Coming to Terms with It All. . . Part 0

This is a series of reflective essays, a way for me to try and understand myself, piece by piece. For so long, I’ve avoided the hard questions, ignored the messy emotions, and buried memories too heavy to carry. But now, it feels like everything I’ve suppressed is spilling out, things I thought I’d forgotten or convinced myself I’d moved past.

I don’t know what I’ll find in writing this. I’m not looking for neat answers or resolution, just a place to start. To stop running, to face the heartbreak, anger, and loss that have shaped me, and to confront the parts of myself I don’t yet understand.

There’s Aleks. The person I trusted more than anyone else. She was the only one who saw the parts of me I keep hidden, the only person I’ve ever been truly vulnerable with. She knows things I’ve never told anyone, things I never thought I’d say out loud. Losing her feels like losing more than just a person; it feels like losing the safety to be myself, the belief that someone could love me even after knowing everything. And now that she’s gone, I don’t know how to let go of the weight of her absence.

There’s my family. A complicated relationship, best described as distant. We don’t dislike one another, but we’re not close either. It’s always been that way. And because of it, I’ve longed for something different, my own family, my own tribe of people. A part of me aches for something I’ve never truly had, and perhaps never will.

There’s my time in the hotel industry, a chapter that drained the life out of me. I gave everything to a career that didn’t align with who I was and ignored the toll it took on me until I couldn’t anymore.

There’s the attack. It happened in broad daylight, and I still remember the shock, the knife, the chaos of survival. What followed was its own battle: numbing the trauma with drugs and facing the scars that left behind. Even now, I fight the pull to escape into that false sense of relief. The times have been testing, but I’m still standing.

There’s my current job. On paper, it’s everything I thought I wanted. So why do I feel like I’m only half-present? Like I’m holding something back, afraid to succeed or afraid to let myself feel fulfilled?

And then, there’s photography. It used to make sense. It was my outlet, my peace. Picking up a camera brought clarity and comfort when nothing else did. Now, even that feels out of reach, like I’m disconnected from the part of myself that once found solace in it.

I feel stuck, like I’ve been standing still for too long while life moves on around me. I feel broken, fractured in ways I’m only just beginning to understand. But this isn’t the first step, it’s another step in a path I’ve already been walking. I’ve written, I’ve read, I’ve confronted emotions I once thought I couldn’t handle. This is part of the process, not a beginning but a continuation. Writing isn’t about fixing what’s broken, it’s about seeing it clearly, layer by layer, and refusing to turn away.

I don’t know if this will bring clarity. Maybe I won’t find answers. But at least I’ll stop pretending I don’t feel what I feel. At least I’ll stop avoiding the questions that haunt me.

Why do I hold on so tightly to some things and let others slip away so easily? Why can’t I seem to move forward, even when I want to?