I am afraid—deeply, endlessly afraid. Not of the dark or of monsters lurking in shadows, but of the monster within my own mind. It’s a beast that holds everything—all of this, everywhere, all at once. The constant hum of thoughts never ceases, each one holding all of this, everywhere, all at once, a storm of wild currents of desires and fears swirling around me, a hurricane of possibilities. each one a storm: wild currents of desires and fears swirling around me, a hurricane of possibilities. There is always more. More to do, more to prove, more to become. It presses heavy and suffocating in the space between my ribs, an unbearable weight of wanting it all,and wanting none of it,at once.
I’m terrified I’ll never understand love—not the kind from movies or novels, but the kind that roots itself deep in your bones, the soil of your being. What if I can’t hold onto it? What if I ruin it, as I ruin so much, caught in this endless tide of all of this, everywhere, all at once, because I am too much and never enough? Because I am too much and never enough? What if love is a tide—ebbing, flowing, destined to leave me with nothing, but the salt-sting of its absence?
I’m afraid of the world slipping through my fingers. Mountains I haven’t climbed, rivers I haven’t swam, faces whose stories I’ll never know. Each untraveled road presses against my chest, a weight reminding me that all of this, everywhere, all at once, is beyond my grasp, my time finite against an infinite world. A reminder that my time is finite and the world is not. What if I leave this life having only skimmed its surface, never reaching its depths?
And what if I spend my life chasing something that doesn’t exist? Fulfillment that never arrives, emptiness that never fills. My soul feels like a sieve, catching only fleeting fragments of happiness while the rest slips through. What if the chase is all there is? A race with no finish line, no rest.
I’m afraid of mirrors, of the silent truths they reflect. My body has always felt like a stranger’s house, a place I visit, but never belong. I’ve tried to love it, to call it home, but some days it feels like a battleground, scarred by wars I never chose to fight. Will I ever see it without wanting to change? Will anyone ever look at me and see beauty where I see failure?
I want the world—all of it—but I’m scared it’s just a distraction. A way to run from myself. What if my desire to explore, to be everywhere and everything, is just a yearning for all of this, everywhere, all at once, a fear masquerading as ambition? Is it just fear dressed up as ambition? What if I’ll always be a restless wanderer, chasing sunsets I can never hold, leaving pieces of myself scattered like breadcrumbs I can’t follow back?
I’m afraid of losing people, of the way they slip away no matter how tightly I hold on. I feel their sadness like a weight in my chest, their laughter like a flame against the cold. I bend myself into shapes to make them happy, stretching so thin I forget where I begin and they end. And still, they leave. They always leave.
When I’m alone, truly alone, I’m left with the terrifying stillness of my own thoughts. Without the noise—no music, no laughter, no endless scrolling—I feel like a hollow shell. Who am I without the distractions? What remains of me when the world goes quiet?
I’m scared of the life waiting beyond this fragile now. College has been my map, my safety net, but the future stretches out like an endless ocean, uncharted and vast. How do you navigate a world with no guide, no guarantees? What if I’m already lost?
I’m afraid of my own hunger. I want everything. To climb mountains that scrape the sky, to dive into oceans cradling the earth’s heart. To breathe the air of every continent, to speak the language of wildflowers and storms. But the wanting consumes me. It’s exhausting to carry this ache, this unquenchable thirst for more.
I don’t know how to balance the chaos inside me. I love too much, too fast, or not at all. I give until I’m empty, or I guard myself so fiercely that no one can get close. Where is the middle ground? The place where I can simply be?
I want so much from this life. To be a traveler, a writer, a dreamer with her feet on foreign soil and her heart always aching for more. I want love—messy, imperfect love that makes me feel like I’ve finally come home. I want to dance barefoot in rainstorms, to laugh until my ribs ache, to feel alive in the most reckless, beautiful way.
But how do I carry all these dreams without breaking? How do I pour them into words without feeling like I’m shouting into a void? I want to be seen, to be understood—but I’m terrified of being known, of someone seeing all my cracks and deciding I’m not worth staying for.
I’m scared I’ll never stop feeling this way. Like life is a constant tug-of-war between longing and fear, between fullness and emptiness. Like the world is a masterpiece I’m not worthy to step into, always on the outside looking in.
Maybe the meaning of life isn’t to escape the longing, but to let it consume me. To let it carve me open, reshaping me with the brutal beauty of wanting everything, knowing I’ll never have it all. Maybe life is in the ache itself—in the pull between the lives I dream of living. Each one tugs at me, from mountains I’ve yet to climb to oceans I’ve yet to dive into. The pull is relentless, a reminder that there is always more, always something beyond my reach.
And maybe that’s the point: the relentless, breathtaking chase of all of this, everywhere, all at once—the longing that burns and keeps me alive, no matter how far I run. the endless chase of all of this, everywhere, all at once. The longing that burns, that keeps me alive no matter how far I run.