After all the pain, all the questions, all the searching—I've come to understand something fundamental: The world is broken, but I don't have to be.
The systems are unfair. Society is indifferent. Inequality is real. Depression is crushing. These are facts, not feelings. But here's another truth: I'm still here. I'm still fighting. And that matters.
The powerful want us to suffer quietly. They want our generation to accept poverty, to normalize depression, to internalize failure as our fault. They want us to be too broken to organize, too defeated to demand change, too ashamed to speak out.
But every time I tell my story, I break their silence. Every time someone hears me and says "me too," we weaken their control. Our voices are weapons they can't confiscate.
I choose to believe that my life has meaning, even if I haven't found it yet. I choose to believe that my pain can become purpose, that my struggle can inspire change, that my voice can reach someone who needs it.
I choose to believe that the friends I lost to addiction, to suicide, to despair—they mattered. Their lives had value. Their deaths should mean something. And the best way to honor them is to keep fighting for a world where fewer people have to make the choices they made.
I choose to believe that even if I can't fix the whole system, I can be part of changing it. Even if I can't save everyone, I can try to save someone. Even if I can't end all suffering, I can reduce some of it.
If you're reading this and you see yourself in these words—know this: You are not invisible. Your pain is not insignificant. Your life is not worthless.
The world may not value you the way it should, but that's a failure of the world, not of you. You have survived 100% of your worst days so far. That's not luck—that's strength.
We are the generation they tried to break. But we're also the generation that refuses to stay broken. We're learning to find each other, to support each other, to fight for each other. And together, we're stronger than they want us to believe.