Reading old journal entries where I talked to God, I feel like I was losing my mind. I wasn’t. I was a human, trying to process life—but through an evangelical framework that twisted every thought, every doubt, every fear into something shameful. Now, I’m left wondering: if the reality was the same then as it is now, how did belief change everything?

For years, I survived by weaving my identity through faith, relationships, and work—each a temporary shelter from the questions I wasn’t ready to face. Now, with all those structures stripped away, I stand at the center of my own awareness, untethered and asking: What happens when there's nothing left to run from?

Outrage culture dominates online discourse, woke culture reshapes societal norms, and modern life feels like an inescapable cycle of consumption. How do we navigate these forces without losing ourselves in reactionary trends or the weight of ethical dilemmas? This article explores the complexities of these cultural phenomena and their impact on how we live, think, and act.

I remember lying in bed as a child, eyes closed, watching geometric shapes float through the darkness of my mind. The sensation filled me with panic, an unease I couldn’t understand then—and maybe still don’t fully now. Looking back, I wonder if that moment planted an early distrust in my own mind, a fear of the complexity within me. Over the years, that unease has lingered, shaping my relationship with my thoughts, my sense of reality, and my struggle to feel truly present in my own life. But what if the panic wasn’t proof of something wrong—what if it was simply my first glimpse into the vastness of my own mind?

I've often wondered if our ancestors were happier than we are. Their lives were harsh—survival was immediate, roles were clear, and meaning wasn’t a choice but a necessity. Now, we have more freedom but also more mental noise, overstimulation, and existential confusion. They didn’t have the luxury to question their purpose, while we’re drowning in too many options. The more advanced we become, the further we drift from the primal clarity they had. Is there a way to reclaim some of that simplicity without giving up modern life?

I used to be able to read without effort. Now, every sentence feels like a battle—words slip through my working memory like water, background thoughts hijack my focus, and I can barely get through a paragraph without my brain spiraling into analysis. It’s not just distraction; it feels existential, like I’ve lost something fundamental. If you’ve ever struggled with overactive metacognition, derealization, or a mind that won’t cooperate, you might relate. Here’s what’s happening—and how to begin untangling it.

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.