Do you ever feel like you could have everything a person might dream of—a loving family, a successful career, the love of your life, good mental health, and close friends—but still find that it’s not enough to heal the broken part inside you? Like no matter how much you achieve or how perfect your life might seem to others, the emptiness persists. It’s as though there’s a void that the things you’re supposed to want or need can’t fill.

Sometimes, it feels like you’d trade it all away, even if you had it—the love, the success, the stability—because deep down, none of it truly makes a difference to the way you feel. That growing ache of despair, that sense of being lost or incomplete, remains.

So here I am, standing on the cusp of achieving or working towards these milestones. The things that society, family, and even a younger version of myself told me I should strive for. But I can’t help but question: Why am I even trying? If none of these things will truly change who I am or how I feel—if they can’t fix the brokenness—then is there any point in chasing them at all?

And that’s where the fear creeps in. The fear that I’m putting so much effort into chasing dreams that might not even be mine, climbing ladders that lead to nowhere, pouring my energy into goals that won’t make me whole. But what’s the alternative? To stop trying? To give in to the darkness and let it consume me?

The truth, I think, is this: some wounds can’t be healed, not by love, not by success, not by time. And maybe that’s the saddest part of all. Because no matter how much I achieve or how far I run, I know I’ll always carry this shadow within me. It’s not a question of whether the world will accept me—it’s whether I can ever accept myself. And right now, I don’t think I can.

It feels like I’m the Tin Man from The Wizard of Oz, missing something vital and important—like having a heart. But unlike his journey, there’s no clear path for me to follow. His story had a direction, a purpose, and a solution that eventually healed him. For me, there’s no map, no guide, no promise of finding what’s missing. I’m left wandering, searching for something I can’t even define, hoping that someday, somehow, I’ll stumble upon the missing piece. But with each passing day, it becomes harder to believe that such a piece even exists. I keep moving forward, but I’m unsure whether I’m truly heading anywhere at all.

The healthy can’t understand the emptied, the broken.

David Mitchell, Cloud Atlas