Asklemmy

That there is no silver bullet, no quick fix, no "Eureka" moments that happen without work. "Progress" is less an exciting event, more a rhythm made by the repeated struggling against entropy; when you're doing it well, you'll come to hardly notice its beat until one day you look around and everything's different.

You'd think that recognising this progress might be motivating, but it's often demoralising because it demonstrates how unglamorous the work of self-improvement is. You hardly get time to enjoy your achievements, because as you grow, you become aware of how much more there is to do; the burdens on one's time and energy tend to expand as our personal capacities do, so even if one makes incredible progress it can feel like you haven't moved at all — in both your "before" and "after" snapshots, it can feel like you're still barely staying afloat in life, even if objectively, you have massively improved your coping skills.

And the worst part of it all is knowing that it's okay to be feeling like this. You're tired because it's a lot of work, and you're demoralised because the work doesn't end. You're not the only one who has the stake in your life and your wellbeing, and as you grow, this will be underscored by a greater sense of duty towards the systems and people that depend on you; When I was young and very depressed, I stayed alive for my family and I resented the fact that they cared about me because it bound me to life. (Un)fortunately(?), over the years, my attempts to stick around to avoid hurting the people I care about has led to a bunch more people being invested in my wellbeing and I ended up loving those people too. How privileged I am to have such wonderful people in my life, who give me hope for the world and embolden me to keep fighting. And yet, I resent these people too. I have to allow myself that, at least a little bit, otherwise I'd collapse under the pressure of a duty to a world so much larger than I am. The worst part of it all is that I wouldn't have it any other way.

So here I am, still plodding along, despite everything, hoping to make my existence a tiny little monument to resistance, as I stubbornly push back against all-consuming entropic decay. I know that in the grand scheme of things, nothing I, as an individual, does will matter, nor will it last, but I don't care. Well, I do care — the enormity of it threatens to swallow me whole — but I don't care that I care, because what difference does it make? The hardest lesson I've learned is that everyone feels this way, to an extent, and I'm nothing special. In that truth is terror, but also the comfort of solidarity. I may be scared and exhausted, but I know I'm not alone in this. For better or for worse, my life isn't just for me.