Quiet Resilience

With time, I shifted my focus toward my studies. The same old thoughts resurfaced, lingering in my mind like an unshakable shadow: Why am I doing this? Why am I filling my mind with knowledge I'll likely never use in my day-to-day life?

The purpose of it all seemed hollow. Was it just for a piece of paper—a degree that society had decided would determine my status, my worth, my future? The idea of it felt suffocating, yet I found myself continuing, not out of passion, but out of habit. This time, however, I made a conscious decision to push forward.

I was alone, but by now, loneliness had become a familiar companion. It wasn't that I had grown comfortable with it, but rather that I had learned how to live with it. My solitude no longer weighed me down as much as it used to. Instead, I used it as an opportunity to focus on myself.

I began to indulge in small pleasures, things that brought a sense of joy and individuality to my otherwise monotonous days. I bought myself a cheap chess set, its simple design reminding me of the countless hours I'd spent in childhood strategizing and learning. I also picked up sketchbooks, their blank pages brimming with possibilities, waiting for me to bring them to life.

Drawing and chess had been my hobbies for as long as I could remember, though both had faded into the background over the years. Now, they felt like pieces of myself I was trying to reclaim.

My love for drawing had started with my sister, a teacher who had a remarkable talent for sketching. She would create incredible drawings of historical figures with such precision and elegance that it left me in awe. I remember sitting beside her, watching the way her pencil moved effortlessly across the paper, transforming simple lines into masterpieces. She inspired me, and I began to emulate her, picking up a pencil and sketching whatever came to mind.

In 10th grade, my passion for drawing reached its peak when I was selected to participate in a drawing competition. It felt like a moment of validation, proof that my hobby was more than just a pastime. But when the day of the competition arrived, it didn't go as I had imagined. My lack of preparation, combined with the unexpected challenge of working on an oversized sheet of paper rather than the standard size I had practiced on, left me fumbling. I struggled to adjust, and the result was far from what I had envisioned.

That failure stuck with me. Though not in a bad way but in a fun way, and by the middle of 10th grade, I had all but abandoned it since my problems started to affect me in those times. Yet, now, years later, I found myself drawn back to it. I wasn't the same person I had been then, and neither was my approach. This time, I wasn't chasing perfection or recognition. I was simply trying to rediscover the joy I had once felt—the quiet satisfaction of creating something with my own hands.

Chess, on the other hand, had a different origin. It began back in 5th grade during computer classes. At the time, we were just kids, too young to dive into the complexities of coding or advanced software like Microsoft Excel or PowerPoint. Our teacher would occasionally take us to the computer lab, and instead of lessons, we were allowed to explore the games installed on the machines.

The computers weren't connected to the internet, so our options were limited. Among the few games available, one stood out to me—chess. At first, I barely understood the rules, but the game intrigued me. There was something about the balance of strategy and patience, the way each move felt deliberate and calculated. Over time, I began to grasp its intricacies, and what started as a way to pass the time in computer class became a genuine passion.

Now, years later, I found myself returning to that same game, though not for competition or to prove anything. Chess had always been more than just a game to me—it was a mental escape, a place where the noise of the world faded away and all that mattered was the board and the pieces in front of me.

Reconnecting with these hobbies felt like reclaiming pieces of myself that I had lost along the way. Drawing and chess weren't just distractions; they were reminders of who I was before life became so complicated. They gave me a sense of purpose, a way to express myself in a world where words often failed me.

And so, as I navigated the challenges of college life, I found solace in the small things—the quiet moments spent sketching in my notebook, the careful planning of moves on my chessboard. They didn't solve all my problems or erase my doubts, but they gave me something to hold onto.

-For now, that was enough-

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