The inevitable cycle

You, who entered this world without a choice.
Helpless. Wordless.
Not even a name of your own.
Only breath. Warmth. Sound.
You could feel before you could speak.
You could sense before you could understand.
And so you began to learn, not by being taught,
but by watching.
But the moment you started to make sense of what you saw,
you were told:
“No, that’s not what you saw.”

From early on, something didn’t add up.
Your parents told you how to live, but their actions told a different story.
They said one thing, but did another.
So you started asking questions.

Your curiosity was quiet. Honest.
No intention of rebellion. You just wanted to understand.
But your questions pressed against the fragile truths they depended on.
They disturbed the calm they had built around themselves.
So they told you to stop asking.
“Just do what you’re told.”

Truth, irrelevant.
Stability, crucial.
Calm, performed.
Peace, even if fake, demanded.
Such was the way of the world.

And so the questions faded.
One by one.
You didn’t stop wondering — you just stopped asking.
The answers kept coming, but not from you.
First from your parents.
Then from strangers called teachers.
People you never chose.
They told you what to do.
They told you how to do it.
But never why.

And slowly, you stopped expecting to understand.
You started believing this was just how life worked.

So you tried to fit in.
You copied what others your age did.
Not because it felt right — but because they seemed sure.
You laughed when they laughed.
You hid what didn’t match.
And slowly, you became a version of yourself that felt safer to present.

You learned how to be liked.
How to blend in.
How to avoid standing out too much — or too little.
You picked up rules that were never spoken.
Who to talk to. Who to ignore.
What was cool. What was weird.
What parts of you were better left unseen.

And when something didn’t feel right, you assumed the problem was you.
That everyone else understood something you didn’t.
So you kept adjusting.
Kept watching.
Kept trying to catch up to the version of yourself that would finally fit.

Now, a young teen, your body began to change — rapidly, without warning.
“What’s happening to me?”
Your emotions intensified, the reasons unknown.
Confusion turned to anger.
Anger turned to silence.
And when you tried to speak, there was no one to listen.

The comparisons shifted.
No longer playful. No longer innocent.
Now they cut deeper.
They shaped how you saw yourself.
And you started believing that how you looked, how you spoke, how you felt — was wrong.

So you lashed out at the world.
But you didn’t know who you were angry at.
So the target became whoever was closest.
And the world punished you for it — harshly, disproportionately.
Not with understanding. Not with compassion.
But with more rules. More shame. More silence.

Now, at an early age, your worldview: complete.
Your map, missing.
Guidance, nonexistent.
The expectations, immeasurable.
The destination, clear.
The reasons, unknown.
But you didn’t know any better — because that was the world.
The confusion. The lack of motivation. That had to be your fault.
Because that was the way of the world.
You just didn’t understand.

Now, a young adult, the rest of your life, clear in sight.
The objectives, obvious.
The goals, within reach.
A timeline has been laid out, and you’re hitting the milestones.
Each one brings a flicker of satisfaction, but it never lasts.
The next one is already waiting.
There’s so much to do.
So you stay focused, diligent.
This is your life, your future. You can’t fall behind.

So you keep going.
Even when the motivation fades, you push.
Discipline takes over.
A cycle begins: of what must be done, and you forcing yourself to do it.
Not because it feels right.
But because there’s no other option.

Moments of silence and solitude give you nothing but confusion and doubt.
So naturally, that must mean they stand in the way of your goals.
Distractions then become self-care.

Now you want to be independent.
No longer bound by your parents and their ways.
So naturally, the first step is to find a partner.
Because you’re ready to live on your own —
just not alone.

So you fall in love.
Quickly.
Easily.
Because love means safety.
Love means you’re not lost.
Love means maybe this is all going somewhere after all.
But you don’t even know what you’re loving.
Not really.

So love fades.
More than once.
Then you question yourself again.
Am I incapable of loving?
Is there no one for me?
Was it ever real?
Or was I just afraid to be alone?
You don’t say these things out loud.
But they echo inside.
Late at night.
Early in the quiet mornings.
When there’s nothing left to distract you.

So you accept compromises.
Love changes shape.
It becomes something that must serve a cause.
Something that has a reason, no longer something completely pure.
So you pursue that love.
A safer, quieter agreement between two hurt individuals.

By now, every day, a routine.
Life, settled.
Excitement, scheduled.
Most goals, achieved.
The job, safe.
The house, enough.
You and your partner, learning to love, together.

Life isn’t so bad, after all.
As long as you can keep ignoring that quiet gnawing.
Why is it still here anyway?
Why won’t it leave you alone?
Can’t it see you’re doing great?

So naturally, having children must be the next step.
A deeper meaning.
A new purpose.
Something real.
This was always part of the plan anyway.
So of course, the cycle must restart.

Or does it?

Your first child, born into the world — still as chaotic as ever.
But this time, something feels different.
Clear.
Undeniable.
Love.
Overflowing.
Unconditional.
And suddenly —
Meaning becomes irrelevant.
Purpose dissolves.
Only they remain.

You, who were once broken by the world,
came to see — you had a choice.
Oh, the weight you have carried — all the way to now.
How heavy the burden was.
How long the silence lasted.
But now — standing at the edge of it all,
when they are born
into the same chaos, the same noise —
this time,
you know.
Not what was taught.
But what those lessons showed you.

You carry that knowing into this moment.
They are helpless, just like you were.
Eyes wide, mind open, body soft.
But this time, someone stays close.
Not just to feed or clothe them, but to witness them.

You don’t rush to shape them.
You let them show you who they are becoming.
You speak gently.
You stay longer.
You don’t punish the cries. You listen to them.
You are tired.
But you don’t retreat.
Not because you have energy—
but because you believe this matters.
That gentleness, even when exhausted, still counts.
That presence, even when frayed, still heals.
You don’t need them to be good.
You need them to be real.

When they start asking questions,
you don’t shut them down.
You don’t say, “Because I said so.”
You say, “Let’s think about that.”
Sometimes, you say, “I don’t know.”
And they learn — not that adults have the answers,
but that truth is something we search for together.

Their curiosity grows.
Their questions deepen.
And no one tells them to stop.
The world still tries to shape them.
Strangers still hand them rules.
But you teach them how to ask “why”
without fear.

When they make mistakes,
you don’t shame them.
You give space.
You teach repair.

You don’t protect them from all pain.
But you show them what to do with it.
How to feel it without drowning.
How to speak it without guilt.

When they look around —
at other kids, at the strange rituals of fitting in —
you don’t say, “Just be yourself.”
You show them how.

You show them by being honest.
By saying no without apology.
By laughing fully.
By crying in front of them.
By letting them see that it’s okay to not be okay
and still continue.

So they grow.
And when their body begins to change,
you don’t make it shameful.
You help them feel safe in their skin.

When emotions swell,
you don’t say, “Calm down.”
You say, “I hear you.”
You don’t make them small.
You remind them, “This, too, belongs.”

So they don’t have to hide their mess.
They don’t have to earn their worth.
They never wonder
if love disappears when they fail.

And when love enters their life,
they don’t fall blindly.
They don’t confuse affection with safety.
They move with care.
Not from fear, but from clarity.

They know what love looks like
because they see it in your eyes.
Every day.
Not as a performance,
but as a steady presence.

So they build.
Slowly.
Not chasing a checklist,
but shaping a life that feels real.
They don’t need applause.
They don’t need to be the best.
They know how to pause.
How to breathe.
How to begin again.

And one day, they realize something.
They weren’t just raised.
They were seen.
They were heard.
They were allowed to exist, fully.

So the inevitable cycle continues —
only this time, different.