Serendipity

“I could never die, nor even think about something like suicide because, for as hard as life might be, for as much as I’ve been through, there are people I could never disappoint.”

I said this to my therapist last year. For the longest time, it had been just a feeling—an unspoken truth buried beneath everything I endured. But in that moment, the words finally came, and with them, a deeper understanding of myself.

I have an anchor—something that keeps me grounded even when life pulls me toward the edge. For every reason I’ve had to give up, I’ve found a thousand more to keep going. I know the weight of failure, the sting of unachieved dreams, and the quiet ache of disappointment. But more than that, I know the pain of hurting the people I love. And if I ever gave up, I know it would hurt them far more than any failure ever could.

Over time, the thought of quitting grew distant, and failure became something I could accept—not as an end, but as proof that I tried.

I don’t chase luxury. I don’t care for designer brands, the latest tech, or the validation of strangers. My closet is filled with Walmart-brand clothes and Christmas socks gifted to me years ago. I work a custodial job—not for status, but to provide for the people who matter most. My fulfillment doesn’t come from wealth or recognition; it comes from knowing that I can give to those who need it.

But there is one thing I cannot fail at: being a decent human being.

If I did, what would the people I love think of me? The judgment of the world means nothing, but theirs—my family, my closest people—means everything. Wealth doesn’t define me. Success doesn’t define me. But if my loved ones can eat, I have done my duty. If I can make them smile, I have fulfilled my purpose.

This is the weight I carry—not as a burden, but as a responsibility. A reminder that I cannot give up. I have ambitions, dreams, and goals, but above all, I must remain a decent human being. Not for the world.

For them.
For me.