As I slowly returned to life in the weeks that followed my beautiful dad’s passing, I’d get a peculiar feeling when I did anything, like cooking, or going for a walk, that my dad, if he’s around me (I believe so), might experience a pang of longing for whatever simple thing I was doing.
One morning, the birds were chirping while sunlight streamed in through closed blinds. I was up early, but wanting to be back in bed. I was grumbling about the day ahead, which had yet to unfold. I thought of my dad, and that peculiar feeling came over me again. I was about to go for a walk and then to the gym. I thought, I get to be here. I get to live.
And just like that my day looked different. I was getting an early start to my day. It was a beautiful morning, and I was about to go for a walk. The things I was grumbling about hadn’t manifested, they were just imaginings in my head. For all I knew, I could have a great day. Of all the things that could happen, my brain goes straight to impending calamities. I take life much too seriously. However my day unfolded, whatever occurred, would have just been an experience.
I began to see outside of myself, like a ghost, observing how I am in situations and how I walk through life. Ghost me felt I’m not utilizing my time here very well, and I’m certainly not having enough fun. I’m usually in my head overthinking the ways in which everything can go sideways.
But I get to be here. I get to live. Perhaps, I might procrastinate less with writing if I didn’t focus on the end goal. I get to sit down and write. I get to create. The creative process is a journey, and I’m lucky that I get to express that part of myself and that I have the time to do so. There was a time, the majority of my life, when I didn’t.
Perhaps, I might be less withdrawn from the outside world if I didn’t view being friendly or open to others as something that could end up a mortifying experience. Instead of being afraid that I’ll look stupid, I can view interactions as an experience. I can have fun with it instead of taking it so seriously. I get to be here. I get to live.
I headed out that morning with new perspective, a new lens with which to view the world. A new filter in my mind to process life differently. I tried to hold on to the feeling as I went about my day. I kept reminding myself, hey enjoy, you get to be here, you get to live. Reign it in, it’s not that big of a deal.
When I sat down to get some work done, I had to remind myself, yet again, that I get to create. I’m not naturally wired to think this way. In fact, I feel my brain is wired to do the exact opposite. How did I get like this? When I’m about to do something I enjoy, like write, I wistfully think about rotting in bed. But I long to write and to write creatively and one day publish a fiction story, and if I’m rotting in bed then I’m not creating. Creativity is work, but once I’m in the zone, it feels good and that’s the feeling I’m chasing.
My dad gave me a parting gift as our journey came to an end, a new perspective. He loved to live. If given the chance, he’d be here resuming the things he liked to do, even the things he didn’t like because he’d get to be back here living, experiencing, in the most beautiful place in the universe.
I get to be here. I get to live. What a beautiful gift.
About the Creator
Neelam Sharma
Been on a spiritual ride for awhile, and these are my takeaways
Keep reading
More stories from Neelam Sharma and writers in Motivation and other communities.
Heaven and Hell Exist on Earth
Heaven and hell exist within us. They are mental, emotional, and physical states. Sins are decisions that lead to our self-destruction, or stop our growth, and they're not always overtly evil, like murder. They’re also not an action that earns you a ticket to eternal fire and brimstone.
By Neelam Sharma11 months ago in Motivation
Looking back: 2025 was a beast
It's difficult to know how to start this. I've suggested that it's been a tough one from my title and in many ways, it has; however, there is an argument that it's not been that extraordinary at all, merely this wonderful thing we call "life" with all its climaxes and pitfalls.
By Rachel Deeming19 days ago in Motivation
“One Day, I Realized Nobody Was Coming to Save Me—So I Saved Myself”
For the longest time, I believed my life was simply paused. Not broken. Not finished. Just waiting. Waiting for the right moment. Waiting for the right person. Waiting for something—anything—to arrive and change everything. I didn’t know exactly what I was waiting for, but I was sure it would come. People always said things like “It’ll get better” or “Your time will come”, and I clung to those words like promises written in invisible ink. I believed that if I endured long enough, life would eventually reward my patience. So I waited. I waited quietly, because I didn’t want to be a burden. I waited politely, because I didn’t want to seem ungrateful. I waited silently, because I didn’t even know how to explain what was wrong. From the outside, my life looked acceptable. I functioned. I showed up. I smiled when it was expected of me. I laughed at jokes that didn’t reach my heart. I answered “I’m fine” so often that it started to feel like muscle memory. But inside, something was eroding. Every day felt heavier than the last, like I was carrying a weight that kept growing while no one was looking. I woke up tired, went to bed tired, and spent the hours in between pretending I wasn’t. There was a quiet exhaustion that sleep couldn’t touch—a tiredness that came from constantly hoping for relief that never arrived. I thought suffering had to be loud to be real. I thought pain needed witnesses to matter. Mine had neither. There was no dramatic breaking point, no single moment when everything fell apart. Instead, it unraveled slowly. Almost gently. Like a thread pulled so gradually you don’t notice the fabric weakening until it’s too late. I kept telling myself, Just hold on a little longer. Surely someone would notice. Surely someone would step in. Surely life wouldn’t let me keep feeling this way forever. But life did. And then one day—an ordinary day that didn’t announce its importance—I realized something that changed everything. Nobody was coming. That realization didn’t arrive with clarity or relief. It arrived like grief. Heavy. Sharp. Unforgiving. I remember sitting alone, staring at nothing in particular, and feeling the truth settle into my bones. There would be no rescue. No sudden turning point delivered by someone else’s effort. No moment where everything magically aligned and lifted me out of my own life. It wasn’t that people didn’t care. It was that everyone was busy surviving their own storms. I had been waiting for someone to save me from a life that only I was living. And for a while, that realization shattered me. I felt abandoned by the world, betrayed by hope itself. I questioned every prayer I had whispered into the dark, every moment I had chosen patience over action. I wondered if I had misunderstood life completely—if the promises I believed in were never meant for people like me. I mourned the version of myself who thought endurance alone was enough. There is a special kind of loneliness that comes from realizing your pain is invisible. That no matter how heavy it feels to you, the world keeps moving at the same pace. Bills still need to be paid. Responsibilities still demand attention. Smiles are still expected. So I kept going. But something inside me had cracked open. Once you see the truth, you can’t unsee it. And the truth was this: waiting had become my hiding place. Hope, without action, had become an excuse to stay small. I had been standing still, convincing myself that stillness was strength. It wasn’t. Saving myself didn’t begin with confidence. It began with fear. Fear of staying the same. Fear of waking up ten years later in the same emotional place. Fear of realizing that I had wasted my own life waiting for permission to live it. I didn’t suddenly become brave. I became tired of being helpless. The first steps were almost embarrassing in their simplicity. There was nothing poetic about them. No montage-worthy transformation. Just small decisions that felt enormous at the time. Getting out of bed even when my body begged me not to. Choosing one task, then another, then another. Letting myself admit—quietly—that I was not okay. Some days, saving myself meant setting boundaries that made other people uncomfortable. I learned how often my exhaustion came from overextending myself to earn love, approval, or relevance. Saying no felt selfish at first. It felt wrong. But it also felt like oxygen. Other days, saving myself meant sitting alone with my feelings instead of numbing them. No distractions. No pretending. Just honesty. That was harder than any physical effort I had ever made. Facing your own thoughts can feel like standing in front of a mirror that refuses to lie. I began to understand something no one had taught me: healing is not linear, and it is rarely beautiful. It’s messy. Inconsistent. Frustrating. Some days feel like progress, others feel like failure. But both are part of the same road. There were days I missed the comfort of waiting. Waiting meant responsibility belonged to someone else. Taking control meant accepting that my life—every imperfect part of it—was in my hands. That was terrifying. But it was also freeing. As I slowly rebuilt myself, I noticed something else. Not everyone wanted to walk with me into this new version of myself. Some people preferred the me who needed saving. The me who was easier to control, easier to dismiss, easier to define. Outgrowing people hurts. Outgrowing places hurts. Outgrowing old versions of yourself hurts most of all. But staying the same hurts longer. I lost connections I thought were permanent. I stepped away from spaces that no longer fit who I was becoming. Loneliness returned—but this time, it was different. This loneliness felt honest. It didn’t come from abandonment; it came from alignment. I learned that being alone while growing is far healthier than being surrounded while shrinking. Strength, I discovered, isn’t loud. It doesn’t announce itself. It doesn’t demand recognition. Strength shows up quietly, day after day, in the choices you make when no one is watching. It shows up when you keep going even though the results are slow. When you forgive yourself for falling back into old habits. When you choose patience with yourself instead of punishment. There were setbacks—many of them. I stumbled. I doubted myself. I wondered if I was doing everything wrong. But this time, I didn’t collapse and wait for someone else to fix the damage. I picked myself up. Again and again. And something unexpected happened as I kept choosing myself: the world didn’t suddenly become easier, but I became stronger. Problems that once felt unbearable became manageable. Pain that once consumed me became something I could sit with without losing myself. I stopped asking, Why is this happening to me? I started asking, What can I do with what’s happening? That question changed everything. Today, my life is not perfect. I still have days when old fears resurface. I still feel tired sometimes. I still wish things were easier. But I no longer wait for rescue. I trust myself now. I trust that even if things fall apart, I will be there to put them back together. I trust that my worth doesn’t depend on who shows up for me. I trust that I am capable of building a life that feels like my own. And maybe the most important thing I’ve learned is this: realizing nobody is coming to save you is not a sentence. It’s an invitation. An invitation to stop shrinking. An invitation to take responsibility for your healing. An invitation to become the person you’ve been waiting for. If you’re reading this and you feel stuck—if you feel invisible, exhausted, or quietly breaking—I want you to know this: you are not weak for waiting. You were doing the best you could with what you knew. But you don’t have to wait anymore. Sometimes, saving yourself doesn’t mean changing everything. It means choosing yourself once—then choosing yourself again tomorrow. And one day, you’ll look back and realize that the moment nobody came was the moment your life truly began.Start writing...
By Ihtisham Ulhaq4 days ago in Motivation
A Failed Artist, A Disillusioned Poet, An Underpaid Game Show Host
I took my son and niece to Gori, a small town in Georgia where Joseph Stalin was born. They talked me into visiting the Stalin's Museum, the largest in the post-Soviet space. I had resisted going there because I just can't stand the monster and know enough about him, or so I thought.
By Lana V Lynx5 days ago in FYI
Comments (2)
This is one of the most moving and deeply human reflections I’ve ever read. Your words carry so much love, awareness, and quiet strength. The way you turned grief into gratitude — transforming loss into a renewed appreciation for life — is truly beautiful. The reminder that “I get to be here. I get to live.” is simple yet profoundly powerful. It’s something we all need to hear more often. Your dad’s spirit clearly lives on through you — in your perspective, in your writing, and in the tenderness with which you see the world. Thank you for sharing this gift of wisdom and emotion; it touches the heart and inspires the soul.
Interesting!!!