I feel a little jealous seeing my childhood friends move into new stages of life. One just got engaged—ring, celebrations, all the things that come with it. Another recently had her bachelorette party, and my Facebook feed was full of excitement and photos.
Meanwhile, my biggest milestone has been finally getting my driver’s license at twenty-four. That felt huge for me, and it’s given me more freedom to get out. I’m also preparing for an exam soon that could open the door to a better job.
Still, I can’t help noticing the contrast. I’ve already spent time imagining my own future—looking at rings, picking out a pink pear-shaped morganite with floral details, even having a wedding dress sketched out to match it. I want to feel like a spring fairy on that day. I know what I’d like for myself, but the problem is that excitement doesn’t always come naturally to me.
It’s like my mind has gone numb to joy, maybe because of the abuse I went through growing up. I can recognize what I love, but when it comes to feeling the spark that others seem to have over milestones—engagements, proposals, graduations, acheivements, weddings—I mostly feel nothing. Instead, I just focus on the next step, as if life were some long board game where moving forward is the only goal.
Even when I tried to celebrate getting my driver’s license, something I worked so hard for, the feeling didn’t stick. I wanted to mark it as a real victory, but the joy slipped through my fingers. Sometimes I wonder if that’s just how it will always be—me trying to catch excitement, only to find my hands empty.
Sometimes I rely on other people to feel it for me. When I graduated, or when I landed a voiceover job, I shared it online or told family, hoping their excitement would fill the void. And it did, for a while. But the buzz fades quickly for them, and I’m left with the hollow sense that I should feel something I don’t.
Happiness and love are especially hard for me to access. When I do get a small flicker of them, I cling to it, savoring it like it might be the last time. Most of the time I live in a state of contentment—a soft, quiet version of happiness—but I wish I could feel something more powerful.
I am happy for my friends, but I also wish my own life felt more exciting. I know comparison is the thief of joy, so maybe stepping away from Facebook is the best choice. Social media makes me dwell on the gap between what I feel and what I wish I could feel.
Sometimes it even stirs up nostalgia that tips into melancholy—looking at old photos, remembering when I was close with my childhood friends. I miss those summers of horseback riding for hours, sneaking out to ride late at night, or laughing in the pool until we were exhausted. Those moments belong to a time that no longer exists, even though I wouldn’t trade who I am now for who I was then.
So maybe a break from scrolling is what I need. More living in the present, less measuring my happiness against everyone else’s highlight reel.
I’ll always miss some of the closeness I used to have with people. Now most of our connections exist through social media. Everyone’s scattered to different states, wrapped up in their own lives. Some friends have kids now, others I hardly talk to at all-if at all. That’s just the way things go, I suppose. Still, I think it’s okay to let myself feel sad about it. Missing what once was doesn’t make the present any less valid—it just means those old ties mattered.
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