Wandering Souls

I opened my eyes — no colors, just a blur. Shapes moved around me, shadowy and unfamiliar. The air was no longer warm and comforting. Why did they take me from that safe, protected place into this unknown world? Where am I? What… or who am I?

Metal clicks. Voices speaking quickly. Hands holding me. I can’t breathe. Something rushes into my nose — sharp, cold. A sting of panic. Then, suddenly, air floods my lungs. My body trembles at the shock of it. I breathe on my own for the first time.

The room is filled with a strange, sharp scent — a mixture of something sterile and something raw. Later, I would learn the smell was disinfectant and blood. I cry. The sound startles me. It escapes from me, unfamiliar and wild. I hope this is the only time it will happen. But I am wrong. I will cry again. And again. I will cry from sadness, from happiness, from loss, from fear.

Then, warmth. I am placed in a pair of arms. A scent washes over me — one that feels different from all the others. It is familiar, though I have never smelled it before. Safe, soft. I do not yet understand love, but I know this is the closest I have felt to the cocoon I left behind. Then, something presses gently against my lips. Instinct takes over. I latch, I drink. The taste is warm, comforting. I do not have words for it yet, but it is my first experience of nourishment, of care.

Time passes. I start to understand my surroundings, but not myself. I feel things — hunger, discomfort, warmth — but I don’t yet know what emotions are. My cries bring what I need. My body reacts, but I do not yet have awareness. Survival is my only language.

I grow. Slowly, I begin to make sense of my feelings. Happiness. Sadness. Envy. Excitement. Anxiety. Emotions no longer exist just for survival; they shape my days, my choices. I form connections. At first, I need them to survive. But now, I need them to feel alive. No one is born to be alone.

With connection, I learn love. I learn trust. I learn how to be vulnerable. But I also learn heartbreak. And God, how it hurts. The weight of it, the ache of piecing myself back together. But I do. I always do.

Years have passed since that first cry. I know who I am. At least, sometimes. I think I know who I want to be. But is there such a thing as “truly” being? Or are we all just wandering souls, grasping for meaning — chasing something we might never find?

So we keep breathing. We keep living. We keep wondering. And we keep wandering — lost, searching, hoping, until the journey itself becomes the answer.