My life is made up of boxes. Large, small, or tubular, it is my job to fill them with the items that other people purchase online. Checking against the order list that someone else has picked off the inventory shelves, it is up to me, one of many other human drone workers, to pack the objects in the most economical and break proof box. I have become a wiz at eyeballing an item, estimating its size and weight and selecting the shipping vessel that will best suit it.
Working for Wamazon, the same job I landed just out of high school, I am content to carry on with the mostly mindless menial labour and meagre wage indefinitely. The unending stream of boxes, lists and trivial trash that I fill them with can be packed and shipped with muscle memory alone. My mind is free while my limbs move with little to no input from the higher levels of my cognition.
My free brain roams, gallops, dances and twists, racing through logical puzzles, mathematics snarls.
This was the usual course of my life, 8 hours a day in the shipping room of Wamazon, while inside my cranium mental gymnastics were being performed for an audience of one. That is until one morning, as I got up before the late rising sun of mid winter, the intercom buzzed, letting me know that someone wanted me to come to the cracked and patched glass door of my dingy apartment block. With my red and blue plaid house robe tied tight against the anticipated blast of prairie winter air, and Jack Skellington slippers on shuffling feet, discount purchase returns from Wamazon, I trudged out to the communal front door of the LEGO brick of an apartment block.
Dimly seen through the pre-dawn gloom of early morning, a generic delivery drone hovers at waist height, flying low under the weight of a cheap BETSY shipping box. Taking recognition of a successful delivery with its heat sensing camera, its lifeless lens scans my face, dropping the box with a muffled thump on the snow covered stoop. As the drone zips away I squat to read the address label on the box. All there is the building number and street address. Shrugging, still half in a waking hash, I hunch over the 15 pounds of thin, torn at the corners box, and drag it in, half lifting half pulling it out of the seasonal elements.
Once me and the box have made it into the shelter of the thin walls of my apartment, I examine the exterior of the box under the dim flicker of the fluorescent bulb in the entryway. Just the street address, no personal name, or even a city is noted. Never one to question random gifts from the universe, I use the work supplied box opener, sitting waiting in my grab and go Wamazon duty bag, to slice open the thin box tape that is barely doing what gravity could do on its own. Folding back the two sets of flaps, I get a better view of what I had spied through the crushed corners of the shipping box.
I had always enjoyed watching the geese swimming in ponds and rivers in the warmer months of the year, but not enough to want to make pets of them. What I lift out is a perfectly preserved taxidermied adult Canadian goose out of the wreck of the BETSY shipping box. Its neck was bent into an s shape, with the bill pointing straight up, to fit the height of the box, I think. The thing was heavy, as if mounted on a block of granite. The figure was set in a sitting position, so its feet were not visible. Setting the deathly silent bird on the floor of my less then clean entry floor, I took another look inside the box. Taking up what remained of the space at the bottom was 6 smaller, more yellow versions of the parent. Each in turn are lifted out of their crumbling cardboard confines. Each had the heft of a respectable glass paper weight.
Puzzled, yet charmed by the bird family laid out in front of me, I line them up over my hobby/kitchen table. As the years continue to pass, unchanged from before, I always know that my goose family will be there to greet me when I get home, silently honking their excitement at my return. Dusted with care, I hold whole conversations with these water birds who just fell into my lap, discussing the state of the universe and our place in it. My internal need for an anchor and purpose in this mostly meaningless reality has finally been moored down by the weighty 7 members of the goose family I am now the caregiver to. So long as I have Gossey, Lucy, Muffin, Chuck, Millie, Taffy, and Bauldy, everything will be fine, just fine.
About the Creator
Keep reading
More stories from Adeline Panamaroff and writers in Motivation and other communities.
Turtle Love and Loss
I once had a red eared slider turtle called Bandit, named for the black rings around his eyes. I washed out his aquarium every week, scrubbed out the algae, took a nail brush to his two large granite rocks and plastic plant decorations, and rinsed out the water circulation system. Bandit grew and grew, on a steady diet of chicken hearts, pet store supplements, and live freshwater snails when I could get them.
By Adeline Panamaroff3 years ago in Petlife
I Never Chose the Easy Path; I Always Chose Hardship
From the earliest memories I can recall, life presented me with two roads. One was smooth, inviting, and well-trodden—a path that promised comfort, approval, and ease. The other was rough, rocky, and uncertain—a path of struggle, obstacles, and lessons that demanded effort, patience, and resilience. I never chose the smooth road. I never took shortcuts. Not because I was fearless, but because something deep inside refused to let me live a life that wasn’t earned. The easy path whispered promises of fleeting satisfaction, fleeting success, and fleeting recognition. It was tempting. Many around me chose it, and I often wondered if I was foolish for ignoring it. But I learned early that true growth is rarely convenient. The easiest choice often leads to emptiness, to regret, to a quiet knowing that you could have been more than you allowed yourself to be. Hardship became my teacher long before success ever noticed me. The lessons it offered were harsh, uncompromising, and often lonely. There were days when choosing the hard path felt like choosing isolation. While others were celebrated for small accomplishments, supported by friends and family, I walked in silence, with doubt as my companion. Progress was invisible to the world. Failures were frequent and relentless. Many nights, I returned home tired, my heart heavy, my mind questioning why I even bothered. Yet even in that silence, I was being shaped. I was learning the value of persistence, of dedication, and of refusing to give up on myself. The hard path forced honesty. It refused to allow excuses. It stripped away illusions and pretenses. I was left face-to-face with my limits, my fears, and my own humanity. On this path, I discovered strengths I never knew I had: patience I had never cultivated, resilience I had doubted, and self-respect that grew every time I stood up instead of walking away. These were not lessons that could be taught in comfort. They were only learned in struggle, in challenge, and in the quiet persistence of refusing to quit when no one was watching. I remember one time vividly. I had a goal that seemed impossible—one that required me to sacrifice comfort, leisure, and social approval. The easy path was right there: a way to avoid the challenge, to be “okay,” to follow what others had done before me. Many advised me to take it. “It’s safer,” they said. “It’s simpler,” they said. But I could feel, deep inside, that taking the easy way would leave me empty. I chose the hard path. The journey was grueling. Every step felt like pushing against gravity. But with each challenge, I gained more than I ever would have on the easy road. I gained endurance, confidence, and an understanding that real achievement is never handed—it is earned. Strength, I realized, isn’t loud. It doesn’t announce itself. It grows quietly, in the moments no one sees—the early mornings, the long nights, the repeated failures, the times you push forward when giving up would be understandable. Resilience is not simply surviving; it is deliberately choosing to continue, to stand again, to pursue the path that tests you the most. It is knowing that walking away is easier but will never lead to the person you are capable of becoming. I have walked many hard roads in life. Each one was different, yet the lessons were the same: comfort cannot teach endurance, shortcuts cannot teach discipline, and fleeting success cannot teach respect. Every struggle, no matter how small, adds to your character. Every failure is a mirror that shows you who you really are. And every choice to face hardship instead of fleeing builds a foundation that lasts long after temporary victories fade. There were times when I felt truly alone. People around me often misunderstood my choices. Friends, family, colleagues—they all questioned why I refused the easy way, why I worked harder, why I pushed myself beyond what seemed necessary. They didn’t see the growth happening quietly inside me. They didn’t see the small victories, the lessons learned, the resilience being forged. But eventually, the results spoke for themselves—not in a loud announcement, but in the quiet confidence and self-respect that I had built from the inside out. Life, I have learned, rewards those who endure hardship. Not always immediately. Not always visibly. But it rewards those who persist, who face struggle head-on, and who refuse to settle for anything less than becoming their fullest selves. Success that comes without effort is temporary; strength and self-respect are eternal. Hardship tests us, but it also teaches us. It shows us the depth of our own courage, the strength of our will, and the power of refusing to surrender. The lessons of the hard path are subtle, often invisible, and always lasting. I learned that failing is not shameful; failing is a necessary step toward mastery. I learned that enduring pain, even when no one notices, builds a type of strength that comfort never can. I learned that the more difficult the path, the deeper the reward—not measured in wealth or fame, but in character, wisdom, and self-respect. Every choice to embrace struggle instead of avoiding it shaped me. Every sacrifice, every extra hour, every moment of doubt faced instead of ignored, added to the foundation of the person I am today. My life was not easy. It was messy, unpredictable, and often overwhelming. But it was authentic. It was mine. And through hardship, I became resilient. I became someone who can face challenges without fear because I have faced them before. I became someone who respects themselves because I have honored my own effort. I became someone capable of growth because I refused to choose comfort over character. I often reflect on the people around me who chose the easy path. Many of them achieved quick victories, immediate recognition, and temporary peace. But over time, I noticed something important: the victories were shallow, the peace fleeting, and the growth minimal. They lacked the depth of resilience, the quiet power of self-respect, and the profound satisfaction that comes from knowing you endured, you learned, and you became someone stronger. Choosing hardship is not glamorous. It is not celebrated in real-time. It is often lonely, exhausting, and demanding. But it is transformative. It shapes your mind, your heart, and your spirit in ways comfort never can. It teaches discipline, patience, humility, and courage. It makes failure meaningful, effort valuable, and success earned. The hard path is where true people are made—people who understand that life’s challenges are not punishments, but opportunities. Opportunities to become better, stronger, wiser, and more capable. I never chose the easy path. I always chose the harder road, the one that tested me, the one that demanded effort, and the one that required me to face myself honestly. I walked through fear, doubt, exhaustion, and setbacks. I fell, and I got up. I failed, and I tried again. I cried, I questioned, I endured. And through it all, I became someone I could respect, someone who knew the value of persistence, someone who understood that hardship is not the enemy—it is the greatest teacher. Today, I measure success differently. I do not measure it by comfort, convenience, or ease. I measure it by growth, resilience, and the depth of self-respect I have cultivated. I measure it by how I faced challenges I could not ignore, how I embraced struggles that seemed unbearable, and how I refused to take shortcuts at the cost of my own becoming. I never chose the easy path. I chose the one that made me resilient. I chose the one that taught me self-respect. I chose the one that allowed me to become the person I am today. And if I had the choice again, I would choose the hard path every single time. Because the road of struggle is not only a journey—it is the making of a human being.writing...
By Ihtisham Ulhaq7 days ago in Motivation
Comments
There are no comments for this story
Be the first to respond and start the conversation.