“To Be Human Again”

This is for the ones who move through days like ghosts with to-do lists. For the ones whose hearts beat, but whose souls forgot the rhythm. For the ones who survive instead of live. Maybe you just need to remember. Maybe you never stopped being human. Maybe you just got too busy to notice. But if you could pause — just for a heartbeat — maybe you’d remember what it feels like to be human again. If I woke up human… I think I’d just listen. To the rhythm under my ribs, to the soft rebellion called a heartbeat — proof that something inside me refuses to quit. I’d breathe like it’s a miracle, because maybe it is. Air filling lungs, lungs filling life, life filling silence. I’d stare at my hands for too long, marvel at the tremble, the pulse, the way they can both destroy and create. How a single touch can heal or shatter. And I wouldn’t change a thing — not yet. Not the mess, not the doubt, not the thousand tiny cracks that make a person whole. Because I think the first day of being human shouldn’t be about fixing — it should be about feeling. I’d walk barefoot, just to remember the earth has a heartbeat too. I’d taste rain, not for thirst, but just to prove that even the sky can fall and still find its way home. I’d laugh without a reason, cry without shame, and hold silence like it’s sacred — because maybe it is. And later…

I’d change the way we forget wonder. How we scroll past sunsets, how we trade dreams for deadlines, how we treat “alive” like it’s permanent. I’d remind the world that every sigh is a poem waiting to be heard. That every scar is a sentence, and every failure — a verse in the unfinished story of becoming. If I woke up human, I’d tell the stars thank you for watching us stumble and still believing we’re worth shining for.

I’d tell time to slow down, just enough for people to notice the small things — like how morning light forgives the dark, how laughter rewrites loneliness, how even heartbreak hums softly, like a song trying to remember its tune. If I woke up human, I think I’d cry. Not from sadness — but because for once, I’d finally understand what it means to feel everything.