My Dear Stranger, I used to carry a feeling I couldn’t name. People called it anxiety. Others said I was broken. A mess. But to me, it felt like a quiet malfunction, my heart, my body, my mind moving on different frequencies, never quite meeting in the middle. A living paradox, I said. I try. I really do. I make plans. I say yes. I show up with a smile rehearsed in the mirror. Yet somewhere between agreeing and the moment itself, I secretly hope they’ll cancel. And when they

My Dear Stranger, I don’t know how to start this without sounding like I’m unraveling— But maybe that’s exactly what this is. Last night, I stood among people. Laughter floated around me like confetti. Music pulsed, loud enough to shake the air. Everyone seemed present. Alive. In sync. And yet— I wasn’t there. I was standing in the crowd, but I felt misplaced. Like a word written in the wrong sentence. I smiled when I was supposed to smile. Nodded when I was supposed to nod.

My Dear Stranger, I used to think my life was ordinary. Just days passing, one after another. But slowly, I began to notice something. I see things, not as they are, but as they are going to be. At first, it was small. A feeling before something happened. A knowing without proof. A heaviness before a moment arrived. I ignored it.' But it didn’t stop. It grew. What started as whispers became patterns. What felt like coincidence became clarity. And I began to realize— this wasn

My Dear Stranger, I was born different. I felt it even before I understood it. I was born into silence. Not because I had nothing to say, But because words could not reach me. Or maybe there were too many words inside my head, and I didn’t know how to let them out. They lived inside my head, crowded, restless, chaotic. My mouth felt locked. My thoughts were there, but they stayed trapped inside me. As if there was a door between my thoughts and the world, and I never learned

My Dear Stranger, I was not born strong. I was born soft. With a heart that feels before it thinks, that loves without asking. that hears what is never spoken, that notices pain hiding in the smallest corners. At first, it felt like a gift. Then it started to feel like a sentence. A burden. A curse. My Dear Stranger, Love scares me. Not because it is bad, but because it weakens me. It makes me weak. When I love, I give too much. I feel too much. I worry too much, I care too

My Dear Stranger, I am a walking paradox. I carry depth, yet struggle to name what I want. I feel everything, yet often can’t imagine anything clearly. I long for direction, but freeze when asked to describe the destination. There is also this quiet truth I rarely say out loud: Something that also confused me; I have no desire to build things in this life the way others do. Not houses, not legacies carved in stone, not the kind of permanence this world celebrates. I always fe

My Dear Stranger, I believe in fairy tales. Even when some people call it foolish, even when others whisper that it’s a sin to believe in something so unreligious. I believe in fairy tales. Not the kind with castles made of gold or endings that arrive without scars— but the kind where light survives the dark, where love keeps choosing again, where mercy rewrites what pain tried to erase. I believe in my fairy tale. One written not by fantasy, but by grace. One written by Je

My Dear Stranger, Today, I learned something the hard way: being a boss is not about standing taller, it is about standing longer, without slowly disappearing inside the role. No one tells you how power can be heavy. How decisions pile up like quiet stones in your chest. How leadership asks you to choose logic over instinct , numbers over nuance, certainty over wonder. I try. God knows I try. But my mind does not move in straight lines. I t wanders. It listens. It sees patt

My Dear Stranger, I’ve carried a feeling I could never quite name. Even as a child, before I had the words for it, I knew something wasn’t quite right. Not wrong in a dramatic way—just off, like a song played in the wrong key. A quiet heaviness in my chest, a whisper in the back of my mind, " this isn’t it… this isn’t where you belong. I grew up moving through places and moments as if I were always slightly out of frame. No matter how hard I tried to fit in, something in me s

My Dear Stranger, I grew up alone. Not always in a quiet room, but alone in the way that matters. I learned early how to stand on my own feet, how to be strong, how to survive without asking too much. When I should have been a child, I became a grown-up. Before my time. I didn’t get to play without worry, or do any mistakes. I didn't have privileges to choose freely what I liked or who I wanted to be. Life moved fast, and I had to move with it. I carried responsibility when

My Dear Stranger, I don’t remember a time when I felt ordinary. From the very beginning, I arrived quietly, weird, distant, painfully shy, as if I entered this world already knowing that I did not quite belong to it. They called me sensitive. Some called me strange. No one ever said gifted , but deep inside, I knew there was something different, something heavy, something sacred, something I did not yet have language for. I learned survival skills early. Long before childhoo

My Dear Stranger, There is something I have never known how to explain to other people. Something about me, Something that weighted me, confused me. I carry a heart that feels too much, soft, sensitive, easily moved. But I hide it behind walls so cold and strong, that even I forget what it feels like to be touched. My Dear Stranger, I don’t let my feelings out. I don’t let anyone in. Not because I don’t want to, but because I’m scared of what might happen if I do. Sometimes I

My Dear Stranger, I took every tests, you named it. Not once. Not twice. Over and over, through different seasons of my life. And every time, the result came back the same, the rarest one. Always the outlier. Always the quiet margin note. Maybe it’s just a label. Maybe it’s just numbers and patterns. But somewhere deep inside, it felt like someone finally whispered, “Oh… so that’s why.” That’s why I feel too much and say too little. That’s why crowds exhaust me but silence he

My Dear Stranger, “Dreams work if you do it,” They said. Lately, I keep seeing those words everywhere. On screens. On pages. In passing conversations. And every time, they hit me. Pause me. I wonder why they keep finding me. The more I see them, The more I feel something stir, like a quiet reminder knocking from inside. And to whoever is trying to remind me, This is my honest answer: “I understand. I really do. But where do I begin? How? What am I supposed to work on if I don

My Dear Stranger, Sometimes, I wake up with a quiet weight in my chest, a feeling made of questions. Have you ever felt that? A sense that something important is hidden, not far away, not dramatic, just… there. Waiting to be noticed. It comes without warning. I can’t control it. I can’t turn it off. I learnt to live with it. It slips into ordinary moments—a glance, a sound, a passing thought, and suddenly my heart is asking things my mind cannot explain. It feels as if my own

My Dear Stranger, I met Jesus on my darkest night. Not when I was strong. Not when I still believed in myself. But when I was empty. The last person I loved broke my heart and walked away, leaving me bleeding inside. That was the night I gave up. I stopped trying to control my life. Stopped forcing myself to fit in. Stopped believing in people. Stopped trusting my own strength. I was broken, and for the first time, I didn’t even care anymore. I said to Him, “I don’t want this

My Dear Stranger, In this world, so much remains hidden and unseen. Some things are invisible simply because of our human limitations. Others are hidden—intentionally—by people, communities, or systems seeking to satisfy their own needs. Position. Health. Wealth. Popularity. Power. Yet I grew up believing, Even in the most chaotic moments, when the darkness feels unbearable, when every path seems closed, Hope and justice are never absent. They follow quietly. They see everyth

My Dear Stranger, Growing up, I learned early that the relationship between love, happiness, and belonging is never as simple as people make it sound. It looks clear from a distance—almost mathematical—yet becomes deeply complicated the moment you live inside it. Simple in theory. Heavy in practice. As time passed, I began to notice how the world quietly trains us to measure life through borrowed standards. Invisible checklists. Inherited timelines. Unspoken expectations. A m

My Dear Stranger, This is me again—your stranger. Like a mirror, I can see pieces of reflection of myself in you. Two different lives, shaped so differently, in opposite directions, Yet somehow carved from the same truth. You were born into a life that stands in contrast to mine. A warm, happy home. Supporting parents. Laughter at the dinner table. Sisters beside you—built-in companions, witnesses to your becoming. I was born into absence. Into quiet rooms. Into the feeling o

My Dear Stranger, People have always scared me. Not in the loud, obvious ways—but in the quiet ones. I grew up learning how to feel people before I learned how to understand them. I sensed the moment their energy shifted, when smiles stopped reaching their eyes, when pain hid beneath their words like an unspoken language. That awareness stayed with me. It made me gentle. It made me tired. It made me afraid— because I learned early that people can change without warning, a