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Hospitals are strange places. They hold both joy and sorrow, beginnings and endings, first breaths and last. As a pediatrician, I have witnessed moments that tested my faith and hope. Yet one story remains—a fragile cry that reminded me of the miracle of life. It was an ordinary morning in the maternity ward. The corridors smelled of antiseptic, and newborn cries echoed. But a case arrived none of us would forget. A young mother, pale and trembling, was in preterm labor. Her baby was coming weeks too soon: fragile lungs, fragile heart, fragile chances. The room grew tense. Nurses prepared quickly, the incubator hummed, and my heart pounded. Experience never removes the weight of such moments. And then, he came. A tiny boy, so small it seemed the world could crush him. His skin was translucent, his chest uneven. For a moment, silence. Too silent. His mother whispered, “Is my baby alive?” We rushed into action. His breaths were shallow, flickering like a candle. For an instant, I feared he would not survive. Inside, I prayed: Please breathe. Please cry. Then it came—a soft, raspy cry. Not loud, but enough to bring tears to our eyes. That cry was hope made audible. His mother sobbed with relief. We placed him in the incubator, wires and tubes surrounding him. Beyond machines, there was something greater: the astonishing design of the human body. His lungs struggled but learned. His heart kept beating. Every cell seemed to whisper, I want to live. Days turned into weeks. I visited often, listening to the monitors, watching his tiny fingers curl. His mother stood by, whispering lullabies through the glass. Slowly, he grew stronger. Weeks later, I entered the ward and froze. The incubator was empty. He was in his mother's arms, no tubes, no wires, only life. His wide eyes and faint smile were victory itself. Months later, I almost didn't recognize him. The fragile infant was now a chubby, bright-eyed baby, cooing and grasping at his mother's necklace. His laughter filled the room. I remembered that first cry—how close we came to losing him, and how miraculous his life now was. That day, I was reminded how extraordinary human beings are. We often take life for granted—the beating of a heart, the instinct of a newborn curling its fingers. But when life nearly slips away, every detail shines like a miracle. Every child born healthy is not “ordinary.” It is a wonder, repeated millions of times yet never losing its beauty. A premature baby growing into a thriving child shows how humans are created with resilience and grace. I often think of that boy. When I see children running in the park, laughing freely, I think of him and others like him. I think of mothers waiting anxiously, fathers hiding tears, grandparents praying in hospital corridors. Each child is a living testament to creation's brilliance. The world may be full of noise—wars, fears, uncertainty. But then there is the quiet cry of a newborn, reminding us that life continues, that miracles happen every day. That fragile cry taught me more than textbooks. It taught me that humans are wonderfully made, and that every child carries a spark of divine perfection. And that is why I continue my work. Not just to heal, but to witness life's miracle again and again. Because every cry matters, every breath counts, and every child is proof that even in a fragile world, hope endures

I had to admit something. That my world, somewhere along the line, had lost its color. It wasn't a sudden thing. More like a slow fade, the kind you don't notice until you wake up one day and realize you're living in a black-and-white movie from the 1940s. My apartment, 4B, was the entire set of that movie. The window looked out onto a city that was just… gray. Gray buildings, gray sidewalks, gray cars filled with gray people. The sounds were gray, too. A dull, constant hum that was the background track of my life, which mostly consisted of coding for a company that probably thought I was a bot, and getting everything from groceries to toothpaste delivered to my door. The door was the edge of my world. Then came the knock. It wasn't the usual tap-and-run of a delivery. This was a frantic, messy rhythm. A 'human' knock. My heart did a kickflip against my ribs. I tried to ignore the sound. But It came again, louder this time, punctuated by a shaky voice. "Hello? Please? Anyone's here?" I cracked the door, my body hidden behind it, leaving a gap just wide enough for one of my eyes. It was Mrs. Henderson from 4A, a woman I'd only ever seen as a blur of floral print and white hairs. Now, her face was crumpled with panic, her eyes wide and wet, looking pitiful. "It's Jasper," she said, her voice thin and choked. "My cat. He must have slipped out. I can't find him anywhere." My brain, my very logical and anxious brain, had a simple response: 'Not your problem. Close the door.' But Mrs. Henderson had come even at my almost always closed door for her cat. And now her wrinkled eyes were looking at me. And her panic, it was so… colorful. Yes. A vibrant, terrifying red in my muted gray world. "I'll… keep an eye out," I mumbled, which was a lie ofcourse as my logical brain had won. "Could you just help me check the stairwell?" she pleaded. "My knees aren't what they used to be, dear." The stairwell. The concrete monster in which I hadn't set foot for six months. 'No, I can't do that.' I thought. But the look on her face….was really something. I don't know why I did it. Maybe it was her panic. Or maybe I was just tired of the gray. I nodded. The hallway felt like a mile-long tunnel. Every creak of the floorboards was a cannon blast. But Mrs. Henderson was there, shuffling beside me, her face filled with worry was somehow affecting me. We checked the stairwell. Top to bottom. No Jasper. I felt a genuine pang of disappointment. And something else, too. A weird, shaky sense of pride. I had left my apartment. I had faced my monster. Back in 4B, the gray seemed… less gray. But I still couldn't settle. I kept picturing that little ginger cat, lost and scared. Then I found myself at the window, but I wasn't just staring at the city. I was scanning. Searching for a tiny patch of orange. Mrs. Henderson had mentioned he loved sunning himself by the big green dumpster in the alley. The alley. That meant the lobby. The main entrance. 'Outside'. My hands started to tremble. It was one thing to face the stairwell with a guide. It was another to walk out into the whole world. Alone. But the image of Mrs. Henderson's face wouldn't leave me. So, I put on my shoes. The journey to the front door was an epic saga. My heart hammered out a frantic drum solo. But I did it. I pushed the heavy glass door open. And the sound hit me. It wasn't the gray hum I had expected. It was… everything. A car horn blared, sharp and yellow. A kid shrieked with laughter, a splash of pink. A bus hissed its brakes, a deep, rumbling blue. I'd forgotten the world had so many different noises. And there, behind the dumpster, was a flash of orange. Jasper. He was tangled in some old kite string, looking very sorry for himself. Carrying him back, I felt like a soldier returning after victory. Mrs. Henderson's sob of relief when she saw him was the most beautiful sound I'd ever heard. She hugged me, a real, solid hug that smelled like cinnamon and tea. It was the first time someone had touched me in almost a year. "You have to come in," she insisted. "I've just made tea." The old me, the gray me, would have made an excuse. But the me standing in the colorful, noisy hallway, with cat hair on his shirt? She said yes. Sitting in her cluttered, cozy apartment, with a purring cat on my lap and a warm mug in my hands, I looked out her window. It was the same view as mine. But from here, the city wasn't gray at all. It was a thousand different colors, all shimmering under the afternoon sun. I knew my apartment was still there, waiting for me. But for the first time in a long while, I truly felt at home.

My sister, my grandma, and I spent our holidays in the village, like a little world of our own. Mornings were filled with sunlight on the fields, the smell of baking bread, and the gentle hum of our conversations. Everything felt simple, calm, and safe, until my uncle arrived. He was not harsh to me or my sister, but when he spoke, it was with sharp authority. If we did not do as he said, his anger flared. and my grandmother... she would shrink to herself, quiet and tense, as if trying not to breath too loudly. The happiness of our little world trembled the moment, he stopped through the door. My sister and I hugged him as though we had missed him, but the truth was different. Having known him for years, we had become good at pretending -and that was what I hated most. Pretending felt like a mask I couldn't take off. I smiled and laughed, because if he grew angry, his harsh words would almost always fall on my grandmother. Sometimes I wished I could run away, take a long walks , and spend less time inside the house. But I could never leave her alone. I did not know, what might have happened, if they argued again, and the thought of my grandmother's heart breaking under her son's words kept me by her side. The days in the village would pass slowly, almost painfully. I tried to avoid him in the large house, but somehow, he was everywhere: working in the garden, preparing two plates of food only for himself, or sitting with his friends who were just like him. Each corner of the house seemed to carry his presence. Being there no longer felt like living. It was only existing, waiting for more time to move forward, waiting for the silence to end. At night, when he was drunk, he would come to us, and begin long lectures about life. My sister and I would sit there, listening, smiling, nodding our heads at the right times, waiting for it to be over. Sometimes it lasted for hours. When he finally left, I would glance at my grandmother. She sat quietly, her face -unreadable, but her eyes told the story, her lips never did. In them, I saw exhaustion, sorrow, and something deeper: something unspoken that I could never forget. My uncle was not always this way. As a child, he had been kind, gentle, even a joy to be around. But when he grew older and fell in with wrong friends, something changed. He became sharper, harsher, almost unrecognizable. He began mocking his own mother, blaming her for every smallest disappointment and failure in his life. Every harsh word, he threw at her, left wounds that I could not see, but knew were deeper than any physical pain. My grandmother never answered back, but her silence carried the weight of it all. Not all words are spoken out loud. Some stay hidden in the pauses between sentences. Growing up, I learned to listen to those unspoken words. They taught me more than the loudest voices ever could, and they continue to remind me that kindness matters most, especially when silence is the only language, someone has left.

Lauren always believed that friendships are long-lasting, she thought she would never meet new friends or either lose them, just she and her junior friends. How innocent she was, she just believed that friendships are neat with predictable roads, but she came to realize that friendships are far messier than any map. In all her connections, she felt the weirdness through every connection she'd ever made. It's not about how her friendships were good or bad, but it was about the strange, shifting nature of human bonds themselves. It all started when Lauren finished her final exams of grade 9. She celebrated with her friends and took photos but after that it all changed, Lauren moved to a new high boarding school, she left her friends, but She held onto them, sending occasional messages into the emptiness. They seldom started a conversation in return, she felt a hollow ache, a tightening knot, a sudden chill. The insidious chill of fading memories began to seep in. One day, Lauren found herself simply staring at her phone. The message bubbled five days ago. "Remember that time we...?" No 'read' receipt. A strange ache in her chest. She started to believe that they had forgotten about her. How did the ease of shared lunches morph into the uncomfortable quiet of unfamiliar faces, a tacit admission that they have never met. While Lauren was scrolling on her phone, she stared at Kezia's new haircut, the unfamiliar curve of her smile. The girl who was once a mirror, reflecting shared jokes and whispered secrets, now felt like a stranger dressed in a familiar face. One day she met up with her friend Ameli, Lauren sips her coffee, listening to Ameli talk about crypto and NFTs. Lauren nods, tries to look interested, but inside she just feels lost. They used to talk about comic books and new albums of TV girl. In summer holiday Lauren started learning German and after finishing her first A1 level, the academy published that they will hold a competition, when she arrived she was nervous, she didn't know any people there except her friend Jessy which in grade 12 and she recommended this academy to Lauren, the competition started and all participants were divided into teams, Lauren was the only girl in the team there were boys which in her current studying year and some in their twenties, Confusion morphed into friendship. On her team, Elvin, who was about her age, showed unexpected kindness, and their collaboration flowed effortlessly. They laughed and glided, winning a victory. By the end of the day, a happiness she hadn't experienced in a long time surged inside her, a deep intense appreciation for these passing people. However, the excitement faded rapidly, substituted by a profound insight. This strong connection was formed out of a single person's passion, mutual experience, a soft joke, a victorious high-five following their success, that meaningful look exchanged when something significant occurred. She only knew his name, no way to find him beyond this brief intersection. He would remain a vivid ghost, a perfectly crafted moment in time that would never expand, a beautiful 'what if' held in the fragile chamber of her memory. One day, Lauren received news that her friend Maisy, her old school friend, had passed away, Lauren stood, a cold wave washing over her. Maisy. A name, now a void. A surge of faded memories, sharp and painful, compelled her towards a dusty box in her closet, she started to read Maisy's letters, she read one letter that say “please come back and sit next to me don't sit in the first desk! Lauren started crying. She couldn't stop the drops falling from her eyes. Among them, a crudely drawn Barbie birthday invitation: 'Come to my birthday! I'll be glad if you came and stayed with me, don't worry, I will bake the cookies!' The words, childish and innocent, tore at her. Maisy, gone? They were playing together in the yard. She also started to scroll in their old chats. There were silly photos of their video call, some jokes and recipes of natural face mask. With Maisy gone, not only are new memories impossible, but the existing shared memories become strange. She feels the subtle shifts in her other friendships without Maisy as a common link like threads loosening or colors fading in the absence of a central dye. Lauren closed the dusty box, a quiet, desperate whisper escaping her lips " I wish you weren't going, I wish you would stay, stay forever” Friendships are weird. Lauren likes her friends, a few have come and gone. Some of the friendships felt a bit transactional, but a lot of them feel pretty real. She doesn't want to lose any of them, but she thinks at some point she will outgrow them. And they will outgrow her too. I guess when that happens, she will just find new friends, disconnected from the ones she used to have. She just hopes that if/when it does happen, it doesn't hurt too much.

Entering the village of Hasdate, Romania, you can see a seemingly modern village with new houses, yards well tended to and paved roads. The modern look presents a sharp contrast with the few old and time-worn houses that remain, with old, patchy roofs and dirt floors that linger as the physical manifestation of the memory of a village that existed over 70 years ago. Underneath the new coat of paint, every house in this village carries the memories of the communist era Hasdate village. My grandparents lived in this village during the regime and experienced the highs and lows of lives as simple farmers. The story my grandfather tells me begins in his childhood home, in this house. Sitting in his room, with the old rickety TV buzzing in the background, I feel like a small child listening to big stories made all the more real by my grandfather's vivid recollections. In one of his earliest memories he is only 11. While I remember being 11 and running around with friends, screaming, laughing, kicking a ball and cheering when it passed our made up football field boundaries, his reality was different. “I remember I just finished 4 grades and my parents wanted to send me to 5th grade but I didn't want to go. I never liked school. And since I didn't want to go they said fine, we need a child at home too. We had land, cows, sheep and anything we needed. That's how we lived, me, my parents, my siblings; parents and children in the countryside in general. We lived off of what we sold from our cows and sheep.” he says. Life was difficult but unpleasant. At the beginning of the communist period the village was a place filled with agricultural land and small farms and many families lived off of what they could grow and sell. This lifestyle was soon to change. In the autumn of 1959 they made the CAP or The Collective with the regional headquarters in Hasdate. When the communists came after the war, the land the people in the village owned, their animals and gardens, were all taken from them and made property of the state. They took everything from them, built the stables of the CAP for the animals and only allowed the people working for them to own 15 areas of land for every working CAP member. People called it The Collective because of that. They allowed them to only keep one cow and up to 5 sheep. This is all they had left to make a living from. Many people envision their youth as more than just work, they see fun and new experiences, not ears hurt from the noise of machines and a tired body to take to work the next day while still thinking about the land you must care for to be able to eat, but that was the truth of the regime. I see my grandfather as he is today, tired but fulfilled and I wonder if maybe his heart could offset the toll the struggle took on him. I see his kind eyes, and his will to find the best in everything. Working the land and taking care of a farm came with its own difficulties. Part of what the people could grow and sell had to be given to the CAP. Fighting back was never a choice but the people still tried to before signing the cheese contract so they could protect the product of their hard work and the food their families often relied on. “One time when we were gathering the sheep, someone from the city hall came there, he is still alive today, I think, and he, the chief accountant and the CAP president insisted we had to sign a cheese contract,” he says. The people didn't want to hand over the product of their hard work and tried to fight back but in the end they had no choice. Sign or lose your job. Ilie Buiga protested the most at the time. “ 'Sir,' I said, ‘If it's mandated by law, show us the law and we'll do it and that's it.' They went inside and talked and when they came out the CAP president said ‘Someone here is going to lose their job tomorrow'.” He fought for what he cared for though, as he always does. “The thing with the communists is that they made our country free of debt but they completely neglected their people” he tells me. Despite the struggles of living in the communist regime, my grandfather always says that one of the good things they did was make it so that all children, rich or poor could go to school. He had a big family, six siblings to send to school. Even though he chose to stay home to care for the land and the farm, another six children were not easy to support in their education for his parents. Nowadays we often hear about the communist period in black and white terms. Either a good thing for the people that benefited from it or a horrible thing for those who struggled. Ilie Buigas' perspective shows good and bad parts in a life filled with hard work as well as joy in the midst of struggle. There were years of struggle but also love, first for his family, then for his village and land, and then for his wife, children and grandchildren. This is his story, from the beginning of an era, to the start of another. „That's how 78 years went by.” he says.

1. Assess Your Coverage Needs Before you dive into policy details, take a moment to figure out how much protection you really need. Ask yourself: • Dependents and Debts: Do you have a mortgage, student loans, or young kids counting on your income? • Future Goals: Will your family need college funds or retirement top-ups if you're not around? Jot down a ballpark figure say, 10× your annual income and then refine it. This simple exercise ensures you don't under- or over-insure. 2. Compare Term Lengths and Premiums Term life insurance usually comes in 10-, 20-, or 30-year durations. Think about: • Loan Durations: Match the term to your mortgage or loan payoff timeline. • Career Trajectory: If you're eyeing a startup stint in five years, a shorter term might suffice. Remember, longer terms often mean higher premiums. But locking in a 30-year rate in your 30s can turn out more affordable in the long run. 3. Request and Analyze Life Insurance Quotes Don't settle for the first number you get. Gather life insurance quotes from at least three sources: • Online Aggregators: Quick estimates, but double-check details. • Direct Insurers: Often more transparent about fees. • Independent Agents: Can highlight lesser-known carriers. Line them up side-by-side use a simple spreadsheet if you like and compare not only the cost but also what's included in each quote. 4. Review Policy Features and Riders A basic policy might cover you, but riders add valuable bells and whistles: • Accelerated Death Benefit: Tap into your policy if you're diagnosed with a terminal illness. • Waiver of Premium: Skip payments if you're disabled. • Child Term Rider: Affordable coverage for your little ones. Be cautious of add-ons disguised as “must-haves.” Only pay for riders that match your unique situation after all, you know better than anyone what your family really needs. 5. Check the Insurer's Reputation You'll want an insurance partner that stands the test of time and turbulent markets. Look into: • AM Best or S&P Ratings: Aim for “A” or better. • Customer Reviews: See how health insurance companies and life insurers handle claims. • Claim Payout Speed: Read real stories if it takes months to pay, it may not be the right choice. I once heard about a friend whose claim was delayed because of a paperwork hiccup. It delayed her family's rebuilding efforts by weeks. Do your homework up front to avoid that stress later. 6. Understand Medical and Health Requirements Most term life insurance policies require a medical exam. Here's how to prepare: 1. Fast (No Caffeine): Coffee and energy drinks can spike your blood pressure. 2. Hydrate Well: It makes blood draws smoother. 3. Bring Medical Records: If you manage a chronic condition, show your latest test results. If an exam feels intrusive, consider policies that waive the medical exam—though they often come with higher rates. And remember, if you already have private medical insurance, an insurer may request proof of healthy lifestyle habits. 7. Evaluate Additional Benefits and Flexibility Not all policies are set in stone. Look for: • Conversion Options: Switch from term to whole life without another exam. • Renewability: Extend your term even if your health changes. These flexibility features can be lifesavers if your circumstances shift—think career breaks, health glitches, or starting a family later in life. 8. Confirm Affordability and Budget Alignment Finally, double-check your monthly budget: • Premium vs. Income: Aim to spend no more than 5–10% of your take-home pay on life insurance. • Payment Frequency: Quarterly or annual payments can be cheaper than monthly. • Bundling Discounts: Some health insurance companies offer lower rates when you hold multiple policies with them. If the numbers still feel tight, lower your coverage slightly or shorten the term. It's better to have some coverage than none at all. Conclusion: Your Roadmap to Peace of Mind Buying term life insurance might seem daunting at first, but breaking it down into these eight steps transforms it into a clear, manageable process. Start by assessing your needs today, and before you know it, you'll be ticking off items on your checklist with confidence. Your future self and your loved ones will thank you. Ready to get those quotes and lock in that coverage? Let's go!

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This isn't my whole life story — just a chapter. And as they say, this too shall pass. If you came expecting the story of a successful man, well… success isn't the end. Even at the top, battles continue, reshaping the road ahead. Life breaks us quietly, piece by piece, until we forget who we were. But in the fall's silence, we find a voice we never knew we had. My name is Goutham Siva, and this is how losing everything led me to discover a strength I didn't know I had. On February 21, 2021, I left home with a suitcase full of hope and dreams bigger than my fears. I had just joined ZSMU in Ukraine to study medicine — a goal born from silent perseverance and a promise to myself. I come from a middle-class Indian family. As the only son, I understood the pressure I carried, even if unseen. For the first time, it felt like life was finally giving me a chance. Everything was falling into place — friendships, studies, future plans — until war knocked.I remember the laughter in our hostel halls, the dreams we stitched late at night — study plans, travel ideas, shared meals. These weren't just friends; they were giving colors to my black and white life, endorphins I never knew I had. On March 1, 2021, everything fell apart. The icy wind tore through my jacket as I stood at the border, clutching my passport like a lifeline. My friends and I huddled under one blanket on the cold station floor, like birds in a cage, waiting, unsure of what came next. Then a guard looked at us and said, “You're safe now.” But I wasn't sure what safe even meant anymore. In just a few days, I went from student with dreams to refugee with uncertainty in my hands. I left behind friends, classes, routines. Everything I had built — gone. I held on. For six months, I clung to online classes and fragile hope I could return. We stayed connected — calls, late texts — but reality closed in. The university asked us to transfer. Coming from a family where every rupee counts, it felt like everything my parents worked for was slipping away. Their sweat, savings, and belief — all in water. But fate didn't end my story — it rewrote it. I was given a painful gift: the chance to start again. A new country, a new system, a new language. Uzbekistan was unfamiliar. Bukhara State Medical Institute became my new battleground. This time, I wasn't just chasing a degree. I was honoring every sacrifice my parents had ever made. I was fighting for the version of myself that refused to be defined by loss. And honestly — I wanted to prove my existence. That I mattered. Strangely, that blank slate became my biggest blessing. I threw myself into everything — competitions, video projects, student activities. I entered an essay contest. No expectations, just heart. And I won. That win reminded me I still mattered — that I still had a voice. Then came a video Competition I filmed with nothing but passion. And when I stood with the rector, receiving first prize, I wasn't just smiling for the camera. I was smiling for the version of me that almost gave up. That moment wasn't just about the award — it was a silent, defiant message to everyone who ever doubted me. That video opened doors. I began working with the Youth Union, creating content for the university. I became a bridge between cultures, an international student coordinator. And with that, came my first stipend — a small reward, but a huge symbol of redemption. Then, one afternoon, something surreal happened. I was honored by the Minister of Health of Uzbekistan — handed a certificate, a bouquet, and a laptop. The certificate read: “For his exemplary behavior, dedication, and contribution to our University “ As I stood there, the weight of those words sank in. The boy who once stood at a border, unsure of his future, was now celebrated for shaping one. I realized I hadn't just survived — I'd contributed, grown, risen. You know what I've learned? Starting over isn't failure. It's the universe giving you a new canvas. Sometimes, the second masterpiece is more powerful than the first. Life isn't chess, where you win by taking down others. It's more like a journey — where the real victory comes from the friends you make along the way, the moments that shape you, and the scars that teach you how to fly. So if you're standing at the edge right now — unsure, broken, tired — know this: The hardest chapters often become the most powerful stories. That's where warriors are made. That's where you are made. The world may take everything from you — but it can never take your will to rise. I didn't get here alone. My parents' belief lit the way. My friends brought laughter when I forgot how. And every moment I wanted to quit, their love reminded me why I couldn't. And this — this is not the end. This is the part where I rise.

Being an Asian daughter comes with a heavy responsibility—especially in a country where few invest in their daughters' education. But my parents are my heroes. Despite the discouragement they faced from others, they chose to believe in me. They invested in my future and gave me an opportunity that not every girl receives. Because of that, I carry the pressure of making them proud. I'm 17 now, and it's time for me to apply to universities. My parents dream of seeing me study at a top international institution. Since my early teens, I've dedicated myself to that dream—working day after day to prepare for competitive college admissions. Unfortunately, despite all the effort, I didn't get accepted into my dream schools: Harvard, Stanford, and UPenn. The day I received those rejections, I felt completely worthless—like I had failed as a daughter. My parents had high hopes for me, and I couldn't live up to them. They hoped I would score at least an 8.0 on the IELTS, but I got a 7. They wanted me to achieve a 1500+ on the SAT, but I scored 1430. They wished to see me win Olympiads, but I placed 4th for three consecutive years. It's hard not to feel like I've never been enough. That I've never done enough. Sometimes, the pressure and disappointment feel unbearable for a 17-year-old girl. Still, I'm trying. I'm thriving, despite everything. And to be clear: my parents are not strict—they are deeply supportive. That's what makes it harder. Their belief in me is unwavering, and because of that, I often feel guilty for not meeting their expectations. Now, I'm applying for government funding, since I've been accepted to a top-200 global university without a scholarship. This feels like my last chance. If it doesn't work out, I don't know what's next. I just know I am giving it everything I have. One thing is clear, all I want is achieve my goals, dreams despite any obstacles and fails. WISH ME LUCK!

Sometimes we just need to cry. We need to cry because life is hard. Because it's filled with heartache, sorrow, grief, anxiety, depression, anger, fear, loneliness, and pain. Because it isn't what you imagined, what you hoped for, what you planned for. We need to cry because society is broken. Because we were promised the world if we went to college and got good jobs...but then when we were ready to enter the workforce, there were no good jobs and our degrees didn't matter. So we were left in our menial jobs, hoping for a brighter economic future, but it never came. We cry because those of us who didn't come from healthy, affluent families are left in the dust to struggle, to keep trying and trying and never getting ahead because we can't keep up with the collapse of society. Sometimes we need to cry for what once was... for a time you knew wouldn't last forever, but you didn't realize how much you would miss it, how it would leave a bittersweet ache in your heart. How you would give almost anything to go back to that moment when everything was okay and the world wasn't terrifying. Sometimes we need to cry because everything you do just isn't good enough. No matter how many hours you work and fake smiles you plaster on your face to appear acceptable to society, it's just never good enough. No one ever knows what you're truly going through, nor do they want to because everyone has their own problems and demons they're struggling with. Everyone says it's okay to have a bad day, but is it really? What about several bad days in a row? And what happens when you can't afford your medications that help you feel better, so you turn to other things that aren't deemed "acceptable" by society? Is it more acceptable to hole up in your house and never come out? To refuse to socialize because you can't summon the strength to be personable? Or to be rude and snappy because you're struggling to regulate your emotions? Which of these options is the most accepted by society? Sometimes you just need a good cry because there's nothing left to do...there's nothing to say that anyone will understand...there's nothing you can write that will make you feel better...you just need to cry, to let the pain physically leave your body...and that's okay. God gave us emotions and tears for a reason. Sometimes emotions are physical, and need to be released. And that's okay. Let yourself cry. Let all the pain out...and know that tomorrow is a new day...and hopefully it won't be as painful.

I am moving to Kentucky (cue Dueling Banjos music). Never in my life had I ever imagined or entertained the idea of living in Kentucky, or really anywhere east of the Mississippi (aside from my home state of Wisconsin). I've always wanted to go west. I have visited Utah three times; I was actively saving to move to Idaho when I met my husband, and we were saving to move to Colorado this coming summer. But then, seemingly out of the blue, my husband suggested we move to Kentucky instead of Colorado. Excuse me? His reasons? First and foremost, Colorado is just too dang expensive. Second, his best friend is there. Third, we would geographically be in the middle of our spread-out family. And fourth, there will still be mountains (not quite the Rockies, but I guess it's better than flat farmland). He had solid points, and after much discussion and praying, I felt spiritual confirmation that it was the right thing to do. That confirmation apparently came not a moment too soon, for within the next two weeks unfolded a series of unfortunate events that led us to making the decision to move to Kentucky NOW. In two weeks. One week before Christmas. Five years ago, I left my ex on Dec. 28. I left behind a beautiful home, big backyard, nice neighborhood, and amazing dog. Because of the emotional and mental abuse I had endured, I had no idea if I would be able to function in the real world. I had absolutely no idea what lay ahead of me. That leap into the unknown was the most terrifying thing I have ever done, and it changed my life in the most profound ways. I found Christ, I found myself, and I discovered what it meant to feel deep, abounding joy. A year and a half ago, my fiancé (now husband) and I were struggling with finances and mental health, and after both of us losing our jobs, we decided to move back to my hometown. This was an abrupt, stressful move, and I was very sad to leave the sanctuary I had made for myself as a strong, reborn, independent woman. I was resistant to being back home and going to a new church. But it was that church that saved my marriage, and saved me in many ways. I have never felt more welcome, more at home, more alive, and more loved. This is where I don't understand God's timing. Why is he taking me away NOW? Why now, when I am so involved in church and have so many wonderful relationships here? But....as before...I have to trust that something better is on the horizon, however far-fetched and ridiculous that may feel at this moment. I have to have faith that there are other amazing people out there for me to meet, other people that I can help, or maybe they can help me. Other experiences for me to enjoy - or endure - that will hopefully make me a better person, or make my marriage stronger. I don't know. I just don't know. And all I can do right now is accept that I don't know, and be okay with it. Because the truth is, we have very little control over everything in our lives. We like to think we do, but we don't. You can make good, informed choices. You can be a hard worker. You can be a good friend, a good spouse. You can save money and pay off your bills and read self-help books and eat healthy and try to be the best person possible. Don't get me wrong - you should always strive to be a good person and make good choices - but sometimes those things don't make you immune from having your world completely up-ended. I'm starting to think God gets a kick out of upending my life. Does that mean He thinks I can handle it? I don't know. Maybe us humans were never meant to be stationary and stagnant. Maybe we thrive when we are faced with uncertainty, when we are on the move, when we are forced to endure uncomfortable situations and be experience new things. Buddhism teaches that nothing in the universe is essential - that everything that comes also goes, everything that lives must die, and everything that is created will crumble. It teaches that if you can accept this, you will be at peace. I am still working on this, but I can attest that my closest moments with my Savior have been in uncomfortable situations. So maybe that's the whole purpose of this abrupt move - because God saw that we were stagnant. We may not feel that way, but we can't begin to wrap our minds around the plans that God has in store for us. All we can do is trust that He knows the best way for us. I am going to miss my home. It was my husband and I's first place together. I am going to miss sitting on the patio in the summer. I am going to miss the garden we had plans for. I am going to miss the tall pine trees surrounding the big back yard, and all the critters. I'm just going to miss all of it. But I must welcome the adventure. Yes, it will be uncomfortable at times, and I'm sure there will be many more tears. But growth only happens in uncomfortable situations, and that I welcome. It may hurt for a moment, but I know it will be beautiful in the end.

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It was 2:34 in the night and the very hour that my mind and pen seemed to try to win a championship against what forces, I myself did not know, in the year of 2022. It was the time which always made me contemplative. However, the food for thought that day was nothing but the school magazine. Years after that period of bliss, it was common to think how little the troubles of that self of mine was. I blamed it on my growth of consciousness. But suddenly I saw a picture which reminded me of how the entirety or rather just a bit of it was bliss for me. Vivid pictures of that boy making the entirety of me a joke whenever he got the opportunity rose before my eyes. At that time, he was simply my enemy. But then, maybe because of the unavoidable growth of my sensitivity, I thought of him as the one who destroyed my teenage years. I remembered him. He was a simple boy without any complications, with a cheerful attitude, ready to make almost any person smile he saw was grumpy around him and a student who excelled at science and was only concerned about digits and the alphabet associated with it, sometimes. And I pictured myself as a silent student of focus - silent to the extent that some people saw it as pride; who felt uncomfortable among others, who was ready to listen but unable to answer to complex emotions but who had been known as a ‘poet', within school. I got hot flashes as I thought about him making a joke of me before everyone, every single opportunity he used to get. Being the popular person, they were also inclined to laugh, even if they didn't want to. Some of them; or at least one of them, perhaps, didn't. Yes, she became the person I became close with, later. And I thought of how the cheerful girl whose laughter I loved, grew silent with the heaviness, perhaps, of my love. He was a cheerful guy but also having a temper. Whereas being a student equal to him, I was usually silent and made up a very unapproachable countenance. It was natural to me at that time. Gradually I got left out. But then that I thought about it, it was I who moved away from where he was present. I smiled as the picture of two students in severe tension in the examination hall, rose before my eyes. He was struggling with the literature and I with the math. We both helped each other (though being at considerable risk and though never having done something like that before) and left the hall without even looking at each other again. For the last time before our careers drew every one of us away. But as people came into my life after that and left perhaps because of my own fault, I learnt one thing and it was never too late. I learnt to return smiles despite knowing that few truly deserve what you are willing to give, that they might simply come - to leave a lesson. But though I could no longer call him a foe, I remained undecided whether to embrace him in my mind as a friend. How does it feel to find out that some adversary from your past has always held the key to what made you think of him so? And that he holds the key to the problems you felt till this day?