I know some close friends have probably been waiting for me to drop an article titled "Why Me?", or maybe "I Can't Anymore," or let's just say "I'm Tired of Life."
To be honest, topics like that crossed my mind the moment I saw my inbox flooded with, “We regret to inform you that..”—over and over again. But in my case, I didn’t say “Why me?”
With tears in my eyes and a heavy heart, I could barely whisper the word that slipped through my lips—“Again?” Suddenly, my head started aching uncontrollably. I couldn’t focus on work anymore.
Then the saddest news dropped: my backup plan was expiring in just a few hours. With my head pounding from all the rejection letters, I couldn’t even summon a pinch of energy to try again. I quickly packed up and headed home, hoping I could catch a nap.
But even sleep didn’t want me that day.
Then I remembered the responsibility I’d taken on—one that required my attention no matter what I was going through. Oh, we call it “Service Above Self”—a vibrant community that brings light into hopeless situations. The one people turn to when everyone else says, “I’m sorry, I don’t think I can help.” The same community people run to when a doctor says, “We can’t start the surgery without a deposit.” Or when families in deprived areas desperately need access to clean water.
Yes—that’s Rotary for you.
I realized it was my turn. My time to drop my own worries and carry someone else’s burden. Don’t get me wrong—we weren’t heading out for a project. It was that time of the year when one leadership rests for another to rise—a handover ceremony.
I had to mobilize my people, arrange transportation for the next day, and get everything in order. I had no choice but to wipe my tears and wear the only fake makeup I’ve ever owned—a smile.
I stepped out to accomplish my tasks, nearly forgetting it was Friday—and I had to go to church.
Well, I’ve never really been a religious person. But church? That’s my place of comfort. It’s where I meet my inner self. It’s where I go to vent when there’s no one else to vent to. It’s my Father’s house.
After finishing my errands, I rushed to church, momentarily forgetting all the pain I was carrying that day.
Not too surprisingly, the preacher began with a message titled “Divine Advantage.” And what followed broke me down in tears—tears I tried so hard to hold back, but couldn’t.
He said, “You can have a first class, and nobody sees you. You need a divine advantage for things to work for you.”
In that moment, I wished it was a lecture hall where I could raise my hand and ask a question. But before I could gather my thoughts, he projected a scripture to back his message:
For you loved them? I repeated in my head. So, God gives victory to those He loves?
What about me? Doesn’t He love me?
Last time, it was about “being at the right place at the right time.” Now, it’s about God’s love. Which is it?
While silently arguing with the preacher in my mind, I suddenly felt a warmth—as if someone gently wrapped a blanket over my shoulders.
I don’t remember much after that—just kneeling down and whispering over and over, “May Your will be done in my life, Lord.”
When I finally became aware of my surroundings, my face was soaked in tears. I had no choice but to head home.
But strangely, I got home feeling… good. I even started asking friends for outfit suggestions to wear as a new member attending my first handover program.
Well, the long-awaited day finally came. We arrived on time, toured some places, and for a moment—all my worries felt like a distant memory.
Then we stopped at a popular eatery for lunch—and a stranger’s story hit me so hard, it shook me.
Everyone had agreed on one meal; we only had to choose our soup. I’m not a soup person—and besides, I had never tried that particular dish—so I quietly stepped out to avoid making a scene.
As I walked toward the restaurant entrance, I noticed a young guy sitting on a bench. I grabbed a packet of peanuts and joined him.
We struck up a conversation—about education, life on the street, his business, and most importantly, his dreams. He was surprisingly vocal. I didn’t quite believe it when he said he was saving up to attend university.
He saw me as privileged—for having completed university. That’s his dream. To study economics someday.
Listening to him, I wished life were a person—so I could grab it by the neck and ask why it chooses to favor some and abandon others.
I didn’t have much to say. Just words of encouragement: Keep trying. You’ll get there. We exchanged numbers and I left.
Later that evening, I saw a status update from him—an ad for his tinted sunglasses, captioned: “See you, you no see me.” (Translation: I can see you, but you can’t see me.)
Though intended as a catchy business line, that phrase hit me differently. It felt deeper than just marketing.
And yet, people say “Life is a choice”—that who you are is simply the result of what you’ve chosen.
But is it really that simple?
Every day, people walk around carrying invisible weights—unanswered questions, broken dreams, silent battles. And in the middle of it all, we're told to choose better, work harder, think more positively—as though life is a formula, and meaning is something you stumble upon just by ticking the right boxes.
But here's the truth I’m slowly beginning to accept: we’re all just searching. Searching for meaning in the things we go through, in the losses we carry, in the no’s we receive, in the long waits, and even in the unexpected blessings that show up after we’ve given up.
We’re all trying to understand why certain doors never open no matter how hard we knock, and why others swing wide for people who barely lift a hand. We wonder if we’re unseen… or just unloved. We question if effort really matters, or if life is just playing a game of favorites.
Still, through the pain, through the doubts, and through the endless trying, we wake up each day and move forward—not always because we’re strong, but because there’s something deep inside that still hopes that one day, the pieces will make sense. That one day, all this—this search—will lead somewhere.
So maybe the point isn’t to have all the answers right now. Maybe it’s okay that we don’t.
Maybe we’re just here, trying to live, trying to love, trying to give meaning to what often feels meaningless.
And that’s okay.
That’s what it means to be searching for meaning.
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