The weight of it all had become unbearable. Losing almost everything I loved, piece by piece, had pushed me to a breaking point. Uncertainty wasn't a distant storm cloud; it was a suffocating fog that had swallowed my horizon. In that weird landscape, something unexpected happened: I found myself drawn back here. Back to the familiar comfort of the blinking cursor, back to blogging.

It's a strange twist of fate, isn't it? When the foundations of your world crumble, when the future feels like a vast, terrifying unknown, the instinct might be to reach out, to grasp for any hand offered. And deep down, that's exactly what I craved. Support. A lifeline in the overwhelming tide of loss and insecurity. I yearned for understanding, for a voice to tell me it would be okay, for a shoulder to lean on as the weight threatened to crush me.

Yet, despite that profound desire for connection, my feet led me here, to the quiet solitude of my digital journal. I clung to blogging and writing with a tenacity I didn't know I possessed. It was as if the act of stringing words together, of giving voice to the chaos within, was the only anchor I could trust in the turbulent sea of my emotions. This space, this act of creation, became my refuge, a self-imposed isolation born not of choice, but of a desperate need for control in a world that felt utterly out of control.

Perhaps it was fear of placing upon others the burden of my pain. Possibly it was a long habit of doing everything by myself. Or perhaps, in the face of such overwhelming doubt, the possibility of relying on external support appeared as fragile as everything else. For whatever reason, this need for connection wrestled with this strong pull towards the familiar comfort of my own mind, laid bare on the digital page. And so, uncertainty, in its perverse irony, didn't launch me into the open arms I secretly craved, but back into the silent comfort of my own words. Fooled again, into believing that in these lines, I could be capable of finding some level of peace amid the devastation.

But a thought lingers, a nagging awareness that trying to isolate ourselves, under the guise of not wanting to harm others or as I was always referring to as "Minimizing the emotional casulties", sounds selfless on the surface. Deep down, I'm beginning to suspect it's the cruelest kind of selfishness, a way to avoid vulnerability while the very support I crave remains just out of reach.