For a long time, my life felt like a series of almosts. I was never the best, never the worst — just somewhere in between, invisible in the crowd. The average one. The one who worked hard but never stood out, who cared too much but was never chosen. It's strange how being "fine" can feel like the slowest kind of pain. You look okay on the outside, but inside, you're falling apart quietly, with a smile that fools even yourself.
I used to wake up and pretend everything was okay. Pretend I wasn't tired of being the one left behind. Pretend that not being chosen didn't hurt. I'd say good morning with a voice that didn't sound like mine, and I'd go through the motions — study, work, laugh when expected — while a part of me whispered, You don't belong anywhere.
I lost so many people I once called home. Friends who felt like forever until forever ended. One by one, they drifted away — some with explanations, some without. It wasn't always their fault; life changes people. But every goodbye left a scar, and every silence reminded me how replaceable I was. I smiled anyway. I smiled through rejections, through empty pockets, through nights when I couldn't sleep because my mind wouldn't stop replaying everything I could've done differently.
There were nights when I cried so quietly that even the walls didn't hear. Nights when I questioned if anything I did would ever be enough. I used to stare at the ceiling, wondering if I'd ever get out of that phase where nothing seemed to move forward. I was alive, yes, but I wasn't really living.
The curse of being "average" is that people rarely notice your pain. You're not the one they worry about or celebrate. You exist somewhere in the middle — forgotten, yet always there. You're the one who listens to everyone's problems but has no one to listen to yours. You're the one who cheers for others' success while quietly fighting your own battles in the dark.
But life, no matter how cruel, has its way of giving second chances — not through miracles, but through small, almost invisible changes. Mine started when I stopped expecting someone to save me. When I realized that maybe I was supposed to save myself.
At first, it was just little things — getting out of bed even when I didn't want to, doing something kind for myself without guilt, saying no when something didn't feel right. I started focusing less on who left and more on who stayed — even if it was just me, sitting alone, learning how to be okay with silence.
Slowly, I found a few people who saw me — not the version I pretended to be, but the real me. The messy, imperfect, emotionally bruised me. They didn't try to fix me; they just stayed. And that alone was enough. For the first time, I didn't have to beg to be chosen. I was just… accepted.
I began earning — not just money, but respect. I learned to value myself beyond achievements and comparisons. I stopped waiting for validation and started creating my own. The same hands that once trembled from exhaustion now built something real — a life I could be proud of, piece by piece.
And for the first time in years, I slept peacefully. Not because my life suddenly became perfect, but because I finally stopped running from it.
Sometimes, I look back at my old self — the one who used to cry quietly, who felt invisible, who kept breaking but never stopped showing up — and I want to hug that version of me. Because even at my lowest, I never gave up completely. I kept surviving when it would've been easier to disappear. That quiet persistence became my strength.
Now, when I smile, it's real. Not the kind of smile that hides pain, but the kind that says, I made it through. I no longer crave perfection; I crave peace. I no longer chase people; I attract the right ones by being myself. I no longer see being "average" as a curse; I see it as my story — proof that even ordinary people can rise from extraordinary pain.
Maybe I'll never be the best in everything. Maybe I'll always be somewhere in the middle. But now, I know that being average doesn't mean being meaningless. It means being human — flawed, emotional, growing. It means falling a hundred times and standing up a hundred and one.
Life still tests me. There are still nights when I feel that old emptiness trying to sneak back in. But now I face it differently. I don't run, I don't hide, I just breathe through it. Because I know I've faced worse and made it here — stronger, wiser, softer.
People who once overlooked me now ask how I stayed strong. I tell them the truth — I didn't. Not always. There were days I broke down, days I hated myself, days I wanted to give up. But even in those moments, a small part of me kept whispering, You'll be okay. And eventually, I was.
Now, I'm surrounded by real people — friends who understand, who show up, who remind me that love doesn't have to hurt to be real. I have enough to live, enough to smile, enough to dream again. And maybe that's the best kind of success — not the loud, flashy kind, but the quiet one that lets you sleep peacefully at night.
I still carry my past, but it doesn't break me anymore. It reminds me where I came from. Every pain, every goodbye, every tear — they all built this version of me who can stand tall and say, I survived myself.
So yes, I was cursed once — cursed to feel invisible, to lose everything, to cry in silence. But from that curse, I found courage. I found my voice. I found me.
And if that's what it means to be average, then maybe I'm perfectly fine being one.