There are moments in life when we can’t seem to find our oxygen.

The trees turn blue, the sky shifts green, our hearts grow pale, and our eyes darken.

It’s not the life we’d choose, but for many, it’s the only choice — or more accurately, a “no-choice” choice.

The more I reflect, the more I feel like a puppy — warned of the consequences of stepping beyond my ward.

Outside the fence, the world glows vivid and enticing, but its beauty is tinged with punishment, like a red notice we dare not touch.

What happens, though, when the ward itself turns against us?

When the floor grows cold, the roof begins to leak, and relentless raindrops leave no warm or dry corner to retreat to?

Fear — of punishment, the unknown, of reliving shock and trauma — keeps the puppy tethered inside the ward for life.

Even with a longing for the outside world, the ritual remains: stepping back into the ward, kissing the floor, and surrendering to a restless sleep.

The storm brews within. The tension between suffering stagnation and yearning to escape grows. Yet the fear of hunger, failure, or unmet expectations binds us tighter.

It becomes a desperate scramble to prove: who deserves what.

For the past 18 months, I’ve come to see life as no different from that of a dog behind an invisible fence. The only difference? We can’t see our barriers.

When the world flips upside down.

When black becomes white.

When love turns into hate.

When positivity becomes toxic.

When trust dissolves into doubt, and connections unravel into disconnection.

This unraveling creates a new version of self — hardened creatures, braced to fend off every possible attack.

Yet, in all of this, what keeps us surviving? For a puppy, it’s the desire to fill its stomach.

For a human, though — what is the equivalent? It’s not the job, the food, the money, or the success. It’s something deeper: an unconditional trust in ourselves and unwavering support that we “can.”

And so, here we stand. Bye, my ward. Hello, my world.