I used to struggle with talking out loud to myself, even when I was completely alone. Something about it made me feel exposed—like I was being watched, or worse, like I was crazy. Now that I’ve been living alone, it’s getting easier, but I wonder: why was it so hard in the first place? This post explores the fear of self-expression, internalized judgment, and the existential weight of stillness.

I feel like I’m starting over, building a remedial existential education plan for myself. I was taught the facts of the world in school, but they were meaningless beyond getting good grades. Now, I realize I don’t fully grasp the basics of existence—biology, physics, emotions, nature, history. Leaving my faith shattered my framework for reality, and since then, I’ve struggled to trust what’s real. But maybe learning can be different now. Maybe I can rebuild, piece by piece, in a way that finally makes sense.

I used to feel an existential dread when faced with history or science, a lingering effect of my upbringing where the universe was supposedly created in seven days and human history was just a footnote to divine judgment. Shows like Cunk on Life once overwhelmed me, but now, I can engage with them without spiraling. This shift confirms what I suspected—my fear wasn’t about history itself, but about the unraveling of a worldview that had once felt like my only anchor. Now, I find myself relating to the vast human story in ways I never thought possible.

Looking back at my journal entries from 2006 feels like opening a time capsule of my younger self—searching, analyzing, striving for structure while resisting it, and grappling with perfectionism. These pages capture the tension between growth and self-doubt, between humor and existential fear, between connection and isolation. I see someone who was constantly thinking, feeling, and questioning, trying to make sense of herself and the world around her. While my struggles have evolved, my core—the part that seeks understanding—remains.

I keep checking to see if I feel real. Then I check to see if I’m checking. Sharing my experience hasn’t helped because I’m still living with it. The harder I try to feel present, the more distant I seem to become. Is there a way out of this loop? Or do I have to learn how to sit with it?

Processing trauma isn’t just mentally exhausting—it’s physically draining. Even if you’re sitting on a couch in therapy, your body is reliving, reorganizing, and metabolizing past experiences. Your nervous system is working overtime, your brain is rewiring itself, and your emotions are demanding energy. That post-therapy crash? It’s real. Understanding why trauma work takes such a toll can help you navigate the exhaustion with self-compassion and care.

It's hard to predict exactly how being "personalized" will feel for you, but it may be a mix of both familiarity and unfamiliarity. Parts of it might feel like coming home—like recognizing yourself in a way you didn’t fully realize you were missing. Other parts might feel strange, even unsettling, because you’ve been distanced from them for so long. The key is to approach it gently, allowing yourself to reconnect at your own pace. The fear makes sense, but so does the possibility that you’ll find something grounding and real beneath it.

When people talk about "staring into the void," they usually mean confronting the deepest, most uncomfortable truths about existence, suffering, or themselves. If staying present with your pain feels like staring into the abyss, you’re not wrong—it’s a profound act of courage. Whether it’s existential despair or personal trauma, facing the void can strip away illusions, challenge your identity, and ultimately change you. The key is knowing how to navigate it without getting lost.

Moving into a neighborhood labeled "dangerous" by others has forced me to confront the balance between protecting myself and understanding the systems that create crime and instability. While I sometimes hear gunshots and worry about safety, I also see the reality of systemic neglect, economic disparity, and the resilience of the people who live here. How do I hold both truths—fear and empathy—without losing my sense of humanity?

Why do people commit acts of blackmail, kidnapping, or violation? What drives someone to cross those moral lines? While it may seem impossible to imagine, these behaviors often stem from desperation, trauma, radicalization, or a quest for power. Similarly, internet spaces like 4Chan reveal an anonymous world where humor, chaos, and extremism collide—breeding both creativity and toxicity. Understanding these dynamics isn’t about excusing harm but about recognizing the conditions that create it.