A Fragile Boat in Open Waters

In the middle of chronic exhaustion, kindness remains the only compass that points home.

My health nowadays feels like a fragile boat drifting in the open ocean. It floats upon the water, but it feels so delicate that any sudden swell or unexpected wave could threaten to tip it.

Every day seems to bring a different kind of pain, a new complication, or some unfamiliar ache. For anyone who has followed what the past seven years have looked like for me, chronic illness is familiar ground. But living through it day after day is a completely different matter.

Today, I went to an ENT clinic for what was supposed to be a routine checkup. The doctor examined me and found a blockage connecting my ear and nose. He gave me some medicines and drops to try first, but added that if they don’t work, I may have to undergo a minor operation.

Seeing that diagnosis worry my mother hurt more than the news itself. For me, hearing about another medical complication has almost become routine. It is strange how the mind adapts to continuous difficulty. When health problems pile up year after year, a day without a new complication feels almost unnatural, as though you are only waiting for the next thing to break. And it isn’t only physical health; sometimes personal, financial, and emotional pressures all seem to arrive at once.

There are moments when the exhaustion feels so heavy that my mind turns dark. When you are worn down by years of pain, a tired voice tries to tell you that you are only a burden to your family, that life is unfairly brutal, or that the track you are riding on has broken and is about to crash.

It is easy to feel defeated when life feels like a downward roller coaster. But when the initial sting settles, I remind myself of a different truth: life is unpredictable, fragile, and difficult for so many of us.

I have immense respect for people who fight through relentless hardship every single day and refuse to accept defeat. I write these words here because this journal is where I set down what I cannot easily say out loud. I don’t have a wide circle of friends to call late at night, and I know that everyone around me is busy fighting their own silent battles.

Over the years, sitting in hospital waiting rooms, courtrooms, hostels, and quiet temples, I have watched a lot of people. You don’t always need words to know when someone is suffering. The eyes give everything away. Reading tired eyes is something you learn when you have spent years carrying a quiet weight of your own. You recognize that look instantly: someone carrying an unbearable load, yet keeping a steady face so their loved ones won’t worry.

I know what it feels like to hold everything inside.

If there is one thing this long season has taught me, it is that kindness is the only thing that genuinely makes the world softer. To be patient with people. To notice the person who has gone quiet. To help where you can without expecting anything in return.

And just as importantly, to extend that same kindness to yourself.

I often forget that part. I find it easy to offer endless patience and empathy to others, while being harsh and demanding with my own tired body. But learning to be gentle with yourself is not giving up. It is how we survive the crossing.

A while ago, I asked someone very close to my heart what their ultimate goal was, what they truly wanted out of this life. Their answer was simple: “To live life fully.”

That sentence stayed with me. Despite the clinic visits, the uncertainty, the quiet rooms, and the days when the boat feels unsteady, that is still what I want. Not just for others, but for myself as well.

To live gently. To be kind. And to live life fully, one quiet day at a time.