERTHING. Did I say the wrong thing? Did I come across as weird or annoying? I avoid hanging out with friends sometimes because I’m convinced they secretly don’t want me around. And don’t even get me started on dating—I can barely look in the mirror without picking myself apart, so how could anyone else see me differently?

The worst part is, I can’t pinpoint why I feel like this. On paper, my life isn’t bad. I have a decent job, a roof over my head, and people who care about me. But none of that seems to matter when I’m stuck in my own head. I’ll wake up some mornings feeling like today might be different, but by the end of the day, that familiar feeling is back, telling me I’m not enough.

I’ve tried to talk myself out of it. I’ll make lists of the things I’m good at or the things I’ve accomplished, but it never feels real. It’s like there’s this wall between me and believing anything positive about myself. Instead, I focus on everything I’ve failed at—friendships I’ve lost, goals I didn’t achieve, and all the ways I feel like I’ve let people down.

Sometimes, I wonder if this is just how it’s always going to be. Maybe I’m wired to think like this, and no amount of self-help books or therapy will change it. But I don’t want to give up on myself completely. There’s a small part of me that hopes it doesn’t have to be this way forever.

If anyone else has felt like this, how do you get through it? How do you silence that voice in your head that’s always telling you you’re not good enough? I know I’m not alone in feeling this way, but it’s hard not to feel isolated when you’re stuck in your own thoughts.

Writing this down feels strange, like I’m admitting something I’ve been trying to hide for years. But maybe sharing it will help, even if it’s just a little. If someone out there has an answer to the question, “Why do I hate myself?” I’d love to hear it. Because right now, I just want to believe there’s a way to feel okay again.

I never thought I’d end up here, but here I am, dreading every single morning when my alarm goes off. I hate my job. There, I said it. I’ve tried to convince myself that it’s just a phase, that everyone feels like this sometimes, but it’s been almost a year, and nothing’s changed. If anything, it’s gotten worse.

The work itself isn’t even that bad. I mean, it’s not what I’m passionate about, but it’s tolerable. The real problem is the people. My boss is one of those micro-managers who has to be involved in every tiny detail. No matter what I do, it’s never good enough. I’ll spend hours on a project, only for them to nitpick and make me redo the whole thing for no real reason. It’s exhausting and makes me feel like all my effort is pointless.

Then there’s the office culture—or lack of it. Nobody talks to each other unless it’s about work. Lunch breaks feel like detention, with everyone silently eating at their desks or scrolling through their phones. I tried to make friends when I first started, but everyone already seemed to have their little cliques. After a while, I just gave up.

What really gets to me, though, is the constant pressure. It’s like they expect us to give 110% all the time, but they don’t give anything back. Overtime is practically mandatory, but don’t expect a “thank you” or even acknowledgment for staying late. And forget about a raise or promotion—that’s a pipe dream. It’s hard not to feel bitter when you’re working so hard and getting nothing in return.

I keep telling myself I should just quit, but it’s not that simple. I’ve got bills to pay, and the job market isn’t exactly booming right now. Plus, there’s this tiny voice in the back of my head that keeps asking, “What if the next job is just as bad—or worse?” It’s like I’m stuck in this cycle where I hate my job, but I’m too scared to leave.

Even at home, I can’t seem to escape it. I’m constantly checking emails or stressing about the next deadline. It’s like my job has taken over my entire life, and I don’t know how to take it back. My family keeps telling me to just hang in there, but they don’t understand how draining it is. By the end of the day, I’m too tired to even think about applying for other jobs, let alone pursuing something I actually enjoy.

Sometimes, I wonder if it’s me. Maybe I’m just not cut out for this kind of work. Or maybe I’m being ungrateful because at least I have a job. But then I think about how miserable I am, and I can’t help but feel like there has to be more to life than this. Doesn’t there?

If anyone else feels this way, I’d love to know how you’re coping—or if you’ve managed to get out, how did you do it? Right now, I just feel stuck, and honestly, it’s hard to see a way forward. All I know is, I can’t keep living like this. Something’s gotta give.

I’m a 16 year old that is going through a tough time. I’m currently experiencing immense and persistent feelings if stress,guilt,frustration,shame,sadness,hopelessness,worthlessness,disgustand anger. I’m also suicidal,self loathing and experiencing low self-esteem,low self-worth, and the desire to have not been born/ exist. Most of these feelings I am experiencing because of some awful mistakes I did when I was younger especially when I was 12. The awful mistakes I made are related to sexual behavior and I feel like what I did is illegal. I am constantly being tormented by remembering these awful mistakes. I am avoidant to taking accountability because I am scared I am scared of my future, I am scared of possibly not achieving my dreams of becoming an astronomer, and I’m scared of losing ny friends and family. I feel like a fake person and a hypocrite I act completely different on the outside but on the inside it’s a completely different story. I feel the need to distance my self from everyone and cut off friends. I don’t want to pose any unnecessary harm by continuing the relationships I have with my loved ones. I feel undeserving of the friends I have and the relationships I have with my family.i don’t deserve any support I don’t deserve sympathy,empathy, or care. I feel disgusted just thinking about how my friends and family have a relationship with a disgusting person like me, and I feel like Ive ruined my life and that there is no redemption for me. I constantly create scenarios in my head of going to juvie or losing friends and family. I hate myself so much for doing those acts so much I feel like I deserve all of this pain and suffering. I don’t want to accept myself let alone consider myself a functioning member of society. I am an outcast now. I constantly ask myself “why did I do that?” “Why couldn’t I have been a normal 12 year old? “why did I have to act like an irrational animal?“ I wish I could go back in time and made better decisions. I am constantly worrying about other people’s thoughts about me too if my past mistakes were to come to life. I worry if they would be sympathetic or not. I worry if I will be disliked by others and hated. I haven’t told anyone about this irl as I am scared to have a scary conversation about it and I am scared of the situation getting worse.

A few months ago, I faced something I never thought I’d have to deal with—trying to comfort my best friend after she lost her mom. It was sudden, a heart attack, and it left everyone in her family completely shattered. I remember getting the phone call and just sitting there in shock. What do you even say when something like that happens?

When I went to see her the next day, I froze at the door. I had all these things running through my head, but none of them seemed right. “I’m sorry for your loss” felt too generic. “She’s in a better place” sounded hollow. And “let me know if you need anything” felt like something people just say, but never follow through on. I stood there for a good five minutes, rehearsing words in my head, and none of them felt like enough.

Finally, I rang the bell. When she opened the door, I could see how much pain she was in. Her eyes were red, her shoulders slumped, and she looked like she hadn’t slept at all. I panicked and blurted out, “I’m so sorry.” She nodded and let me in without saying much. The whole visit, I kept second-guessing myself. Should I talk about her mom? Should I stay quiet? Was I making her feel worse?

At one point, she started crying, and all I could think to do was sit beside her and let her cry. I didn’t say anything. I just put my arm around her. And you know what? She told me later that was exactly what she needed—someone to just be there without trying to fix it or say the "right" thing.

That experience taught me a lot about what to say to someone who lost a loved one—or rather, what not to say. I realized that people don’t need clichés or advice in those moments. They don’t want to hear “time heals all wounds” or “everything happens for a reason.” Those words might come from a good place, but they don’t really help when someone is drowning in grief. What they need is for you to acknowledge their pain and let them feel it without judgment.

Over the weeks that followed, I tried to be there for her in small ways. I checked in with her often, even if it was just a text saying, “Thinking of you today.” I didn’t expect her to reply, but I wanted her to know she wasn’t alone. I also made sure to listen when she wanted to talk, even if she repeated the same stories about her mom over and over again. I learned that grief doesn’t follow a timeline, and people need to process it at their own pace.

One thing that really stood out to me was how much she appreciated when people shared memories of her mom. At the funeral, a mutual friend told a funny story about how her mom used to sneak extra candy into her kids’ stockings at Christmas, even though she’d pretend to be strict about sugar. My friend smiled—really smiled—for the first time that day. It was a reminder that her mom wasn’t just gone; she was still a part of all of us through those memories.

Now, when someone asks me what to say to someone who lost a loved one, I always tell them the same thing: don’t overthink it. It’s not about finding the perfect words; it’s about showing up and letting them know you care. Sometimes, saying “I’m here for you” and actually being there is more powerful than any other words.

Another thing I learned is that support doesn’t stop after the first few weeks. In the beginning, everyone rushes to offer condolences and bring meals, but as time goes on, people get busy with their own lives. That’s when the person grieving needs support the most. I made a point to invite my friend out for coffee or walks months after her mom’s passing, and she told me those little gestures made all the difference.

Looking back, I realize how much I’ve grown through this experience. I used to feel helpless and awkward around grief, but now I know it’s okay not to have all the answers. Sometimes, just saying “I don’t know what to say, but I’m here for you” is enough. It’s not about solving their pain—it’s about being a steady presence while they navigate through it.

If you’re reading this because you’re struggling with what to say to someone who lost a loved one, I hope this helps. Just remember, you don’t have to fix anything or make it better. Let them cry, let them talk, or just sit in silence with them if that’s what they need. Your presence alone speaks louder than any words ever could.

15 year old here.

Although some people find me smart (and I can agree to a certain degree) it is a middle position. Advanced topics of mathematics, physics, computer science and etc. capture my interest, but I often navigate them worse than most people considered prodigies or anything alike. It's not a matter of just confidence, self-esteem and such as it is a quality I genuinely value and would love to have, is required for most of my interests, so it is not a situation where one grieves over lack of it without a reason. Typically, raw intelligence can not be drastically improved. Most I can do is educate myself, but that just does not feel enough.

What do I do? How do I cope with not being even nearly as smart as people from my social circle that I strive to be alike to?

I always thought I’d be ready for this moment. I mean, isn’t that what parenting is all about? You raise your kids to be independent, to go out into the world and make their own lives. But now that it’s actually happened, I feel so... lost. The empty nest isn’t what I expected at all.

Last month, our youngest moved out to start college. The house feels so quiet now, almost like it’s holding its breath. For years, it was filled with laughter, noise, and the constant chaos of a busy family. Now, it’s just me and my husband, and we don’t really know what to do with ourselves. We used to joke about all the free time we’d have once the kids were gone, but the silence is... unsettling.

I find myself wandering into their rooms, staring at the posters on the walls, and wondering how time flew by so quickly. It feels like just yesterday I was helping them with homework, driving them to soccer practice, or staying up late to make sure they got home safe from a night out. Now, they’re off living their lives, and I’m stuck here trying to figure out what mine looks like without them in it every day.

Don’t get me wrong—I’m proud of them. So proud. They’re doing amazing things, and I know this is how it’s supposed to be. But I didn’t realize how much of my identity was tied up in being a mom. Now that they don’t need me the same way, I’m struggling to figure out who I am outside of that role.

Everyone keeps saying I should take this time to focus on myself, pick up hobbies, or travel. But it’s hard to start when your heart feels so heavy. Has anyone else gone through this? How do you adjust to life with an empty nest? I want to be happy for them, and I am, but I can’t shake this feeling of loneliness.

I can't love someone without feeling totally insignificant, small and useless next to them. I automatically start to distance myself because I feel that this person deserves someone better, they would be better off without me, they don't need me, I'm nothing special and I'm nothing compared to them, I hate feeling this way , I don't want to push away the people I love, I don't want to push away, but I do when I start to feel insignificant next to them, when I start to think that maybe at any moment they will realize that I'm worthless and will leave me, maybe they deserve something much better than me, that anyone is better than me. I want to love someone without feeling less, without feeling that that person will leave me at any moment for the same reason.

Being a mom is the most rewarding and terrifying thing I’ve ever done. My little girl is only two years old, but every single day, I find myself wondering: am I doing enough? How to be a good mother when it feels like there’s so much to figure out?

Some days, I feel like I’m nailing it. We play together, she laughs at my silly songs, and I can see how happy she is. But then there are moments when I feel like I’m completely failing. Like yesterday, when I lost my temper because she spilled juice on the carpet after I told her three times not to run around with her cup. She cried, and it broke my heart because all I could think about was, “What kind of mom yells at a two-year-old over juice?”

I read parenting blogs and watch videos on how to raise happy, confident kids, but it’s overwhelming. There’s so much advice out there, and half of it feels contradictory. Be strict, but not too strict. Let them explore, but set boundaries. Make healthy meals, but don’t stress if they eat nuggets and fries once in a while. I’m trying to do it all, but is that even possible?

I see other moms who seem to have it all together—perfectly dressed kids, Pinterest-worthy lunches, and spotless homes. Meanwhile, I’m just proud if I can get her to daycare on time with matching socks. Sometimes, I wonder if they’re struggling too and just hiding it better.

I love my daughter more than anything, and I want her to grow up feeling loved, supported, and safe. But how do I know if I’m doing it right? Is there some magic formula on how to be a good mother, or is it just about showing up every day and doing your best?

If anyone has advice or has felt this way too, I’d love to hear it. I’m trying so hard, but some days it feels like I’m just fumbling through.

For the past 16 years of marriage, punctuality has continued to be an elusive concept for my spouse's parents. They are consistently late by 20 to 30 minutes and fail to notify us in advance of their tardiness. Last Halloween was particularly telling. They had promised to arrive at 6:30 PM for trick-or-treating with my now-teenage children, who had canceled their own plans to spend the evening with their grandparents. When 7:15 PM rolled around without any sign of them, a phone call revealed they were still "5 minutes away." They eventually showed up 23 minutes later, apparently unconcerned by their lateness.

This recurring issue has compelled me to establish a new family rule I've dubbed the "5-minute rule." According to this directive, if someone says they'll arrive at a specific time and fails to show within 5 minutes of that time, we proceed without them. If it's a meal, we'll order and start eating. If they arrive as we're finishing, we’ll simply leave.

An example of this rule's implementation occurred just this evening. They had made plans to dine out with my teenagers, affirming a 7:00 PM pickup. Reminder of the "5-minute rule" was given during a phone conversation at 2:00 PM. Nonetheless, by 7:05 PM, they had neither appeared nor called. When I contacted them, they claimed to be 10 minutes away. I directed them not to rush, as we would not be waiting, despite their pleas for another chance citing their one-hour drive as an excuse.

It feels outright disrespectful that they don't regard our time with any seriousness. Should I feel bad about enforcing my rule?

Imagine how this issue would unfold if it was part of a reality TV show scene. The dramatization of the confrontation, complete with tense music and close-ups, would likely divide viewers. Some might side with the grandparents, arguing that family deserves patience and understanding. Others might applaud the enforcement of boundaries as a necessary step in cultivating respect for others' time. The episode would definitely spark debate and could possibly even trend on social media as viewers share their own family punctuality horror stories.

Now, thinking about this situation, I wonder: Is my new "5-minute rule" too harsh?

I never thought I’d feel this way, but here I am, completely heartbroken. It’s been two weeks since she ended things, and it still feels unreal. We were together for almost four years, and I honestly thought she was the one. We had so many plans—talking about moving in, maybe even getting married someday. But now, all of that is just... gone.

She said she needed "space" and that she wasn’t happy anymore, but she never really explained why. I’ve been replaying every moment in my head, trying to figure out where I went wrong. Did I not show her enough love? Was I too much? Or maybe she just fell out of love with me, and there’s nothing I could have done. I guess I’ll never know.

The worst part is all the little reminders of her everywhere. The playlist she made me still comes on sometimes, and I can’t bring myself to delete it. Her favorite coffee mug is still in my kitchen, and I haven’t had the courage to move it. It’s like everything in my life right now is just one big reminder that she’s not here anymore.

My friends tell me it’ll get better with time, but honestly, I don’t see how. How do you move on from someone who was such a huge part of your life? I’m trying to keep myself busy—going to the gym, meeting up with people—but it all just feels so empty.

I hate feeling this way, but I don’t even know where to start. Has anyone else been through something like this? How do you stop feeling so heartbroken when the person you love is gone? I just want to feel normal again. 😥

Recently, my mother informed me that she and my stepdad were making arrangements for their future, including drafting their wills. Rather than discussing minor inheritances like heirlooms, she dropped a major bombshell. They plan to bequeath their house to me and my two stepbrothers to share as a living space. It's a gorgeous house in a decent area, but the thought of living there with my stepbrothers never crossed my mind. I'm currently living comfortably with a roommate, quite content with my living situation.

During this discussion, my mother also revealed their intentions for me to become the legal guardian of my younger stepbrother, who, at 30, has an intellectual disability requiring lifelong care. Although he manages his basic needs and can make simple meals, his overall welfare is a permanent responsibility. My other stepbrother, who is autistic, seems content with his life, working at a factory without showing any desire to live independently.

Having joined our family a few years ago when my mother remarried, I've never really bonded with them, except for my stepsister. She and I had many great moments shopping and hanging out until she relocated. Given the situation, I would've thought that either she or their somewhat estranged mother would be more suited to care for him.

Moreover, I have future plans with my partner, aiming to eventually relocate to her native country. It seems utterly unreasonable to spring the responsibility of an additional person, potentially two, onto her as well. Financially and logistically, supporting my stepbrothers from abroad isn’t feasible, yet my mother hinted that should the brothers end up living alone, my sister and I would need to finance their upkeep. This, to me, felt exceedingly unfair and impractical, as it’s unlikely they would move if others are managing their affairs, leading to potential property neglect.

I’m contemplating a firm conversation with my mother, expressing my unwillingness to assume guardianship or financial responsibility for my stepbrothers. Both are somewhat independent and could feasibly share an apartment. Declining this role wouldn’t be out of cruelty but rather a recognition of my limitations and life plans.

If this ordeal were part of a reality show, the drama and emotional intensity would likely captivate viewers. The audience might speculate on familial obligations and personal boundaries, potentially siding with or against me based on their personal views on family responsibilities and individual rights.

Considering the nature of such shows, the reactions could range from empathetic understanding to harsh judgment, placing my decision under a sensationalized spotlight.

For the longest time, I’ve been stuck in this cycle of excuses. I’d wake up every morning telling myself I’d make changes, that today would be different, but by the time the day ended, I was back to square one. Whether it’s eating healthier, exercising, or even just cleaning my space, I keep putting it off. I’d tell myself, "I’ll start tomorrow," but tomorrow never seems to come.

Yesterday was my breaking point. I was scrolling through social media and saw an old friend post about running their first marathon. I remember how we used to run together, how much I loved it back then. And now? I can’t even jog up the stairs without feeling winded. It hit me like a ton of bricks—what am I even doing with my life? Why do I keep finding reasons to avoid what I know I need to do?

I looked around my apartment after that. Clothes piled up on the floor, dishes in the sink from who-knows-how-many days ago, and a gym membership card collecting dust on the counter. That’s when it finally clicked—it’s time to stop. It’s time to stop avoiding the hard stuff, time to stop pretending everything will fix itself, and time to stop being my own worst enemy.

I don’t have a perfect plan yet, and honestly, I’m scared I’ll slip back into my old habits. But I know I can’t keep going like this. If I don’t make a change now, when will I? Maybe writing this out will help me stay accountable. I don’t know who needs to hear this, but if you’re feeling stuck too, maybe it’s time to stop and take the first step. We’ve got this.