Cry, the Beloved Seven Months

It all started so nicely—a birthday and the thrill of being freshly out of college forever. I was blissfully oblivious to what the near future had in store for me. Like any dramatic story worth telling, mine kicked off with a massive breakdown. Oh, and when I say "massive," I mean sitting-on-the-floor-questioning-everything-about-life massive. It almost led to drastic career changes, only for me to come full circle and attempt the UGC NET exam in June. And because life has a sense of humour, that exam paper leaked. So, there I was, retaking it in August. Spoiler alert: failed both attempts.

But let me not throw June entirely under the bus. It wasn’t all bad. That month brought some truly wonderful people into my life. The kind you meet and just know you’ll love and cherish for years to come. So, yeah, June gets a pass.

And then came the PhD hunt—a journey straight out of a chaotic coming-of-age movie. If you’ve known me for even five minutes, you know I can’t decide what I want for dinner, let alone settle on a research topic for a doctorate. Yet somehow, in the past seven months, I managed to cycle through four different research topics. And each one demanded extensive research and writing—emphasis on extensive—only for me to change my mind again. Honestly, if procrastination was an Olympic sport, I’d have a gold medal by now.

Cue the entrance tests. For months, I poured myself into prepping for multiple colleges, hoping for that sweet, sweet interview callback. The calls came. The interviews happened. Five applications, two interviews, and one pending callback. Of the two interviews I attended, one completely shattered my morale. The other? It shattered me. Why? Because I was so sure I was going to clear it. Spoiler alert again: I didn’t.

By this point, my life felt like a cycle of quarter-life crises, each more melodramatic than the last. There were too many “I want to give up” moments and way too many “I want to write for the media” detours (that secretly work out one day). And let’s not forget—sigh—nearly sabotaging the one good thing in my life, twice. Yes, twice. Nothing humbles you quite like almost blowing up your own happiness.

But, hey, if these seven months taught me anything, it’s this: trust. Trust yourself, trust God, trust whatever it is you believe in. It sounds deceptively simple, doesn’t it? But in practice, it’s the hardest thing I’ve ever had to do. Trust doesn’t come naturally when every step forward feels like two steps back. When you watch plans unravel faster than you can patch them up, and every failure whispers, “Maybe this isn’t for you”, “Maybe you weren’t cut out for this”, “Maybe you should have made better life decisions at the ripe age of 18”, “Maybe you should give up.”

A million “maybe’s” later, there comes a moment when you think: maybe I’m okay.

Because through all the chaos, there’s something oddly grounding about surrendering. About accepting that sometimes, things don’t go the way you want them to, and that’s okay. Trust is not blind faith; it’s hope with its eyes wide open. It’s reminding yourself, even on the worst days, that you’re still in the game as long as you’re moving. And as my wise wise man once said, just keep swimming. Some days, you’re gliding through clear water. On other days, you’re fighting against the Drake Passage. But no matter how hard it gets, you move forward. Not gracefully, not always confidently, but forward nonetheless.

Because swimming isn’t just about reaching the shore—it’s about knowing that even when you’re tired, when the water is cold and your muscles ache, and for a while even if the water holds you up, you have it in you to keep going. To trust that the shore is out there, even if you can’t see it yet.

I promised myself I’d only write this when I had a happy ending to share. But here we are, with no happy ending—at least, not yet. The shore feels far away, but I’m still swimming. Maybe that’s enough for now. Maybe something will work out.
oh but do not let me fool you: I am still dying inside with all the not knowing.