I used to think I wanted to be alone. Not lonely—alone. Independent. A seeker on some grand voyage to understand life's bigger questions. What is consciousness? How do humans really work? Why do they behave and act the way they do? What's the meaning of all this? Why are we even? I romanticized the idea of solitude, of not needing anyone, of being self-sufficient enough, not emotionally dependent, to explore these questions. I used to read books on philosophy, psychology, meta-physics, stories of yogis and enlightened beings and used to fantasise that maybe one day even I will have a story like that, I will reach enlightenment, moksh and won’t have to live this human cycle again.

Completely ignoring the core message they sent, which is to have no desire, and I made that my desire. I used to pretend, try to lie to myself that oh I don't enjoy these materialistic pleasures I have a bigger purpose. But obviously I used to fail, I was attracted to all the materialistic life pleasures.

Then came anxiety. It didn't arrive gently. It arrived like a rupture, turning everything I thought I knew upside down. It started with physical symptoms I couldn't understand—shivering, cold hands and feet, sweating, nausea, stomach upset. My heart would race for no reason. I couldn't sleep, or when I did, it was fragmented and restless, leaving me exhausted. But the physical symptoms were just the surface.

The real terror was mental. Constant rumination. Racing thoughts that wouldn't stop. Intrusive images and fears I couldn't shake—what if I'm going insane? What if I lose control? What if I forget the people I love? My mind became a prison of "what ifs," monitoring every thought, every sensation, every emotion. I was hyper-aware of everything, constantly checking: Am I okay right now? Is this real? Am I losing touch with reality?

I became dependent on reassurance—from doctors, from family, from friends, from endlessly researching my symptoms online, trying to find answers that would make the fear go away. But the answers never satisfied me. The fear always came back.

Suddenly, the questions I was so eager to explore became impossible to think about. Philosophy? Consciousness? Enlightenment? I couldn't even trust my own mind anymore. The independence I craved revealed itself as a fantasy I wasn't ready for. And the solitude I thought I wanted? It became the thing I feared most. Because when anxiety hit, I realized I couldn't function alone. I needed people—their presence, their reassurance, their reminder that I was still here, still real, still okay.

I am left with almost no friends now, and I'm left wondering: how do I celebrate festivals from now on? Who do I call? How do I go to the movies? What do I do on my birthday? Who do I hangout with? Am I going to be just a lonely, miserable guy?

These are practical questions, not just catastrophic spirals. Or maybe they're both.

The irony isn't lost on me. I wished for independence, for the freedom to exist without needing others. And now that circumstances have pushed me closer to that reality, I realize I wasn't ready. I'm not attracted to those big questions any less—I still wonder about meaning, about consciousness, about truth. But I can't explore them from this place. Not from panic. Not from grief. Not from the fear that I'll always be this alone.

I'm learning there's a difference between chosen solitude and forced isolation. Between independence and loneliness. I wanted the former. Life handed me the latter, or at least the fear of it.

I don't have answers yet. I don't know how to live my life right now. I don't know what career to pursue when AI seems poised to do everything I can do, but better.I don't know if I'll be able to make new friends, or if festivals will always feel this empty.

What I do know is that I'm 21, grieving, anxious, completely uncertain, feeling alone and scared. And maybe that's okay. Maybe being lost isn't the same as being hopeless. Maybe the questions I wanted to explore—about meaning, about how to live—are still there, waiting for me on the other side of this.

Maybe someday I'll find that balance—between solitude and connection, between independence and interdependence. Between exploring life's big questions and simply living through the hard moments. Or maybe I will be able to cross that barrier of needing social connection.

For now, I'm just here. Lost, but still here.