Fall in love with your own life

Rage against the lies, yearn for more, and build a life that finally feels like yours.

Do you know what the cruelest joke is?
That we were told, from the moment we were born, to wait for something outside ourselves to save us. To make us whole. To fix us. To crown us worthy. They told us the diploma would do it, the relationship would do it, the job would do it, the applause would do it. And like obedient little soldiers, we lined up at the conveyor belt of life, waiting for someone else to hand us permission slips to be alive.

But here’s the truth no one fucking tells you: if you do not fall in love with your own damn life, you will bleed yourself dry trying to find pieces of yourself in everyone else’s pockets.

I am so goddamn tired of this culture that thrives on making us feel incomplete. You scroll. You compare. You rot. Every ad screams you’re not enough until you buy me. Every success story screams you’re late. Every carefully curated photo screams, 'Look at me, I’ve figured it out.’ And there you are, sitting in your room, convinced you’re defective because you didn’t wake up at 5 a.m. to drink lemon water in a gold-plated glass before running a marathon and founding a startup.

Fall in love with your own life. Not the life you were told to aspire to. Not the life you think will finally make them proud. Not the life you fantasize about when you’re high on jealousy at 2 a.m., scrolling through someone else’s highlight reel. I mean your life. The one in front of you. The one you keep disrespecting by constantly wishing it looked like someone else’s.

Do you want to know why most people stay miserable? Because they are addicted to running from silence and running from stillness and running from their own reflection. They can’t stand the idea that maybe, just maybe, the life they already have is the one they were meant to fall in love with. But it feels too ordinary, doesn’t it? Too plain. Too “small.” As if joy has to be something loud, cinematic, and constantly Instagrammable.

Fuck that.
Fall in love with the ordinary. Fall in love with a life where your coffee tastes like medicine but somehow pulls you back from the edge. Fall in love with the way you laugh too loudly at memes at midnight, even if no one else is around to hear. Fall in love with the ache in your legs after walking home instead of catching a cab. Fall in love with the people who text you stupid little updates, the ones who will never trend, never go viral, but will always show up.

Fall in love with your mistakes. Fall in love with the version of you that kept crawling even when it would’ve been easier to lie down and rot. Fall in love with the scars, they are your fingerprints on time, proof that you survived nights that tried to kill you.

And don’t you dare wait for someone else to make it feel real. Don’t you dare sit there like a half-dead ghost waiting for love, success, or destiny to arrive at your doorstep with a bouquet. No one is coming. I’ll say it again for the people in the back: no one is coming. If you want magic, you will have to create it from the mess that already exists in your life.

This is not about romanticizing pain. This is about refusing to live numb. Rage against numbness. Rage against comparison. Rage against waiting. Rage against the thought that your life is only worth celebrating when it looks like their life.

Stop outsourcing your aliveness. Stop begging people to validate your existence. Stop thinking tomorrow will be different. Tomorrow is nothing but today’s ugly twin if you don’t change something.

Fall in love with your own life. With the cracked tiles on your bathroom floor. With the playlists that saved you. With the conversations that weren’t extraordinary, but made you breathe a little easier. With the silence of the bus ride. With the half-burnt toast. With the fact that you’re still here, despite every single thing that tried to convince you not to be.

Because here’s the rage I need you to hear:
If you do not fall in love with your own life, this world will happily sell you a version of yourself that feels like prison. You will work, you will consume, you will envy, and then you will die. And they will make a profit off your emptiness until your final breath.

Don’t give them that satisfaction.
Love the life they told you wasn’t enough. Love it so fiercely that you spit in the face of every system that tried to make you hate yourself. Love it so loudly that even your own doubts are forced to sit down and shut the fuck up.

Fall in love with your own life. Or spend the rest of it chasing ghosts.

Your choice.

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And don’t you dare think I’m saying this because I’ve got it figured out. I don’t. I’m saying this because I know what it feels like to sit in your own skin and want to crawl out. To lie awake at night and wonder if you’ve already wasted the best years. To scroll, scroll, scroll until your thumb aches but your heart stays hollow. I know what it feels like to wait for the perfect day to arrive and realize the days don’t stop, they rot right in front of you while you’re looking somewhere else.

And God, don’t I yearn? Don’t I fucking yearn for something beyond myself? For a version of me that finally feels solid, proud, unshakable. I yearn for mornings where I don’t wake up with dread, for afternoons that don’t feel like drowning in cement. I yearn for a life that feels like poetry instead of routine. I yearn for the arms of someone who sees me as more than a project to fix. I yearn for freedom so raw it stings, for a horizon that doesn’t cage me in.

But here’s the thing: yearning without action is a slow suicide. You can’t just sit in the corner of your own life and beg for a rescue. You can’t wait for some lightning-strike moment that will suddenly make you whole. You have to stitch together wholeness from scraps, from hunger, from rage. You have to turn that yearning into rebellion. Into movement. Into fuel.

Because this world is not going to hand you a life you love. It’s going to hand you distractions, prescriptions, algorithms, instructions, everything except what you’re truly starving for. You will have to carve that out yourself, with your own bloody hands if you must.

So yes, rage. Rage at every expectation that suffocated you. Rage at every system that convinced you to hate your own reflection. Rage every time you made yourself smaller to fit inside someone else’s approval. Rage at the wasted years, the lost chances, the people who left. Rage because you deserved better, and nobody gave it to you.

But also, yearn. Yearn so deeply it burns holes inside you. Yearn for mornings where you feel alive. Yearn for conversations that taste like wine and thunderstorms. Yearn for the version of you that looks at the mirror and doesn’t flinch. Yearn for your life, not theirs, not the dream they sold you, but the raw, unpolished one that’s already yours.

And don’t just yearn to build. Build small moments worth remembering. Build afternoons that don’t need to be posted to count. Build silence you can actually live inside. Build a self that you fall in love with, again and again, even when the world tells you not to.

Because if you don’t, fifi if you don’t rage and yearn and build, you will spend the rest of your life orbiting someone else’s dream, too terrified to land on your own.

And I don’t know about you, but I refuse.

If this finds you at the right time,
And you’d like to support my work
You can do that here: Buy me a coffee☕🤎

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I also wrote a little book called “For All the Wrong Reasons.”
It’s about a girl who moves to a small autumn town called Maplewood… only to find herself falling for her roommate’s boyfriend. It’s a story about wanting someone you probably shouldn’t, and all the messiness that follows.

If you’re a member of Hasif’s Porchlight Club ($3/month), you can read it for free.
Or, you can grab it on its own for $5.

Join the club here or
Buy the book here

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And if these words lit even the smallest fire in you, don’t keep it locked inside. Write. Spill. Scream onto the page. I want to hear your voice.

I’m opening up submissions for essays to be featured on Postcards by Hasif. Deadline is 20th September. Send your piece to hasifnewsletters@gmail.com.

For full details, read the post Submit Your Essays and Get Featured. And make sure you subscribe to

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