(Inspired by “Second Chance” episode by Pancatera)

 

    Now when I look back, I realize that for the past ten years, I was almost always sad. It’s a strange thing to admit because if you were to look at me back then, you’d see someone who smiled often and carried herself as if everything was fine. But deep inside, even in moments that looked like happiness, there was always a quiet sadness that never truly left me.

 

    It felt like I was living in a constant state of waiting: waiting for the day all the pain would finally make sense. I kept believing that if I was suffering this much, then surely, something extraordinary must be waiting for me ahead. That one day, I’d be able to say, “Ah, this is why I had to go through all of that.”. I imagined some kind of poetic fate: that I would rise from all the hardships with a heart full of smiles, stepping into days that finally felt beautiful.

 

    But life didn’t unfold that way. There was no fairy tale-like plot, no grand revelation, no sudden rescue, no miracle ending. Instead, unexpectedly, I fell even deeper. It was as if I kept walking through a tunnel that only grew darker and narrower. Until one day, I couldn’t see any light at all. It felt endless, as though the sun had simply forgotten I existed.

 

    So, I stopped walking. I stopped trying to find my way out. Maybe, I thought, this is just how my life is meant to be: an unending stretch of endurance. Perhaps the happiness stock in my life had simply run out. Maybe I had used up all the joy I was ever meant to have. The older I got, the more I believed it so I just learned to live with pain quietly.

 

    At my lowest point, when everything inside me felt too heavy to bear, I decided to go to the one place where my heart might finally find rest: the house of Allah. I thought, if there’s anywhere on earth where I am the most seen, heard, and understood, it must be there. So I packed my things, and with a weary soul, I went to perform umroh.

 

    I still remember telling my friend at the airport, with teary eyes, “My life feels so bitter. I hope I’ll come back feeling better.”. But, deep down I didn’t even go with big expectations. I only wanted to tell Him everything: the sorrows that had been sitting inside me for years, too deep to explain to anyone else. In front of the Ka’bah, I cried in a way I hadn’t cried before, out of surrender. I told Him how tired I was of being strong. How I no longer knew how to be hopeful after a series of pitiful life events. How I wanted to believe that I could still have a gentle life, even if I couldn’t see it yet.

 

    And then, something heartwarming appeared before my eyes. My roommates were three women in their 50s and 60s, best friends who came together to perform umroh. They were devoted in their worship, yet they also carried such lightness in their hearts. They prayed with tears, but also laughed with joy. They teased each other, shared snacks, and told stories about their families and lives with warmth that filled the room.

 

    Watching them, something soft flickered inside me. Seeing their happiness, it was the first time in a long while that I thought, “Maybe I can be like that someday.” Maybe I can also grow older and still find reasons to smile. Maybe my life’s happiness hasn’t run out after all. Maybe there are still things to look forward to: moments yet to come, people yet to meet, memories yet to be made.

 

    Maybe my happiness isn’t the bright sun constantly shining over me, but a collection of small candles along the way: the heart that slowly accepts Allah's decree, the people I encounter, the little kindnesses I receive, the warm words that breaks through a tired heart. They are the lights from Allah that reminds me that even in darkness, there are still reasons to keep walking.

 

    So now, I want to give myself a second chance: a second chance to live. To stop merely surviving and start feeling again. To stop blaming myself for everything happened in my life. To stop rushing toward a future that must “make sense,” and start appreciating the small pieces of joy that already surround me.

 

    Also a second chance to forgive myself, for my failures to make my late parents happy, for being heavily lacking, for not healing fast enough, for feeling lost, for being sad almost all the time. A second chance to believe that Allah has never forgotten me, even in the moments I thought He did. While others might walk under the bright sun and enjoy the scenery effortlessly, I’ll learn to cherish the small candles I find along the way in this tunnel.

 

    I will heal insyaAllah. With time, with patience, with faith, and with every small step forward, I will heal. Someday I will find myself smiling from the heart again. Someday, I will perform umroh again, with a better condition, with a heart full of gratitude insyaAllah.

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    I remember a reel by Putri Ratu Balqist that appeared on my Instagram’s explore tab. She narrated: When I talk “I don’t want to get married. Besides, I never deserved to be loved by anyone.”...... but I cry in Madinah.

    And I felt that deeply. Not necessarily just about marriage, but I also often told myself I didn’t expect anything anymore. I found it hard to stay hopeful with this broken-into-pieces heart of mine. But I cried in Madinah because deep down, I realized it's not I don't want to hope. I just think I don't deserve it. I think Allah is extremely kind but I just don't deserve it.