A Tortoise in a World of Lightning

Sometimes I feel like the world is sprinting past me, leaving me behind in its trail of dust and neon. Everything moves so fast—people, technology, time itself—as though everyone else was born with wings while I’m still learning how to crawl. In this era of instant everything, I feel like a tortoise on a highway, inching forward while everyone else seems to have already reached their destination and built palaces there.

Even my closest friends have become meteors, streaking across the sky with their careers, their families, their accomplishments. They talk about promotions, investments, marriages, and trips abroad while I quietly sit in the corner of the conversation, wondering if there’s something fundamentally wrong with me. Is it a sin to move this slowly? To still be figuring out things everyone else seems to have mastered?

Sometimes I wonder if I’ve simply missed the train. If it’s already too late—to pick up a new hobby that might blossom into a livelihood, to learn a skill that could make me proud, to find a love that stays. Even love has been unkind to me, like a cruel teacher scolding me for trying. While everyone else is cherished and chosen, I’ve been betrayed—twice—left to sit in the quiet ache of being overlooked.

And yet, despite all this, I hold on; not to grand dreams or flashy milestones, but to something smaller. Something quieter. Maybe even something rarer.

I hold on to the small joys that have kept me afloat all these years—things that perhaps not everyone has the chance to feel. The way my siblings still laugh with me, and we can sit around a table as though nothing has ever changed. The modest trips I’ve taken: not luxurious, not Instagram-worthy, but enough to feel the air of another place on my skin. The toys and little collectibles I once only dared to dream of owning, now sitting on my shelf like quiet victories. The simple pleasure of eating a meal I once only imagined tasting, and realizing it’s just as comforting as I hoped.

These are my anchors. And yet, even as I count them, I can’t shake the feeling that I am far behind. That the world is running ahead while I’m still fumbling with my shoelaces. That no matter how much gratitude I try to muster, the bitterness still creeps in, whispering: you should be more by now.

But maybe—just maybe—that’s okay.

Maybe this strange little happiness I’ve stitched together is enough. Maybe my slowness is not a flaw but a kind of quiet rebellion against a world that only knows how to sprint. Maybe there’s still time for me to arrive, even if I take the long way around.

So I keep going. One small step, then another. Holding onto the hope that even tortoises, in a world of lightning, eventually find their way home.