Life has a way of making you feel small. Some days, it feels like the weight of everything is pressing down, and no matter how much you scream, no one hears you. It’s overwhelming—the feeling that no matter how many people surround you, you are still alone.

We grow up believing in the idea of companionship, in the notion that people will be there when we need them most. We are told that if we struggle, someone will lend a hand. But the reality is much harsher. People only seem to care when it’s too late. When you are at your lowest, drowning in silence, they walk past as if you are invisible. But the moment you are gone, they arrive with their flowers, their words of regret, their rehearsed sympathy.

Where was this kindness when it mattered? Where was the concern when you were fighting battles no one could see?

Worse, some people don’t just ignore pain—they mock it. They laugh at your struggles as if your suffering is a form of entertainment. They watch from the sidelines, waiting for you to break, pointing fingers instead of lending a hand. It’s cruel, but it’s the truth. Society loves a tragedy, but only when it’s too late to do anything about it.

But maybe that’s the lesson in all of this: we can’t wait for people to save us. We can’t live hoping for someone to finally care, because most won’t—at least, not in the way we need them to. The only way to survive is to become our own source of strength.

So, if you’re struggling, if you feel unseen, know this: your pain is real, and it matters, even if no one acknowledges it. You don’t need an audience to validate your suffering. You don’t need people to show up once it’s too late. What you need is to hold on, to find even the smallest reason to keep going. Because as lonely as this world can be, there is still hope. There are still people who understand, even if they are few. And most importantly, you matter—even if the world hasn’t realized it yet.

When my father died, we lost not just a loved one—we lost a pillar of our home. There were many changes in our way of living. We had to learn to do things on our own, tasks that had always been his responsibility. Looking back, I realize why he often told us to be independent—perhaps he knew he wouldn’t be with us for long.

When my father was alive, we cooked using firewood because he always brought it home from the valley. But now, we rely on charcoal, gas, and, when we’re lucky, whatever wood we can find. The gas that used to last three months now seems to run out much faster. Adjusting to these changes has been difficult, but we manage.

The other day, we were assigned to help clean the town in preparation for the upcoming Provincial Athletic Meet. My group worked along the beach, where we found plenty of driftwood. I thought about collecting some after our cleanup, knowing how valuable it would be for cooking. But by the time I returned to the coast after work, most of the wood was already gone. Only small sacks remained. I gathered what I could and took them home. At least, for the next four days, we are assured of firewood to cook our meals.

Losing my father meant losing many things, but it also taught us resilience. We are learning to stand on our own, just as he wanted us to.

At the church tonight, as I listened to three young people singing #FindUsFaithful, I was transported back to when I was 20. I remembered sitting in church on New Year’s Eve, hopeful and wondering what my future would hold. The memory stirred something deep within me, and I almost cried, realizing how much of my life I feel I’ve wasted. I’ve wasted so much time. I’ve let opportunities slip away, made mistakes, and taken paths I never imagined I would. This life I’m living now isn’t what I dreamed of; it’s not what I envisioned for myself at this age. There’s a deep sense of longing for the “what could have been,” and it’s hard not to feel the weight of regret. But even amid this reflection, I’ve always held on to the belief that everything happens for a reason. Life doesn’t always go as planned, but perhaps it’s unfolding exactly as it should. Every twist, turn, and detour has brought me to this moment, and maybe that’s where I need to be. We meet people for a purpose—each encounter is part of a greater plan. Sometimes, I wonder why we don’t meet certain people earlier when circumstances seemed perfect. But then I realized: that timing is everything. We meet people when we’re meant to, not when we think we should.

Tonight’s sermon felt like a message straight from God. It was about leaving the past behind, about letting go of regrets and not allowing them to hold us back. It was as if God was speaking directly to me, urging me to stop looking back and start looking forward to what He has in store. He reminded me that He has a plan for me—a plan filled with hope, love, and purpose. Though the journey hasn’t been what I expected, I’m choosing to trust that God knows better than I do. I’m learning to let go of the weight of the past, embrace the present, and look forward with faith to the beautiful future He has prepared for me.