Why me?

 Why Me?

“Why me?”  

It’s a quiet question at first. A whisper we throw into the universe when things don’t make sense.

Lately, though, it has stopped being a whisper for me. It has become a question that visits too often.

In fact, it was the only thought running through my mind a few days ago while I was lying on the cold floor of my hostel room—almost unconscious—for nearly two hours. The ceiling above me looked strangely still, like time had paused just to watch me figure something out.

Before I go any further, let me tell you a small, ironic detail about me.

I am a final-year MBBS student. Someone who is expected to stand calmly in front of blood, needles, procedures, emergencies—the things most people look away from. And yet, I am still terrified of blood and needles. A medical student who almost faints at the sight of them.

Life has a strange sense of humour.

Because lately, I’ve had to undergo a few procedures myself. And every time a needle comes closer, every time I see that flash of red, the room starts spinning and my mind begins negotiating with gravity.

And the same question rises again—  

Why me, God?

I have never hurt anyone, at least not intentionally. I try to move through life quietly, the way most people do—minding my own work, chasing deadlines, trying to become someone useful in this world. And yet somehow life keeps throwing little storms my way, one after another, as if I’ve unknowingly signed up for some strange endurance test.

But what makes this whole thing almost funny is something I realized recently.

A few months ago, I was complaining to a friend about how painfully repetitive life had become. Every day felt identical. Wake up. Go to the library. Sit there from dusk to dawn. The same chair. The same pile of books. The same tired eyes staring at the same lectures.Back then I thought life had become unbearably monotonous. I remember saying it out loud—Why is life so repetitive?

Now I look back at that moment and almost laugh.

Because life must have heard me. And life, apparently, hates being called boring.

So it decided to rearrange things. Not gently. Not politely. But abruptly.

Between unexpected health scares, procedures, dizziness, and moments where my own body decided to betray me, the routine I once complained about suddenly feels like a peaceful dream.

Funny how perspective works.

Sometimes when something breaks, life finally happens. Not the neat, predictable life we plan inside our planners and notebooks, but the messy, unpredictable one that reminds us we are fragile, temporary, human.Somewhere in the middle of that chaos, a dramatic thought crossed my mind—  

God, your little homie ain’t surviving this shit.

And for a moment, I genuinely believed it.

But then another quieter thought appeared, almost like a stubborn whisper—  

…maybe she can.

Maybe she can survive the fear. Maybe she can survive the dizziness, the collapsing moments, the thousand unanswered “why me” questions.

Because somewhere between the frustration and the exhaustion, a strange realization begins to form.

Maybe the point isn’t that everything happens for a reason. Maybe the point is that everything forces us to see life differently.

When you’re lying helpless on a hostel floor, the things you once thought were big suddenly shrink.

And in those moments you realise something strange about being human—how fragile the line between despair and hope really is. Sometimes it feels like nothing more than a thin thread. One end held by darkness, the other by the quiet stubborn belief that maybe tomorrow will feel lighter.

Instead, tiny things begin to glow. A message from a friend. A quiet evening. The simple relief of breathing without pain.

And somewhere in the middle of all of this, I realized something else too.

I am deeply grateful for the people who showed up for me—for the small gestures that suddenly felt enormous. The simple “get well soon” messages, the flowers someone sent, the prayers whispered quietly for me.

And for the moments that felt almost unreal. Like someone literally holding you in their arms when you have forgotten how to breathe.

Those are the moments that stay.

Maybe that’s the real lesson hidden inside all this chaos—to cherish life while it is still unfolding. Not when everything becomes perfect. Not when the problems disappear. But right in the middle of the mess.

Because sometimes life does feel like it is collapsing around you. And yet, even then, there is almost always a silver line hiding somewhere in the ruins. Small. Quiet. Easy to miss.

Maybe the silver line is resilience. Maybe it is perspective. Or maybe it is simply the realization that you are still here—still breathing, still learning, still becoming.

So yes, sometimes I still ask the question.  

Why me?

But slowly, another question is beginning to replace it.

Why not me?

If life insists on breaking things open, maybe it’s only because something inside us is meant to grow through the cracks.