Between Nothing and Being

What could be gentler, quieter, or more welcoming than not existing at all? Nonexistence carries no pain, no shame, no demands, and no expectations. For nearly 13.8 billion years, I did not exist, and not once did I suffer for it. I don’t remember longing, missing, or worrying during those unfathomable eons. There were no moments to count and no time to waste, only a silence so perfect that it did not even know itself as silence.

Then came birth. With it arrived all the chaos, the struggles, and the absurd little details that make up human existence. Suddenly, I was thrown into a world that demanded navigation—paths to choose, mistakes to make, and a constant barrage of obstacles to dodge. It was like being forced into a race with no consent, elbowed on all sides by others who were just as desperate to reach somewhere, anywhere. No invisible hand carried me over the rough patches. No miraculous footprints in the sand. It was me against everything.

Before existence, there were no scraped knees, no broken bones, no bills piling on the desk. Now, I have a mortgage looming each month, penalties whispering threats if I fall behind. I care too much about what strangers might think of me—people I will never meet, people who probably do not care at all. Even my neighbor’s dog manages to add to my troubles, leaving behind its daily offerings on my lawn. The universe doesn’t bother with such petty annoyances, but I am forced to.

And let’s not forget the humiliating realities of the body. A stubborn fungus on one of my toes reminds me daily that being alive comes with countless small, ridiculous torments.

This makes me wonder about what follows all of this. The afterlife. Where does it belong? Is it part of this endless march of existence, a continuation that stretches on into infinity? Or is it something entirely outside of time and space, as unreachable as the state before the Big Bang, where nothing was and nothing hurt? Because in truth, that nothingness was peace. Perfect, undisturbed, and infinite.

And that is where I long to return.

I want to be reborn into that quiet emptiness, that place where there are no debts, no injuries, no slings and arrows of fortune. But how does one do that? Is dying the only doorway? Or is death just another trick of the universe, another step on a line that never ends, keeping me trapped in this absurd cycle? Even something as small as a pebble in my shoe becomes unbearable in this march of being.

I think of Jesus telling Judas it would have been better had he never been born. The weight of those words lingers. He didn’t say, “Better if you had died young,” or “Better if you had perished.” No—He said never born. To have been denied existence entirely would have been the kinder fate. If even God Himself can regret your being, what heavier shame is there? That’s a level of despair beyond imagination.

But then, I second-guess myself. Maybe nonexistence isn’t the sanctuary I’ve painted it to be. Maybe it’s not enough. Because what does “never having been” actually offer? It gives no companionship, no love, no chance to connect with anything at all. It’s breaking even at best—no losses, no gains, only an eternal zero. And in that void, could I be lonelier than I am now?

This leaves me in need of a course correction. Maybe the truth lies not in clinging to nothingness but in seeking something greater. Perhaps I need God, not just to take care of mortgages or fungus, but for everything that weighs heavy and everything that feels light. Do I need Him because I love Him, or do I love Him because I need Him? Where does necessity end and devotion begin? I can’t say. But I know this much: I won’t find out by wishing I had never existed.

Never existing is neutrality. But having lived—even with suffering, even with absurdities—means leaving a trace, however small. And maybe, just maybe, what I truly desire is for God to be glad that I existed at all. Glad that I was.

So call me reborn. A born-again existentialist, if such a thing can exist. I stand somewhere between nothing and being, between silence and struggle. And in that fragile space, I dare to hope that my existence—flawed, troubled, and absurd—still matters.