I don’t remember exactly when the feeling started, but I know what it feels like now. Heavy. Constant. Like something sitting on my chest that I can’t shake off.

At 31, I thought my life would look different.

I thought I would feel more certain, more accomplished, more… settled. Instead, I feel like I’m standing still while everyone else is moving forward. I’m not making the kind of money I thought I would. I got rejected from all the MBA programs I worked so hard for. Now I’m telling myself to be grateful for an online program, even though deep down it feels like I’m settling.

My first marriage failed. That alone feels like a quiet weight I carry everywhere.

And the hardest part? I know I’m not supposed to compare. I know that everyone has their own path. But knowing that doesn’t make the feeling go away.

Because when I look around, it feels like everyone has something I don’t. A happy marriage. A successful partner. A high-paying job. Stability. Certainty. Proof that their hard work paid off.

I tried too. I really did.

I pushed myself for years. I studied hard. I used to be that student, the one who got into one of the top high schools in Hanoi. I believed in me.

Why does it feel like all that effort didn’t lead me where I thought it would? Why does it feel like I’ve been running for so long, only to realize I’m still far from where I want to be?

It’s exhausting.

There’s a specific kind of tiredness that comes from trying for a long time and not seeing the results you expected.

And it shows up in places I didn’t expect—like dating. I don’t go on dates, even though I want to. Guys keep asking me out, and sometimes I even like them. But I still say no. Not because they’re not good enough, but because I don’t feel like I’m enough. They seem more successful, more put together, more ahead in life. And I can’t shake the feeling that I would be the one falling short. So I reject them before they get the chance to see me that way.

Sometimes I wonder if this is what insecurity really is. Not just doubting yourself, but grieving the version of your life you thought you would have by now. Because that’s what it feels like. Grief.

Grief for the plans that didn’t work out.
Grief for the identity I thought I would grow into.
Grief for the timeline I quietly built in my head.