I feel lost sometimes. I still chase butterflies, my own way of looking for love. I know by now that if I chase too hard, I’ll trip. I know the consequences. So I’ve learned to wait, sitting down for a bit in a coffee shop, books spread out as I focus on higher studies.

I’ve grown up. My body has changed, my thoughts have evolved, my feelings deepened. The wildness is still there but subdued, quieted by the fear of being held and shaped by the wrong hands or the wrong experiences. I long for someone to sit with me through it all, someone I can talk to, not just about the carefree kid I once was, but about the adult I am now, someone who has known grief, loneliness, and heartache.

My carefree spirit has matured into a fierce care for others. I care so much I sometimes forget myself, overlooking the shadows that slowly fill me, shaping me anew. I feel weary now. Too many lessons, too much grief in the form of loss and severed ties. My self-worth took a hit. I asked the wrong people, “Am I worth it?” They left, unable to hold a soul wrapped in the fragile mask of my inner child.

I’m wounded, carrying stories I think are small by comparison. I feel grateful but somehow aged too soon. I long for a companion, someone to share the weight on my shoulders. My heart is heavy, but all I want is to give, to surrender myself. But doesn’t giving require someone willing to receive? I wonder if I should wait, move forward, or stop altogether.

In the world’s noise, I see it all, the masks people wear, the ways we reach for something bigger in an attempt to heal. I watch quietly, feeling lost myself, struggling to ask for that same connection. I have been told, “What is meant to be will be,” but I wonder, “Only if I change, will things be different?”

I’m tired of trying. I want to spend time with myself, yet I can’t seem to make things fall into place naturally. I know the truth: we all hide behind facades to shield our egos from fear. We’re all children inside, still learning. I listen to the advice of loved ones on grief and struggle, but I see through it, their own insecurities masked by reassurances.

The fall while chasing the butterfly taught me well. I know now that self-awareness alone isn’t enough. People talk about it, but where’s the work? “What is meant to be” is only a notion without action. It will only become real if I move, put in the work, become the force that changes my reality.

I see it all. I’m tired, weary of watching others talk about awareness without effort. I feel lost. But maybe I’m not lost, maybe I’m just somewhere deep in the wilderness of my own becoming