Anelly Aya's blog

  She had always been the one people came to. From childhood, there was something in her presence that made others open up, confess, seek comfort. Friends said her eyes carried stillness, as though they reflected something deeper than ordinary life. Strangers in cafés would tell her their problems without knowing why. She did not resist it; she felt it was her calling. To heal, to listen, to hold space for others was the thread that stitched her life together. At first, it felt like a gift. She became a nurse, then a therapist, then, in the eyes of her community, simply “the one who helps.” Her days were filled with stories of pain, broken marriages, anxious children, weary elders. She gave her patience, her understanding, her energy. She stayed late, answered calls after hours, traveled when needed. She told herself that exhaustion was a natural part of service, that love required sacrifice. But the years passed, and the exhaustion grew. There were nights when she collapsed in...

 Silvia woke to the familiar shuddering dizziness , the world tilting gently yet insistently around her. The sunlight filtering through the blinds seemed off-kilter, slicing across her room at an odd angle, and even the walls of her small apartment seemed slightly out of place, as though gravity itself had taken a vacation without leaving a forwarding address. She lay there for a long moment, listening to the faint hum of the city beyond her window—honking cars, distant sirens, the restless murmurs of Sofia awakening to yet another day she could not afford to waste. Her body felt heavy and unsteady , and yet the mind inside it raced relentlessly, spinning through possibilities that always ended the same way: dead ends . Sitting up slowly, she felt the twinge of stiffness in her shoulders and the subtle numbness creeping down her left arm . It was nothing new, though it scared her every time—like a quiet reminder that her body had begun to rebel against the pressures she could not ...

  The alarm clock did not ring that morning. It hadn’t for years, because Elena no longer lived by someone else’s schedule. She was a freelancer, which meant her workdays began not with a sharp bell but with the slow, hesitant rising of her own willpower. She sat up in bed, staring at the thin light leaking through the curtains, and asked herself the same question she asked every day: “Will there be enough today?” Enough clients, enough work, enough payment, enough energy. It was the question that haunted every freelancer, the quiet uncertainty stitched into the seams of freedom. At first glance, Elena’s life looked enviable. She worked from home, sipping coffee at her desk, no boss breathing down her neck, no office politics. She could wear pajamas all day if she wanted, and often she did. Friends who met her for coffee would say, “You’re so lucky - you get to work for yourself, you’re free.” And she would smile, not wanting to explain that freedom often came with chains no one...

She never thought kindness could become a source of humiliation. Feeding a stray cat—something so small, so gentle, so undeniably good—had turned into another weapon in the hands of those who loved to wound. Alaya remembered the day it began with piercing clarity: a thin, trembling kitten had appeared near the stairwell of her apartment block, mewing with a hunger that spoke more loudly than words. Its fur was dirty, matted in places, its ribs poking out beneath its skin. She could not walk past. Compassion is instinct, not calculation. Without hesitation, she poured a little food into an old bowl and left it outside the door. The kitten devoured it, eyes wide with both fear and gratitude. In that moment, something shifted inside her—a spark of joy in giving, in nurturing, in refusing to let the world’s hardness suffocate the gentle urge to care. But joy is fragile in an environment poisoned by cruelty, and soon the neighbors noticed. They began with whispers. “She’s feeding them ag...

  She was always told she was ordinary. Not in cruel words, not in a way that cut deep, but in the subtle remarks, the passing glances, the way life itself seemed to place her on the margins. Ordinary—neither extraordinary nor terrible, neither remarkable nor disgraceful. Just there, like the background against which other lives shone brightly. And for a long time, she believed it. Alaya had grown up in a neighborhood where nothing spectacular ever happened. Children played in dusty courtyards, mothers exchanged recipes and complaints, fathers dragged themselves home from work with weary eyes. Her childhood was not unhappy, nor was it enchanted—it was simply plain. She went to school, learned her lessons, came home, and helped her mother with chores. No great talent emerged, no early brilliance marked her. She could sing, but not like the girls who dazzled in the school choir. She could draw, but her lines were shaky compared to others. She was good at math, but not good enough t...

  Alaya woke each morning with the same gnawing ache in her chest, an ache that felt heavier than hunger, sharper than thirst. It was the ache of uncertainty, the weight of not knowing how she would make it through another month. The days had begun to blur into a gray repetition of job portals, endless applications, and waiting for replies that never came. She sat at her desk, the glow of her laptop casting a pale light across her tired face, and tried to summon the hope that had become so fragile inside her. She had been a good student once, diligent, bright, the kind of person who believed that if you worked hard and followed the path, doors would open. She was a programmer, a designer, a musician, an artist—someone who had built herself piece by piece, discipline by discipline. Yet here she was, reduced to typing her name and experience into automated forms that would filter her out before a human ever read her words. The pandemic had reshaped the world, but it had shattered...

  She had always felt the pull of comparison , the quiet whisper that told her she should look like everyone else—taller, slimmer, younger, flawless. For years, she tried to follow it, measuring herself against magazines, mirrors, and the casual judgments of others. She wore the tight dresses, endured the hours in front of the mirror. But each attempt left her emptibly hollow, as if she were trading pieces of her soul for a fleeting sense of acceptance . One afternoon, she caught her reflection in the window of a café. It wasn’t perfect; it didn’t match the filtered faces in her feed. And yet, there was something in her eyes—something steady, unyielding—that the mirrors had never shown her before. She realized then that the pursuit of vanity had cost her more than it gave her . Her posture was strained from constant self-policing, her voice small from fear of being noticed, her laughter muted because it was never enough. She felt like a shadow of herself, performing a role that...