I’ve always been the quiet one. The kind of girl who stayed in her own little world, spoke only when needed, and kept to herself. I didn’t crave popularity, grand attention, or large friend groups. I just wanted peace—my own silent, safe space.
Back in school, I had a best friend. One person I trusted more than anyone else. We shared everything—from lunch to secrets, from dreams to tears. She was more than a friend—she was family. I defended her when others talked behind her back, even when my own parents questioned the friendship. That’s how much I believed in her.
But something changed. Success came her way. Suddenly, she became everyone’s favorite. And I? I became invisible in her world. Slowly, the tone of her voice with me changed. I wasn’t her person anymore. I was just there—fading away.
Eventually, she left me behind. No fight, no closure, just distance. That betrayal hit harder than any heartbreak. Since then, I stopped letting people come close. If someone tried, I pushed them away—even before they had the chance to hurt me.
College came. A new beginning, right? But for me, it brought a new kind of fear—anxiety.
After 12th grade, I was lost. Everyone around me had dreams, goals, clarity. I didn’t. I was just scared. Scared of choosing wrong. Scared of not being enough. I remember waking up in the mornings with a tight chest, dreading what the day might bring.
People say, “Follow your passion.” But what if you don’t even know what your passion is?
I chose a course my parents suggested—not because I loved it, but because I had no better idea. On the first day of college, others came with confidence and smiles. I went with my mom, holding her arm tightly, silently praying I’d just survive the day.
The lectures were fine. The subjects were okay. But nothing felt right. Anxiety became my daily companion. I overthought everything. From how I looked to how I spoke. I didn’t join college events, didn’t go on trips, didn’t make strong friendships. I lived those years in silence and stress, watching others live their youth while I just... managed mine.
Still, I had hope. I believed that after graduation, maybe I’d find a good job. Maybe all my hard work, tears, and quiet patience would pay off.
But they didn’t.
I tried again and again. Applied to jobs. Gave interviews. Waited. Hoped. Cried. Reapplied. And still, nothing. I started questioning myself. Maybe I wasn’t good enough. Maybe I didn’t deserve it. Or maybe my destiny had other plans.
And then, something unexpected happened.
I got an offer from a small hospital. It wasn’t my dream job. It wasn’t even close to what I had imagined for myself. But something inside me whispered, “Just say yes.” Maybe it was tiredness. Maybe it was faith. Or maybe both.
So, I said yes.
On the first day, I was trembling. I had never worked in such an environment. Hospitals were supposed to be for the brave and strong. I didn’t feel like either. I met doctors, nurses, and staff I didn’t know how to talk to.
And that’s when I met him.
No, I won’t mention his name. It still makes my heart feel too much.
He judged me the moment we met. His tone was sharp. His words quick. I felt small. But fate had other plans. Our work kept bringing us together. Slowly, the conversations became less formal. Then friendlier. I don’t know how or when, but I started waiting for his messages. Smiling when he passed by. Feeling lighter around him.
Maybe it was love. Or maybe just the longing for someone to see me, really see me.
But I realized he wasn’t on the same page. Maybe he liked someone else. Maybe he was just being kind. Either way, that story—like many in my life—remained incomplete. A bookmark with no next chapter.
And yet, working in that hospital, I discovered something unexpected.
Helping others healed something inside me.
When an old man thanked me with teary eyes for helping him find his way…
When a scared child held my hand and smiled after a check-up…
When a tired mother simply said, “Thank you for being kind”…
Those moments—small, quiet, and powerful—made me feel something I hadn’t in years: worthy.
Maybe I wasn’t meant for a corporate desk or a fancy title. Maybe my journey was meant to be softer, quieter—but still meaningful.
I still have dreams.
I want to travel internationally at least once. I want to celebrate my birthday in an orphanage, bringing cake and gifts and laughter. I want to donate regularly, however small the amount. I want to live a life that’s not just about me.
And yes, I still hope to find someone—someone who doesn’t give me the world, but gives me their attention, their care, their love. Someone who sees the overthinking girl, the anxious woman, and says, “You’re enough.”
I may not have taken the ideal path. But I’ve taken the honest one.
That one “yes”—a hesitant step into a hospital I never dreamed of—changed everything.
It didn’t bring me riches, fame, or romance.
But it brought me closer to myself.
It taught me that plans may fail, but purpose finds you—even in the places you never imagined.
If I could go back and tell my younger self one thing, I’d say:
“Don’t overthink every step. Life has its own plans. Just say yes—and trust.”
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