Reflections: The Cost of Looking Away

There’s something about the ocean—something you can’t quite name. You only know it when you’re beside it, within it, or thinking about it from afar. It holds a knowing. A quiet force that speaks without a sound.

I’ve always longed to belong. At school, among friends, even in the briefest exchange with a stranger. There’s something sacred about feeling seen. There’s a beloved welcome in the moment someone truly listens.

Over time, I’ve found myself sharpening this dance between people and words. Sometimes I get it right. Sometimes I don’t. But when I think back on the moments that made life feel full, it was never the words that stayed with me. It was the warmth of someone’s presence. The quiet kindness of being held, even just for a second, by someone else’s care.

I’ve come to realize there’s a shared human ache—for connection, for community, for love, and for meaning. And I wouldn’t trade this longing for certainty or comfort. I don’t need the world to bend for me, only to remind me I am still a part of it.

The world is moving fast—maybe too fast. And in the blur of headlines, trends, and scrolls, it’s easy to feel like we’re wrapped safely in our own bubbles. The same stories repeat, the same noise hums on, and we begin to believe that everything is fine. That we are fine.

But deep within, something stirs. A voice knocks softly from the edge of the mind—a friend, a memory, a truth. And suddenly, I think of the ocean again.

What if I were in it? Would any of this noise matter? Or would I miss the shore, aching only for what’s just beyond reach?

Life often feels like the ocean—endlessly vast, beautifully mysterious, quiet and wild. I know I won’t be sitting on a beach sipping safety while wars rage and children cry beneath crumbling homes. I can almost hear the deep growl of a beast named Greed rising from the cracks of our civilization.

And I’m angry. I’m angry that I can still imagine the ocean and find comfort in its embrace, while so many are swallowed by suffering. That we still build walls to guard illusions, while the real world burns just outside.

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Would I rather stay in my bubble, hoping the world leaves me be? History has taught us—there are no winners in war. Only loss. Only ghosts. Yet the ocean gives life. And so can we.

Meaning doesn’t come from escape. It comes from presence. From choosing kindness when it’s hardest. From recognizing humanity in the stranger, and hope in the mirror. That’s not weakness—that’s what it means to be human.

So yes, I still live in this fragile bubble drifting in the vastness of life, unsure where I’m headed, but buoyed by those around me. It’s not my own strength that keeps me afloat, but the sacred web of care and courage that connects us all.

And in this web, I wish no one had to suffer at the hands of another’s hate, pride, or fear. No life is greater than another. No excuse can justify cruelty. Yet we go on, often silent, often scared.

Still, I believe—truly believe—that there's enough good to go around. Enough land, water, air, and love for all of us. We made it this far together. Why not choose to keep going together?

We are living in a moment where change is possible—where equality can be more than an idea. One honest conversation, one act of courage, one song of hope at a time. Because every voice matters. Every life deserves to be lived, fully and freely.

It doesn’t matter what language you speak, or if you speak at all. What matters is that you're here—breathing, hoping, preparing. And that you're willing to believe in a future shaped not by fear, but by grace.

Even if no one answers the cries of the forgotten, the ocean will. And when it does, it won’t ask who you are, only whether you listened—when it mattered most.

History will repeat itself if we let it. But right now, right here, we can write a different story. One where no one is left behind. One where justice isn’t delayed. One where we stand, not as nations or tribes, but as people—flawed, human, and beautifully connected.

Because everyone deserves a shot at life.