Living Another Year

It’s that time again.
The time when I write stuff about myself. Usually, it’s lighter, even playful. But this year… it’s heavy. Sad.

Still, traditions matter. They give us a thread to hold onto. Mine is simple: once a year, I step back and take a hard, honest look at my life.
Am I actually living? Or am I just letting the days slide past, not realizing I’m wasting my own life?

People think I’m active, driven — the kind who’s always moving forward. But the truth? I’ve spent years quietly waiting for my life to end. Not wanting to live it. Pretending I was “fine” while making decisions that didn’t feel like mine.

Then, the tumors came. And suddenly death wasn’t some far-off idea — it was standing right there, laughing at my ridiculous defense mechanism of “not getting attached” so I wouldn’t have to fight for anything.

That was my wake-up call.
I decided things had to change.
It took years. Years to finally start saying no to things I used to accept because, well… “I’m waiting for death anyway, so why bother?”

I didn’t even see the full picture until this year, when my head finally cleared enough to really look back and ask myself: Why did I live like that?

And now?
Now I’m in pain.
The kind that makes you cry until your eyes hurt, yet still doesn’t come close to expressing what’s going on inside.
It feels endless.
But I know it’s temporary.

It’s not just that my dad is dying — it’s that I never got to have a real relationship with him. Most of what we shared were awkward conversations about my ex, him trying hard to understand me but clearly lost in my choices.

I told him once, “I feel like I have no parents.” I told him I never felt loved, never felt supported — just pushed to be someone I’m not.
He said, “You know I love you, right?”
And for once, I didn’t protect him from my truth.
“No, Dad. I don’t know that. You never told me. You never showed it. You only wanted things from me I couldn’t give. It was always about what you wanted.”

For a short while after that, we talked more. I saw glimpses of what our relationship could have been if we’d lived in a different place, in a different environment. But then he got sick. Vulnerable. And he slipped back into his old patterns.

I couldn’t give him the endless support he wanted without losing myself. So I stayed when it was necessary and stepped away when it wasn’t. I tried, but the old dynamics were still there. He still used emotional blackmail. And I knew I had to protect myself.

It took me years to understand: in a world full of people who only care about themselves, you have to stay alert — or you’ll die in the process. And I almost did.

I have empathy for the months he did try to change. That’s all I have to hold onto now.

My mom? She saw me better. She warned him I’d leave if he kept it up. She just forgot to give herself the same warning. And I let her go too.

Putting myself first wasn’t easy. Facing my pain wasn’t easy. But with the help of a great therapist and a support system that gave me the right tools, I learned what my therapist always says: the only way out is through.

I went through it. I believed — even if it started as someone else’s lie — that peace was possible. And maybe that belief was all I needed to keep moving toward it.

Because today, even in all this pain, I’m not drowning. I’m not crushed. I can see a faint light in it, a hint of peace. I never thought I could feel that.

And for that, I’m grateful.
Grateful that I can walk through this without being destroyed by it.
Grateful that I’m no longer scared of dying with an anxious, restless mind.

I wish my dad could have the same peace. I wish everyone could.

Now, I protect my boundaries fiercely. I don’t let people use me as their outlet for anger. If you can’t respect my boundaries, you’re out. I owe myself that. I owe myself a life that isn’t survival-only.

They used to call me a fighter. I still am. But now I know which fights aren’t mine.

If you won’t fight for your own peace, I can’t fight for you.

And so I end with the prayer that’s been in my heart lately:

God, grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change,
The courage to change the things I can,
And the wisdom to know the difference.