“In the midst of winter, I found there was, within me, an invincible summer.”
— Albert Camus
What in the world still feels true to me today?
Externally, the world is on fire. Destruction, panic, suffering — humanity teeters on the edge of something. Collapse? Transformation? Depends on the hour. It’s all so overwhelming that my brain naturally wants to spin philosophical. What even is truth? But let’s not do that today.
Today, truth is simpler. More embodied. Less theoretical.
Truth is that I’m still able to recognize a truth at all.
And if I strip it down to its bones, here’s what remains: I believe in me. My ability to love. My ability to stay — to stand here, rooted, even when the world feels like it’s splitting apart at the seams. That counts for something, doesn’t it?
“We’re all just walking each other home.”
— Ram Dass
Despite everything, something core in me hasn’t changed: I still believe in the good. In people. If I’m capable of deep, gut-wrenching empathy — the kind that makes my ribs ache — then I know others can feel it too. Maybe that’s naive. Or maybe it’s the sanest thing I’ve got.
When the world’s static buzzes too loud, I don’t run — I retreat. Into my own small, sacred spaces. Alone in my room, in the hush between thoughts. Curled up with my loved ones, knowing connection can be both soft and fierce. I watch sunlight spill across the floor, utterly unaware that the world is burning. I make moon water for no reason other than it feels right. Vibes only. Some things don’t need to be explained.
“Tell me, what is it you plan to do with your one wild and precious life?”
— Mary Oliver
That’s how I come back to myself — not with grand gestures but tiny, tender ones. A breath. A pause. A ritual that feels like magic, even if no one else sees it.
Maybe, in some quiet corner of the world, my presence matters. Not because I’m saving anyone — but because I’m proof you can believe in humanity without demanding a payoff. Not for a gold star or salvation. Just because it feels true. A small flicker of light that says, We’re not all gone yet.
“Normal is an illusion. What is normal for the spider is chaos for the fly.”
— Morticia Addams
And sure, some days I rummage around the meadow of meaninglessness, poking through wildflowers and static and asking, “What’s the point, anyway?” The answer never really shows up. Or it does — in the rummaging itself. If I didn’t think life mattered, would I still be searching? Probably not.
I wish I had a neat metaphor for this season. A polished symbol to tie it up with a bow. But the best my brain’s got is a fuzzy TV screen, a sleepy sloth, a haze of static. That’s the whole point — not everything lands as poetry. Some truths just mumble.
“Do not be daunted by the enormity of the world’s grief. Do justly now, love mercy now, walk humbly now.”
— The Talmud
And when the world feels too heavy, I remember: Nobody asked me to carry it all.
I just assumed I was supposed to. Newsflash — I’m not.
Setting it down, even for a heartbeat, tastes like freedom. Not the fireworks kind. The soft, gentle kind that feels like an exhale you didn’t know you were holding.
“The world breaks everyone, and afterward, many are strong at the broken places.”
— Ernest Hemingway
So here’s what I know — the smallest truth I’m carrying with me into tomorrow:
If tomorrow is here, I’m doing just fine.
Not because I’ve figured it all out.
Not because the chaos stopped.
But because I stayed.
And maybe that’s enough.