Sometimes I really think 2019 was the last normal year of my life.
Back then, life was light — the kind of light that didn't feel forced. The sun felt warmer, the air smelled sweeter, and laughter sounded different. I didn't realize it then, but I was living in the kind of peace that I'd spend years longing for later.
I still remember my mornings — waking up without anxiety, walking to class or work with music in my ears, smiling at strangers without any reason. My days had color, rhythm, and meaning. Even small things — coffee with friends, random conversations, hanging out late, those endless talks about the future — felt alive.
I had no idea we were living through what would one day be called "the last normal year."
2019 was the year of dreams.
For me, everything felt possible. My younger sisters and I used to make plans for the future — laughing, fighting, teasing, and promising that one day we'd do all the things we'd been talking about. I didn't know those plans would turn into memories we'd keep revisiting, saying, "Remember when we thought life would always be like that?"
Then 2020 came.
At first, it was just another January. I had goals, hopes, things to achieve. Then the news started — a virus spreading somewhere far away. No one took it seriously at first. I remember saying, "It'll go away soon, it's not that big." But within months, the world went silent.
Suddenly, we were locked inside our homes. Streets turned empty. The sound of laughter was replaced by news updates and sirens. Every plan, every dream, every little thing we took for granted just stopped.
And that's when I realized — we were stepping into a different world.
It's strange how everything can change without warning. One day you're surrounded by people, and the next, you're learning how to live through screens. One day you're talking about the future, and the next, you're just hoping the world survives the week.
Those months felt endless. I thought staying home would be peaceful, but it wasn't. It was heavy — the kind of silence that made you think too much. I missed everything: the sound of my friends' laughter, the smell of the city after rain, even the noise of traffic that used to annoy me.
I missed the freedom of not worrying.
And more than anything, I missed the version of me that existed before all this — the one who used to smile without pretending, who used to plan without fear.
Time kept moving, but it didn't feel real.
Days blended into nights, nights into mornings, and somehow, years passed.
Everyone changed. People became quieter. Friendships faded. Some people I used to talk to every day became just names I scroll past now. Everyone got busy surviving, not really living.
Sometimes I look around and wonder — where did that old world go?
The one where people met without excuses, hugged without hesitation, and laughed without guilt.
Now, even though the world has "recovered," it still doesn't feel the same. There's something missing — that spark, that innocence, that feeling of being present. Everything feels faster but emptier, louder but lonelier.
It's like we're all running, but no one knows where we're going.
A few months ago, I was looking through old pictures on my phone.
2019 — festivals, smiles, messy hair, crowded places, laughter so loud it could fill the whole frame. I stared at those pictures for a long time and felt something heavy in my chest.
How could a year feel so alive?
How could something so ordinary back then become so precious now?
I think what I miss the most isn't the year itself — it's me.
The version of me who wasn't scared to dream. The one who didn't check her phone first thing in the morning for bad news. The one who wasn't tired all the time.
I once told my sister, "I feel like 2019 was the last time we were truly happy."
She laughed softly and said, "We didn't even realize we were living the good days."
She was right. We never do. We always think happiness is something that's coming, not something we're already holding.
Back then, I was in a hurry to grow up. I thought adulthood meant freedom. Now I realize it meant responsibilities, goodbyes, and learning to carry invisible weights.
The truth is — 2019 wasn't perfect. There were problems even then, but somehow, they didn't feel heavy. Maybe because back then, we still had hope. We believed tomorrow would be better.
Now, we live one day at a time, pretending to be okay, trying to find that same hope in small things — a text from someone we miss, a walk under the sunset, or a song that reminds us of who we were before everything changed.
Sometimes, late at night, I scroll through social media and see people writing things like:
"Everyone was at their peak in 2019. Life was happy. Then corona came, and everything ended."
And I just whisper, "Yes, that's exactly how it feels."
It's like we all silently agree that something inside us broke in 2020 — something we never got back.
Now, it's 2025.
Life has gone on. People have adjusted, smiled again, traveled again. But deep down, there's a part of me that still stands in 2019, waving goodbye to a life I didn't know was ending.
I still miss that simplicity — the laughter that wasn't filtered, the friendships that didn't need schedules, the days that didn't rush.
Sometimes, when I walk home at sunset, I close my eyes and imagine it's 2019 again. The world is normal. My sisters are laughing in the background. My phone isn't full of news, just messages that say, "Where are you? Let's meet!"
And for a moment, I feel it — that warmth, that peace, that version of me I left behind.
Then I open my eyes, and the world feels a little different — not worse, just changed.
And I whisper to myself, "It's okay. We'll find new happiness too."
Because maybe 2019 was the last normal year…
But maybe the lessons it left behind — to love harder, to live slower, to be grateful — are what keep me going now.
And maybe that's what life really is —
Learning to carry the good days inside your heart, even when the world no longer looks the same.