I woke up, and it is March.

The sunlight streaming through my window greeted my tired eyes with a brilliance so intense that I had to look away. It felt almost mocking, as if the world outside was celebrating while I was still grappling with the weight of my exhaustion.

“This is what happens when you sleep at almost 3 o’clock in the morning,” I muttered to myself, my voice barely audible in the quiet room.

“Wait, what time is it?”

I turned my head toward the large digital clock hanging above my small mahogany cabinet near the door. Its ticking was loud, almost intrusive, a relentless reminder of how quickly time slips away.

It was 7:09 in the morning.

“Well, four hours of sleep isn’t the worst,” I reasoned, though my body begged to differ. “But I have to be in the office by 8:30.”

I closed my eyes again, trying to savor the stillness of the morning. Outside, the world seemed unusually calm. I could hear the faint chirping of birds, their songs cutting through the silence like tiny bursts of joy. It was strange, almost surreal, how peaceful Monday mornings could be on Rosales Street. But I knew better. The moment I stepped out of my apartment, the chaos would descend—the endless honking of cars, the hurried footsteps of strangers, the collective exhaustion of people trapped in their hectic lives. Another tiring day awaited.

I forced myself to sit up, shrugging off the blanket that clung to me like a second skin. As I stood, a sharp cramp twisted my stomach, and I winced. The pain had been relentless for days. I’d taken painkillers, but they offered no relief.

“It happens every third week of the month,” I reminded myself softly, as if the words could somehow soothe the ache.

Stretching my arms, I remembered why I had stayed up so late the night before.

“I was reading my journal,” I whispered. I had poured over every entry, reliving the emotions of the past year. It had been a rough night. I had a school presentation and a work presentation in two days, and the pressure was crushing. The fear of failure loomed over me like a shadow. I’ve always felt like a failure; what if I fail again? I didn’t want to talk to anyone about it. I knew they’d dismiss my worries, tell me they were nothing. People have a way of breaking you without even realizing it. My journal, though, was different. It was my silent confidant, the only witness to my struggles. Every page was filled with my worries, my losses, my small victories, and my pain.

I rarely write when I’m happy. I write when I’m sad, when I’m alone, when I’m lost.

My eyes scanned the room, searching for the journal. The walls were painted white, a blank canvas that mirrored the emptiness I sometimes felt. In the right corner stood a green study table and chair. Green has always been my favorite color—it reminds me of wild grass. Wild grass grows wherever it’s planted, resilient and unyielding, never losing its essence. Like wild grass, I’ve always believed we grow and thrive, but we must never forget who we are. My gaze landed on the table, and there it was: my black leather journal, resting quietly on the surface.

I hurried over and grabbed it. “I’m almost late,” I muttered, though I knew I didn’t have time to read it again. But as I flipped through the pages, a loose sheet of paper slipped out and fluttered to the floor. I picked it up, and familiar words stared back at me:

“If nothing and no one breaks your heart, if you expect everything to be perfect and joyful, do you think your life will be significant? You are a seed growing in this fleeting life and will bear no fruits without challenges.”

It was a quote I had written and shared on my social media page, Thoughts and Reflections, which had somehow gathered over 7,000 readers. I deleted the page before 2020 ended. I had saved so many write-ups there, but I didn’t care. Depression had taken hold of me, and I wanted to disappear. I wanted to be forgotten. Depression has a way of making you do things you never thought you were capable of.

I was about to tuck the paper back into the journal when I noticed something written on the back. My breath caught as I read the words:

“Life is not a race. Stop being too hard on yourself.”

It felt like a slap to the face. Had I always treated life like a race? Had I been living under the weight of expectations? Was that why I felt like I was drowning in an ocean of worries?

“Yes, you have,” my lips whispered in response.

The past months—no, the past years—had been undeniably challenging. But I had made it harder on myself. I had been unkind to myself. Every time someone asked about my educational or career plans, a wave of sadness would wash over me. I knew I was far from where everyone expected me to be. I knew I was far from where I expected myself to be.

Every time a plan failed, I cried myself to sleep.

Every time I waited for a result, I starved myself, only eating properly when the outcome was favorable.

Every time I saw people making a difference in the world, I felt a bittersweet mix of happiness and hopelessness. Happy for those kind souls who reminded the world that love still existed, and hopeless because I felt I had contributed nothing to make life better for anyone.

Every time I thought of my family, sadness gripped me. I felt I was far from the person they hoped I would become.

Every time I thought of the future, fear paralyzed me.

I had been so consumed by worry—worry about things I couldn’t control—that I had forgotten to acknowledge every small step I had taken to become a little better than who I was before.

Isn’t that enough?

It is enough. For now, it has to be. Obsessing over an uncertain future and the world’s impossible expectations only leads to isolation.

There will always be people who doubt me, who try to convince me that my hard work is meaningless. There will be days when pessimism feels impossible to ignore. But maybe those days are normal. Maybe they’re just part of life.

Life is not a race. It’s life—a series of days filled with uncertainties, and I need to accept the results of my efforts, whatever they may be.

I looked down at the piece of paper still in my hands and gently placed it back into the journal. The clock continued its loud ticking, and the sunlight streaming through the window seemed brighter than ever.

“Today is the first day of March,” I said aloud, “and the sixth day is my birthday.”

It was time to welcome a new day—with a smile.