The End of a Story

And somewhere along this journey called life...

I reached a point where I no longer wanted to continue the journey.

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The backpack had simply become too heavy.

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I was tired.

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Not the kind of tired that sleep can fix.

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The kind of tired that settles into your bones.

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I was tired of fighting to keep myself alive.

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Tired of my roles.

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The role at work.

The role in relationships.

The role in friendships.

The role of being strong.

The role of being understanding.

The role of being everything for everyone.

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Most of all,

I was tired of being me.

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Every morning I stood in front of the mirror trying to motivate myself.

Trying to convince myself.

Trying to say all the right things.

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Keep going.

You can do this.

You are strong.

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But the person looking back at me looked exhausted.

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And I believed that person was me.

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So naturally,

I no longer wanted to be her.

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This happened during the strange silence of the pandemic.

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The world had stopped.

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People were locked inside their homes.

Jobs paused.

Distractions disappeared.

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And suddenly everyone was left with the same question:

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Who am I when everything stops?

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Without my work.

Without my routines.

Without my distractions.

Without my roles.

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Who remains?

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It was not an easy time for many people.

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It certainly wasn't for me.

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It was a time when many things in my life were coming to an end.

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And the loneliness became so loud

that I no longer wanted to carry it.

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So every afternoon,

I went hiking.

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Just me.

And my loneliness.

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Walking the mountain trails.

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One step after another.

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One afternoon felt different.

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I walked slowly.

My legs barely carrying me.

My body exhausted.

My heart exhausted.

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The silence was endless.

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The kind of silence where you can hear more than birds.

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You can hear the trees.

The wind.

The grass.

Life itself.

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And somehow,

that afternoon,

it felt as if the entire forest was breathing.

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Walking beside me.

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Listening.

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I walked with a thought I had never spoken out loud before.

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I don't want to come back.

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Tears rolled down my face.

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I thought about the people.

The relationships.

The choices.

The years.

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And I felt something unbearable.

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The pain of dedicating an entire life to everyone else

while completely losing yourself.

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How can someone become so identified with a role

that they disappear from their own life?

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Quite easily, actually.

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Especially if they have never truly met themselves.

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And maybe that is part of the journey.

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Perhaps we have to lose ourselves completely

before we can finally be found.

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So I kept walking.

Lost.

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Until I discovered a fountain.

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Hidden in the middle of the mountains.

Surrounded by trees so tall

I could barely see the sky.

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Something inside me stopped.

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Completely.

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The fountain was overflowing with life.

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Water dancing.

Water moving.

Water singing.

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I could not look away.

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I stood there listening.

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Then I lifted my head toward the sky and whispered:

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Please God...

Please...

Take me.

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I don't want to continue.

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I tried.

I really tried.

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I gave everything I had.

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And here I am.

Empty.

Exhausted.

Done.

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I don't know how long I stood there.

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Minutes.

Hours.

An eternity.

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But eventually,

something unexpected happened.

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The thoughts became quiet.

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And for the first time in a very long time,

I could feel life again.

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Not my life.

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Life itself.

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The trees.

The water.

The air.

The presence.

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And suddenly,

it felt as if something inside me had died.

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Not physically.

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Something else.

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Something heavy.

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Something old.

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Something I had been carrying for far too long.

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I felt death and birth at the same time.

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And when I finally walked away from that fountain,

I was lighter.

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Not because my problems had disappeared.

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They hadn't.

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But because something false had.

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The version of me that could no longer continue

had finally reached the end of her journey.

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And life began changing almost immediately afterwards.

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Not because I became a different person.

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But because the person I had been

was no longer there.

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There are moments in life so dark

they convince you that nothing will ever change.

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Moments when getting out of bed feels impossible.

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Moments when the future disappears from view.

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Moments when the weight of being you

feels unbearable.

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And in those moments,

many people arrive at a terrifying conclusion:

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"I don't want to live anymore."

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But what if that isn't entirely true?

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What if the part of you that wants to die

is not your life itself?

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What if it is the identity

you have been carrying for years?

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The version built from expectations.

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The version built from survival.

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The version that learned to perform.

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The version that spent decades

trying to become everything for everyone.

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The version that has become exhausted

from holding itself together.

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Because if you look closely,

most people who no longer want to live

do not actually want life to end.

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They want the pain to end.

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The loneliness.

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The pressure.

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The confusion.

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The story.

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But when you live inside a story long enough,

you begin mistaking the story for yourself.

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And when the story starts falling apart,

it feels like death.

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In a way,

it is.

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Not physical death.

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Psychological death.

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Existential death.

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Identity death.

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The career that defined you.

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The relationship that defined you.

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The dream that defined you.

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The image you spent years protecting.

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Something is dying.

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And symbolic death rarely feels beautiful.

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It feels terrifying.

Disorienting.

Empty.

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You spend months,

sometimes years,

trying to save a version of yourself

that no longer belongs to your future.

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You try to repair it.

Improve it.

Motivate it.

Heal it.

Bring it back to life.

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Until one day,

a different question appears.

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What if this version of me

was never meant to survive?

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That question changes everything.

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Because life is full of endings

disguised as failures.

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Endings disguised as breakdowns.

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Endings disguised as depression.

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Endings disguised as losing your way.

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And often,

what feels like the end of your life

is simply the end of an identity

that has reached its limit.

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A version of you

that carried you this far.

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But cannot carry you any further.

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The tragedy is not that these versions die.

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The tragedy is how desperately we fight

to keep them alive.

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Perhaps the moment you no longer wanted to live

was never a sign that life was over.

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Perhaps it was life asking something else of you.

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To stop performing.

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To stop surviving.

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To stop becoming.

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And finally allow something false to die.

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So something true can begin.

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Since that day at the fountain,

I have come to understand something.

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Life contains many funerals.

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Not of people.

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Of identities.

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Of dreams.

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Of stories.

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Of versions of ourselves.

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And every time we evolve,

something old must die.

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So if you find yourself standing

at the funeral of a version of yourself...

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Do not panic.

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Do not try to resurrect what no longer belongs to your future.

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The life that is calling you

cannot arrive

while you are still carrying

what has already ended.

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It carried you this far.

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But it cannot carry you further.

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Let it rest.

Let it die.

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Life is calling you.