The First Time We Breathe

I don’t remember the first time I breathed.

No one does. Yet somehow, it defined everything that followed.

That first cry wasn’t just air filling lungs—it was existence announcing itself. And from that moment onward, every “first time” became a thread in the tapestry of being human. We stumble, we reach, we burn, we break—and we become.

Let me take you through the gallery of my “firsts.” Not for the sake of memory, but to understand something deeper—how each first time is both a door and a mirror.

The First Time I Lied

I must’ve been six.

I broke a porcelain vase, one of those delicate things my mother had kept safe on the windowsill. I blamed it on the wind. My heart pounded louder than any punishment could have hurt.

That was the first time I felt the terrible weight of dishonesty—and how it drowns even when no one sees. It taught me a strange thing: humans lie not always to deceive others, but to escape the truth about themselves.

From there, life was never the same. Once you know you can bend truth, the question becomes not can I lie, but should I?

And that “should” follows us everywhere.

The First Time I Fell in Love

She was in the school library, her face buried in a book of old poems. I didn’t know her name, only the softness of her voice when she whispered the last line to herself.

I fell in love before I knew what love meant.

Isn’t that how it usually is? Love doesn’t always arrive with a trumpet—it sneaks in like a breath, and suddenly you're full of it.

It was unreturned, unspoken. But it changed me. For the first time, I saw beauty not in symmetry, but in the quiet corners of someone’s mind. Love taught me that humans are not attracted only to bodies—but to mysteries they yearn to understand.

We fall in love not with perfection, but with potential. With who we could become in the presence of the other.

The First Time I Lost Someone

My grandfather. He died in his sleep.

It was peaceful, they said. But no death is peaceful for those who stay behind. That was the first time I tasted the bitterness of mortality. Not the kind we read about in books, but the kind that sits heavy in your stomach when the seat at the dining table is empty and will always be.

For the first time, I understood that humans die twice: once when the heart stops beating, and once when the stories stop being told.

So I began telling stories.

The First Time I Failed Publicly

It was a small writing contest in high school. I had poured my soul into a short story, sure I would win. I didn’t even get mentioned.

That humiliation burned more than any physical wound ever could. I remember avoiding eye contact for days, questioning whether I should ever write again.

But it was also the first time I realized: failure is just another kind of education—more honest than praise, more brutal than books. That loss forced me to ask: Why do I write? For approval, or for truth?

Since then, every word I write carries the mark of that first wound. And perhaps that’s what gives them weight.

The First Time I Prayed with Meaning

I had prayed before—rituals, words, gestures. But the first real prayer came not in a place of worship, but on a rainy night under an empty sky.

I was lost—not just metaphorically. I had taken a wrong turn driving home from university. No signal. No maps. The road was a snake in the dark. Panic swelled, and suddenly, instinctively, I whispered: “Please.”

No address, no language, no theology. Just a plea. And I felt heard.

That was the first time I realized what faith might be—not religion, not rules, but the aching desire for something beyond. That moment redefined divinity for me. Since then, I believe not in names or books, but in the raw, human ability to reach upward when we are most broken.

We pray not always to be saved—but to remember we are not alone.

The First Time I Hurt Someone I Loved

It wasn’t dramatic. It was silence.

They needed me, and I was too busy, too distracted, too self-involved. I didn’t notice the sadness in their eyes until it had hardened into resentment.

By the time I said “I’m sorry,” it was too late to heal the scar.

That was the first time I understood that love is not only presence, but attention. And sometimes, neglect is more brutal than betrayal.

Humans forget easily. Not just anniversaries or birthdays—but the fragile, quiet needs of those closest to us. And that forgetfulness is a form of cruelty.

The First Time I Traveled Alone

A train journey. A notebook in my hand. Cities blurred past the window like unspoken dreams.

That first time I traveled alone wasn’t about geography. It was about identity.

Without familiar eyes watching me, I became… me. No roles, no masks, no expectations. Just presence.

I discovered something profound: solitude is not emptiness, but freedom. Humans fear loneliness because they confuse it with isolation. But the truth is, only in aloneness can we meet our truest selves.

Since then, I travel often—not to escape, but to arrive.

The First Time I Forgave

Not someone else. Myself.

That was the hardest “first time.”

For years I had carried the guilt of a decision I made in haste—one that hurt someone who trusted me. I replayed that scene a thousand times in my mind, rewriting it, wishing it different.

But time doesn’t barter with wishes.

It was only when I looked into the eyes of a stranger who had made a similar mistake—and saw his pain—that I forgave myself. Because I saw that guilt, when held too long, rots into self-hatred. And that helps no one.

Forgiveness is not erasure. It is release.

It’s saying: “Yes, I was wrong. But I will not remain in that moment forever.”

Humans are not meant to be statues of perfection. We are meant to be rivers—flowing, changing, cutting new paths even after the flood.

Some Firsts Change Everything

What I’ve learned is this:

Every “first time” is sacred—not because it is flawless, but because it is formative.

It takes courage to try. To fall in love. To write. To speak. To apologize. To walk away.

Each first time carves us—sometimes gently, sometimes with a chisel.

But isn’t that what makes humans so beautifully tragic? We chase novelty like moths to flame, knowing full well it might burn us.

And yet, we go. Again and again.

Why?

Because in every “first time” lies the possibility of becoming someone new. Someone more.

We are the only species who can dream of something that’s never happened—and then try to make it real. That is our magic. That is our burden.

A Final Thought

One day, someone will write about the last time I breathed.

But until then, I will cherish every “first time” like it is a holy scripture—because in them, I found myself.

If you're reading this, maybe you’re on the verge of your own “first.”

Start.

You may be afraid. But you were born with the courage to cry before you knew what fear was.

Begin again.

And let life sculpt you.