Being Human

There is something so inherently simple yet so complicated to being human.

I sometimes wonder if, before arriving on this mysterious planet, we got to choose our paths with God. And if so — why would I have chosen mine? Sure, there are pieces of myself and my life that I love dearly. But really, couldn’t I have at least picked being Italian without the nose, or maybe asked for a little more talent in math while I was at it?

Then again, I wouldn’t trade the way my father laughs at my stale jokes or how my best friend of fifteen years just happened to end up in the same corner of the world as me. Right place, right time — a phenomenon my mortal brain has never fully grasped.

Maybe that’s what being human is: trying to make sense of why we are where we are, and learning to love it anyway.

But what about the other end of the coin- “Wrong Place, Wrong time?”

Sometimes, “wrong place, wrong time” isn’t about missing a bus or stepping into the wrong conversation. Sometimes, it’s life handing you things that shake you to your core. Losing my mother at seven felt like being dropped into a world that hadn’t been built for me. And later, surviving two years of abuse in a relationship taught me that even love could hurt in ways I didn’t know were possible.

These moments leave marks — some invisible, some etched into our very ways of being. They test us, they twist us, and they sometimes make us feel like we’re permanently out of sync with the world. And yet, they also teach us resilience. They force us to confront what it means to be human: fragile, stubborn, broken, but capable of connection, of laughter, of seeing beauty even in the smallest things.

Being human isn’t about avoiding the wrong place, wrong time. It’s about moving through it, noticing it, surviving it, and sometimes — somehow — finding meaning in it.