“Some days, I feel like I’m fading — like I’m here, but no one really sees me.”
Kareem’s story stayed with me in a way I didn’t expect. So I’m sharing it here, exactly as he told it, as I feel it wouldn’t be right if I told it from my perspective.
A world without instructions
Have you ever felt like you were fading away, even when everyone around you sees you every day? That was me when I moved here two years ago. It was supposed to be a fresh start, a new city, new school, new opportunities. But instead of feeling excited, I felt lost. Like I was dropped into a world where the rules had changed overnight, and no one handed me the instructions.
Back home, everything was familiar. The language I spoke was without thinking. The way people greeted each other. The unspoken expectations in my family. The small rhythms of daily life that made me feel secure and known. I wasn’t perfect, no one is but I had a sense of belonging. I knew who I was and where I fit.
Then suddenly, it all disappeared.
The Weight of Pretending
Moving here was like waking up in a different universe. The city was loud and fast. The school was bigger, and the people seemed so different. I struggled to keep up with conversations, slang, jokes, and cultural references that I didn’t get. Even the way people expressed emotions was new and confusing. It felt like I had to learn an entirely new language, not just words, but how to be.
At first, I tried to act like everything was fine. I smiled when I was supposed to smile. I nodded when I was supposed to agree. I laughed when others laughed. I convinced myself that if I just blended in, the loneliness and confusion would go away. But that was a lie I told myself.
Inside, I felt more isolated than ever.
I stopped going to clubs and activities I once loved. I stopped answering messages from old friends. I stopped raising my hand in class. My laughter grew quieter, and my smiles felt forced. I became someone who only spoke when spoken to and sometimes not even then. I was there physically, but my mind was elsewhere.
One day, someone asked me if I was okay. I said, “Yeah,” because that’s what I had learned to say. It’s the automatic response that some people expect. But I wasn’t okay. Not even close. That simple question should have been an invitation to open up, but I didn’t know how. How do you explain that you feel like you’re losing yourself? Does every day feel like walking a tightrope over an abyss? That you’re exhausted from pretending?
The Breaking Point
The hardest part was feeling like I couldn’t talk about it. I didn’t want to seem weak or ungrateful. My parents sacrificed so much to give me this chance. How could I tell them I was struggling? How could I admit I felt like a failure? How could I risk being seen as different or broken by new friends?
So I shut down. I buried my feelings under a mask of silence. But silence is heavy. It presses down and makes you smaller until you feel like you’re disappearing.
The Turning Point
Then, one day, someone noticed.
A friend pulled me aside and asked again, gently, “Are you really okay?” This time, I hesitated. I wanted to say no, but the words got stuck in my throat. Instead, I said, “I don’t know how to say it without sounding like I’m failing.” That’s the truth, the fear that admitting pain means admitting defeat.
But my friend didn’t judge me or rush to fix things. They just listened. They said, “It’s okay to feel lost. You don’t have to have it all figured out.” And in that moment, I realized that I didn’t have to carry everything on my own. I didn’t have to pretend to be strong all the time.
Since then, I’ve started to let people in, little by little. I’m learning that adapting to a new life doesn’t mean losing myself. It means being patient with who I am and where I am now. It means asking for help when I need it, even if it’s scary. It means accepting that it’s okay to not be okay sometimes.
There are so many people like me moving between worlds, caught between cultures, trying to find a place to belong. We carry silent struggles that no one sees because we’re afraid to speak or because others don’t ask. We’re not alone, but it often feels like we are.
For Those Who Feel Invisible
If you’re reading this and feeling lost, overwhelmed, or invisible, know this:
You’re not failing. You’re adapting.
You’re not weak. You’re human.
And being human is always enough.
No matter where you come from or where you’re going, your feelings are valid. Your story matters. And there are people who want to listen even if they don’t always know how at first.
Sometimes, the bravest thing you can do is just say, “I’m not okay.” And sometimes, the kindest thing we can do for each other is to hear those words without trying to fix, judge, or rush.
Because healing starts with being seen, truly seen, and accepted just as you are.
About the author
Hi, my name is Ali Faizel Chirammal. I’m a student, a listener, and someone who believes stories like Kareem’s deserve to be heard. I wrote this piece to amplify voices that are often left unheard, especially those navigating change, identity, and belonging. If this story touched you, I hope you carry its message forward and check in on someone who might be silently struggling.
