I Don’t Remember the Last Time I Felt Real

Not all at once, not with any drama — just quietly, gradually. Like fog rolling in over water. I didn’t even notice it at first. One day I was living, breathing, feeling. The next… I was watching my own life like it was someone else’s.

And now?

Now I don’t remember the last time I felt real.

I go through the motions. I wake up. I answer messages. I eat food I can’t taste, smile at jokes I don’t find funny, nod during conversations I barely hear. I laugh when I’m supposed to. I say “I’m good” when asked. I scroll, I reply, I exist.

But I’m not living. Not really.

There’s a disconnect — like I’m seeing the world through glass. I can look, but I can’t touch. I’m here, but I’m not in it. Nothing sticks. Nothing feels solid.

And it scares me.

Because I used to feel so much. Too much, even. Music used to make me cry. Rain used to make me nostalgic. A single sentence in a book could stop me in my tracks and make me sit with it for hours. Now? I skim pages. I skip songs halfway through. I look at sunsets and feel… nothing.

Sometimes I think maybe I broke something inside myself. Like there was a point — a moment I missed — where the switch flipped and I slipped out of myself. I don’t know how to go back. I don’t even know where "back" is.

People around me seem fine. Happy, even. They talk about weekend plans and new TV shows and what they’re having for dinner. I nod along, but inside I’m screaming:

“How do you still feel things?”

“How do you still care?”

I want to care. I want to feel again. But I’m tired in a way that sleep doesn’t fix. I’m numb in places I didn’t know could go quiet.

There are days when I wonder if this is just how adulthood is — muted, manageable, mechanical. Maybe no one feels real anymore. Maybe we’re all pretending, and some of us are just better at it.

But then I see someone laugh like they mean it. Or cry without shame. Or dance like no one’s watching. And I realize: no, some people are still alive. Still present. Still burning.

And I… I’m just flickering.

It’s hard to explain this feeling to anyone. It’s not quite sadness. Not quite depression. It’s not panic or despair. It’s something quieter, heavier. Like a gray film over everything. Like the volume on life has been turned down and no one gave me the remote.

I know I should be grateful. I have a roof over my head, people who care, a life that — on paper — looks okay. But something’s missing. And I don’t know what it is.

Or worse — I know what it is.

And I’m too scared to chase it.

Sometimes I catch glimpses of the old me.

When a song hits just right.

When I smell something that reminds me of childhood.

When someone looks at me like they see me — not the version I perform, but the quiet, scared thing underneath.

And for a second, I come back. I’m here. I’m whole.

But the moment always slips away. And I’m left wondering if that version of me — the one who felt deeply, who lived fully — was ever real at all.

I don’t know how to fix this.

I don’t know if there is a fix.

Maybe it’s about noticing the small things again. Drinking tea slowly. Watching birds. Writing thoughts down with a pen instead of typing. Saying “I love you” even when my voice shakes. Maybe it’s about being brave enough to feel whatever comes — even if it hurts.

Maybe feeling real isn’t something that just happens.

Maybe it’s something you have to choose.

So this is my first step.

Not a solution. Not a miracle. Just… a moment of honesty.

I don’t feel real right now.

But I want to.

And maybe, just maybe, wanting is where it begins.

And if you’ve felt this way too — numb, detached, a ghost in your own life —

just know: you’re not alone.

We’re still here.

We’re still trying.

And maybe that’s enough — for now.