Inked Soul: Echoes

Episode One: Born to Survive

The race to life began before I even knew I existed.

Somewhere in the depths of an unseen universe, I fought my way through a silent storm—one among millions, each of us surging forward with desperate intent. I had no name then, no form, no voice to cry out for air. Just pure will. The odds against me were astronomical, a lottery none of us understood but all of us fought to win. And somehow, in that frenzied, chaotic race, I made it. I was the one.

When you think about it, that victory should be enough. It's like the universe whispered, Here you are—breathe, live, become. But life doesn't pause for celebrations. We arrive triumphant, only to find ourselves thrust into a world that doesn't care much for winners. The second we take our first breath, the race doesn't end—it only changes shape. From that moment on, it's all survival.

We're born into a storm far more complicated than that first race. We get no map, no compass, just instincts and hope. We crawl through childhood, dodging fears that seem too big for such small hearts—fears of abandonment, of never being enough, of seeing disappointment flicker in the eyes of the people who should love us most. And then we grow, thrust into an endless loop of learning hard lessons from things we didn't even ask for.

Life, as I've come to know it, is a battlefield disguised as a journey. It teaches you early that nothing stays perfect, nothing stays whole. The people you love can leave—some by choice, others because life drags them away before you're ready to say goodbye. The people you trust? They can betray you, break pieces of you you didn't know could crack. And sometimes, you will be the one who breaks. That's the part they don't tell you about survival—sometimes you have to live through yourself, too.

Yet, with every hardship comes growth. I've learned this, though the lessons came wrapped in the sharp edges of experience. Every challenge, every loss was a chisel, shaping me into someone I didn't think I could be—someone resilient, albeit scarred.

There's a strange beauty in falling apart, though it doesn't feel beautiful when you're in it. I've been there—curled up on the bathroom floor, the tiles cold against my skin, my chest hollow from the weight of things lost. In those moments, survival is reduced to the smallest things: taking one more breath, dragging yourself through one more day, telling yourself that somehow, someway, the storm will pass. And maybe it doesn't pass in the way you expect, but it shifts. And so do you.

The victories, when they come, are quieter than I imagined. They don't look like fireworks or grand parades. They look like mornings when you finally manage to get out of bed without the heaviness pinning you down. They look like saying 'no' to things that hurt you, even when it's hard. They look like forgiving yourself for being human—imperfect, messy, but still here. Still trying.

Sometimes, I wonder if the biggest victory isn't surviving the chaos of the world but surviving the chaos within yourself. Learning to make peace with the parts of you that feel too jagged to belong anywhere. That's where growth really happens—in the small, unseen battles. It's not always about overcoming the world; sometimes, it's just about standing your ground, holding onto who you are even when the world tries to tear it away from you.

Life has this way of being both a teacher and a thief. It gives us experience but takes away innocence. It shows us the beauty of love but teaches us the ache of loss. It places mountains in front of us, daring us to climb, and just when we think we've reached the top, it shows us there's still another peak ahead. It's exhausting. But it's also extraordinary.

Every step, every stumble, and every triumph—big or small—becomes part of who we are. I've learned that surviving isn't about always winning. It's about showing up, even when you feel like you've lost. It's about becoming the person life didn't warn you you'd have to become. And when you look back, with all the wounds and weariness, you realize something beautiful: You are still standing.

So here I am. Still standing. A little bent, a little bruised, but still me. And for as long as I have breath in my lungs and hope stitched into my bones, I will keep running this race—because life, for all its cruelty and beauty, is still worth running for.