Before Everything Ends

Sometimes, it’s a low hum that settles in your chest – not quite sadness, but an awareness. An awareness of…everything ending. Mom keeps saying I need to think about college applications and scholarships, Dad worries about my grades slipping, but all I can really process is the ticking clock, the slow march toward whatever *after* is. Or isn't.

It’s probably weird to articulate this so plainly. Everyone thinks about death eventually, right? It feels different lately though, a constant undercurrent to even the smallest decisions – whether or not to order pizza with friends, if I should finally attempt braiding my hair. What’s the point of perfecting a braid when it will all just…stop? National was amazing last fall at Blossom Music Center – that’s probably the most intense concert experience I've ever had - but even surrounded by pulsing lights and everyone singing along, the thought still lingered.

My dad doesn’t talk about feelings, not really. He fixes things, builds things, problem-solves in a very practical way. He'll ask if my grades are okay and offer to help with calculus or something, but he won't ask how *I* am. Which is fine, I guess. Mom tries – she asks about my friends, listens when I ramble on about Phoebe Bridgers lyrics (she nods along politely, though, never truly understanding the poetry of melancholy).

It’s ironic, isn't it? That people often seek connection as a way to feel less alone, yet loneliness can be so pervasive. There's this expectation – especially now with social media, which feels like a pressure cooker more than anything else – that you should always *be* connected. But what does that even mean? Real connection? Or just performing intimacy for an audience? The traffic I got on the Phoebe Bridgers piece…it was nice to know someone out there understood my perspective, but it didn’t exactly fill the space where a genuine relationship might.

I’ve noticed something different with Sarah. We've been friends since elementary school, and we don't have some grand, dramatic history of shared trauma or deep philosophical conversations. But she *sees* me. She doesn’t offer solutions or platitudes when I start spiraling about the impermanence of everything. Instead, she just sits with it. We watched a terrible reality show last weekend, and somehow her presence, the simple comfort of sharing junk TV and quiet laughter, made that low hum in my chest quieter.

There's this article I read – I can’t remember where I found it – that talked about how positive relationships boost “meaning-making.” Meaning as a buffer against thinking too much about dying. Sounds clinical when put like that, but maybe there's something to it. When Sarah makes me laugh until my stomach hurts, or remembers the exact way I take my coffee (extra hot, splash of oat milk), those moments feel…significant. They point toward a reason to keep showing up, even if everything ultimately dissolves.

My mom reads a lot of self-help books and sometimes tries to apply what she learns to my life. It’s well-intentioned, I know, but it usually just makes me cringe. But maybe she's onto something with that whole "focus on the positive" thing. Not in a Pollyanna sort of way, not pretending everything is sunshine and rainbows, but actively seeking out small moments of joy and connection. It feels like a rebellion against the inevitable, a tiny act of defiance against the approaching darkness.

Maybe it's just me projecting, assigning profound meaning to ordinary things. But honestly? Right now, sharing a bag of stale chips with my best friend while watching trash TV feels more comforting than any philosophical argument about mortality or meaning. And maybe that’s enough. Maybe that *has* to be enough.