Is the world revolved around me?

I’ve always believed the world revolved around me. Not in the literal sense, of course—I knew the Earth spun around the sun like a loyal satellite, bound by gravity and cosmic rules. But in my universe, I was the center, the main character, the sun around which everything else orbited.

People were extras in my story. Events unfolded for my growth. Triumphs were inevitable because, well, wasn’t I destined for greatness? Even failures felt like temporary plot twists designed to make my eventual success more dramatic.

But the universe has a funny way of humbling those who think they’re its favorite.

Chapter 1: The Spotlight

At 26, I had a good job in marketing, friends who admired my “charisma,” and a social media presence that made my life look like an endless reel of sunsets, coffee cups, and spontaneous adventures. People laughed at my jokes, nodded at my opinions, and often told me, “You’re going places.”

I believed them.

When I walked into a room, I assumed people noticed. When I posted something online, I refreshed for likes like a king waiting for applause. Life felt like a movie, and I was both the director and the star.

But something was missing—not that I admitted it. A quiet, nagging emptiness I drowned out with noise: new projects, new people, new distractions.

Chapter 2: Cracks in the Mirror

The shift was subtle.

First, my best friend, Maya, stopped replying to my texts as quickly. I shrugged it off—she’s probably busy. Then my boss gave a promotion to someone else, someone I barely noticed existed. A fluke, I told myself. I’m still the star.

But it kept happening. Conversations where people’s eyes glazed over as I talked about my achievements. Invitations that stopped coming. Even my carefully curated posts didn’t get the attention they used to.

At first, I was angry. How dare the world not keep up with me? Didn’t they know who I was?

But late at night, when the glow of my phone screen wasn’t enough to distract me, a question crept in, quiet but persistent:

What if I’m not the center of anything?

Chapter 3: The Stranger on the Bench

One cold afternoon, feeling particularly insignificant, I sat on a park bench, scrolling mindlessly. That’s when I noticed an old man feeding pigeons nearby. He wasn’t remarkable—no flashy clothes, no air of importance. But he radiated something I couldn’t define.

Curiosity won over my ego. I struck up a conversation, expecting to impress him with my charm. Instead, he listened patiently, nodded occasionally, and then said something I’ll never forget:

“You talk a lot about yourself. Ever wonder about the stories you’re missing because you think yours is the only one that matters?”

His words hit me harder than I expected. I left the park feeling exposed, like someone had peeled away a layer of my identity.

Chapter 4: Seeing the Invisible

Over the next few weeks, I did something radical—I paid attention. Not the surface-level, nodding-while-waiting-to-speak kind of attention, but real observation.

I noticed the barista’s tired eyes, hinting at long shifts. I saw the nervous intern rehearsing lines before meetings. I realized Maya wasn’t distant because she was “busy”—she was going through a breakup I hadn’t bothered to ask about.

The world hadn’t changed. I had.

The more I listened, the more connected I felt. Ironically, the less I made things about me, the more alive the world became. Colors seemed brighter, conversations richer, connections deeper.

Chapter 5: The Answer

So, is the world revolved around me?

No.

And thank God for that.

The universe isn’t a stage built for one performer. It’s an endless, intricate web of stories, emotions, triumphs, and heartbreaks—millions of them unfolding simultaneously, whether I’m paying attention or not.

I’m not the sun. I’m just one star among billions, burning bright in my own small corner of the sky. And somehow, that’s more comforting than being the center of it all.

Because when you realize you’re not the whole universe, you finally get to experience the beauty of being part of it.