Threadmill Thoughts: Letter to the Universe

There’s no joy more effervescent than a child leaping into your arms with complete trust in their eyes, or witnessing a parent take their first steps after a long battle with illness. As dawn breaks, the cool mist and earthy scent of morning dew wrap around you like a gentle embrace. In that moment, time stands still—the world awakens, and a new day begins.

In Waiting for Godot, Samuel Beckett wrote, “We are all born astride a grave.” Like so many absurdist plays, and most poignantly in my favourite, The Chairs by Eugène Ionesco, we are reminded that no matter how much we do or feel, from the moment we let out our first cry, death is waiting.

While scrolling through TikTok recently, I came across a scene where the protagonist could see the number of times she would meet each person again. With each passing day, those numbers inevitably decrease—that’s just how life, and numbers, work.

This morning, I woke from a nightmare with too many thoughts pulling at me from all directions. The past two weeks have been unusually good: my energy, mood, and skin were all in harmony, save for an eczema flare on my underarm and seborrheic dermatitis on my scalp. I’ve spent quality time with the people I love and allowed myself room to breathe, reflect, and reset. These moments are rare—especially without the crushing pain of my ovary attempting to sabotage me. Maybe the busyness of the past fortnight distracted me from my physical pain, but now my mind feels heavier than ever.

I don’t want to say goodbye—especially if I’m not the first to go. As a person, I have no regrets, because I’ve lived according to one core principle: to act with intention and honesty. But if I’m left behind, I fear I’ll be haunted by questions—what more could I have done? What could I have changed? In that space, regrets will surely surface.

We’ve had to face a difficult truth: should we have started trying earlier, even knowing the timing wasn’t right? When you go from a wedding straight into a funeral, followed by years of emergency hospital visits and multiple chronic illnesses, is that really the right time to bring a child into the world? Now, I’m ageing out, my hormones are in chaos, and even trying at the “right” time feels like navigating blindfolded.

If we do manage to conceive and bring a new life into this world, I hope—no, I pray—that all our family members will be healthy and present to celebrate with us. Our families are our anchors, our islands. They are the ones we truly need. But the passage of time makes this hope feel like grains of sand slipping through my fingers—impossible to hold, no matter how tightly I try.

I’ve never asked the universe for much. Everything I’ve ever wanted, I’ve worked for—with grit, resilience, and sacrifice. Sometimes I’ve given up. Other times, I’ve pushed through. But this—this is my intention. And dear universe, I hope you will offer me grace.