To Anyone Who Has Lost Themselves:

Love, whether it’s romantic, self-love, or otherwise, can be elusive. A few negligent weeks can lead to losing oneself, fragments breaking off with each passing day. It’s not a process that happens abruptly; rather, it’s a slow, subtle erosion until one wakes up disoriented, feeling empty and confused.

This is how love deteriorates — not in a single decisive moment, but in tiny fractures that accumulate into a collapse. Often, we don’t see it coming until it’s almost too late, offering only a small warning to change course.

This gradual loss can happen in relationships, with oneself, or even with life in general. Time has a way of slipping away, and love, in all its forms, is like a speeding train. If we don’t hold onto it, if we’re not mindful, it can leave us behind, breathless and uncertain.

We can’t allow days to pass without reflection, as this is how we become lost, running in circles without a clear direction. Life continues with or without our active participation, and there’s a neutrality to the way nature operates — it blooms, grows, and dies without our interference.

During challenging times, I have a tendency to abandon myself, shedding the parts that require nurturing and retreating into survival mode. This self-abandonment extends to all aspects of life, including love, goodness, and light. It might resemble depression, but it feels more self-inflicted. I find perverse comfort in negativity, in harsh reactive thoughts, and in being the one who feels wronged.


Abandoning myself becomes a familiar retreat into negativity, sadness, and reactive thoughts. It’s a perverse joy in not allowing myself to be loved, even by those around me. This admission is not fuelled by pride but a desire for purification, to release the self-inflicted suffering.

This is to say that I understand how love can break gradually, how one can lose sight of life despite it being right in front of them. Living without truly living, loving without feeling, and feeling without allowing emotions to penetrate deep — these may seem contradictory, but anyone who has been drowning in plain sight understands the paradox.

I used to ease this melancholy with alcohol, but I’m attempting to abandon that method. Sometimes, it feels challenging, considering alcohol is culturally accepted as a means of escape. I get lost inside my own mind when I can’t escape from it, when I don’t distract myself. I contemplate conforming to societal norms, letting my life flow with the tide that offers no tangible reward for resisting it.

Turning thirty hasn’t been the carefree adventure I anticipated. I’ve spent six months questioning everything, finding no answers or solutions, drifting further from my own guidance. Life has slipped away, cracking and fragmenting. That can happen to me, but in the midst of it, I forget my resilience, my ability to rise from my own ashes.


So, I recommit to myself and to love. I rediscover a steady footing, even if it’s a few rungs lower on the ladder. I start climbing again, because to stop climbing is a slow death. I search for love in unexpected places, in smaller moments, and I recall the forgotten joys. I reach for things that bring me happiness and evaluate their relevance in my life. Am I still growing from this? Have I outgrown it? I remain gentle with myself, recognizing it as the only way. In a world that demands hardness, I continue to soften my edges, finding strength in vulnerability.

No matter how many times love, in any form, shatters, I will find a way back to wholeness. It might look different, packaged in an unfamiliar way, but I’ll recognize it by the familiar grooves of myself. The pieces will fit together eventually. This is the space between knowing it’s happening and waiting for it to happen, where the mind can run away, dangerously close to burning up. That is the tricky space. That is the expanse to handle with great care. That is the divide where I find myself now. So, I wait.

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