being broken, being lost (stream of consciousness)

We’re made of errors, of contradictions, of all the messy parts that make life feel both beautiful and unbearable. I keep coming back to this. I try to make sense of it, to smooth out the rough edges of my thoughts, but life isn’t something you can just file down until it fits perfectly into place. It’s jagged, raw, and sometimes it hurts in ways you can’t prepare for. And yet, there’s something about that brokenness that feels more real than anything else.

Being a little broken—it’s not just a flaw, is it? It’s the crack where everything gets in. The pain, the light, the things I’ve spent so long trying to avoid. But maybe, deep down, I don’t really want to avoid it. Maybe I want to feel it all. I’ve tried to patch myself up, to pretend that the cracks weren’t there, but they are. They always have been. And when I stop trying to hide them, I can finally see what’s underneath—the parts of me that feel too vulnerable, too exposed, too raw. But isn’t that where the truth lives? In the places that hurt the most?

I used to think being broken meant I was failing. That the cracks were proof that I wasn’t strong enough, that I hadn’t worked hard enough to keep everything together. But what if that’s not the point? What if the point isn’t to keep it all together but to let it fall apart sometimes? To let myself be shattered, scattered, undone. Maybe it’s in those moments, when everything feels like it’s slipping through my fingers, that I learn who I really am. When I’m not trying to be perfect, not trying to control everything. When I just let myself be broken.

And uncertainty—it’s always there, lingering in the background, isn’t it? The fear that I might be wrong, that I might not know what I’m doing, that I might be walking down a path that leads nowhere. I’ve spent so much time trying to avoid uncertainty, like it’s something I could outrun, but it’s always there, just a step behind me. What if I stopped running? What if I turned around and faced it head-on?

There’s something terrifying about not knowing. It’s like standing on the edge of a cliff, looking down into the fog, unable to see what’s below. But maybe that’s where the freedom is. Maybe that’s where life really happens, on the edge, in the not knowing. Because when I stop trying to have all the answers, I can finally breathe. I can finally accept that not everything needs to be clear, that I don’t need to know what comes next to keep moving forward. Maybe it’s okay to just take one step, even if the ground underneath me is shifting.

I don’t have to be sure of everything. That’s a hard thing to accept. It’s uncomfortable, like walking around in shoes that don’t quite fit. But maybe that discomfort is the price of being alive. Maybe uncertainty is what keeps us open, keeps us reaching for something more, something beyond what we can see right now. It’s messy, and it’s scary, but it’s also where the most beautiful things happen. In that space of not knowing.

And being lost; I’ve been lost more times than I can count. I used to think that being lost meant I was failing, like if I couldn’t find my way, it meant I wasn’t trying hard enough. But now, I wonder if being lost is just part of the journey. Maybe it’s not about always knowing exactly where I’m going. Maybe it’s about letting myself wander, letting myself drift, trusting that even in the chaos, I’m still moving toward something, even if I can’t see it yet.

Being lost isn’t easy. It feels like standing in the middle of a forest, surrounded by trees, with no clear path out. I’ve felt that way so many times—like I was stuck, like I was too far from anything familiar, like I couldn’t even recognize myself. But when I look back, those moments of being lost were the moments when I learned the most about who I am. When I was forced to sit with myself, to face the parts of me I’d been avoiding. The fear, the doubt, the pain—they were all there, waiting for me. And maybe that’s what being lost really is. It’s a call to come back to myself, to stop looking for answers outside and start listening to the voice inside.

But that voice—it’s quiet. It’s hard to hear sometimes, especially when everything around me is loud, chaotic, demanding my attention. And yet, it’s there, whispering that it’s okay to not have everything figured out. It’s okay to be a little broken, a little unsure, a little lost. Because maybe it’s in those moments, the ones where everything feels like it’s falling apart, that I’m actually coming together. Maybe it’s in the breaking that I find myself, in the uncertainty that I learn to trust, and in the lostness that I finally come home.

I’m learning that it’s okay to be messy. To not have the answers. To feel like I’m stumbling through life sometimes, unsure of where I’m going or how I’ll get there. Because in those moments, I’m alive. I’m growing. I’m learning that being a little broken, a little unsure, a little lost isn’t something to fix or avoid. It’s something to embrace. It’s part of being human, and maybe it’s the most important part.

And maybe that’s enough. Maybe I don’t need to be whole. Maybe I don’t need to have all the answers or know exactly where I’m going. Maybe I just need to let myself be broken, to let myself be a little unsure, a little lost, and know that in the mess, in the confusion, there’s still something worth holding onto. That even in the middle of it all, I’m still here. I’m still moving. And that’s enough. It has always been enough.