Another Day in My Head

The dim glow of my phone screen was the only light in my room last night. I had fallen into an endless cycle of scrolling through YouTube videos—mindless distractions to fill the emptiness gnawing at my thoughts. I told myself it could be worse. At least it wasn’t TikTok. Those videos, someone once told me, are savage. But the truth is, it didn’t matter what I was watching; I was just trying to escape the confusion swirling inside me.

When I finally managed to fall asleep, it was almost 3 a.m. And yet, despite sleeping for hours, when I woke up at 9 a.m., I felt exhausted. It’s strange how you can get more than ten hours of sleep and still feel drained. My body was awake, but my mind was heavy, weighed down by something I couldn’t quite name.

The only bright moment came when my girlfriend brought me breakfast. I don’t usually like food with too many sauces, but somehow, this was different. Maybe it was because she made it, and everything she makes is infused with love. Even so, my stomach wasn’t cooperating, and I couldn’t finish it all. I felt bad, but I knew she understood.

I picked up my phone again, scrolling mindlessly, avoiding my thoughts. After about thirty minutes, the exhaustion crept back in. It’s fascinating, in a way, how something purely mental can manifest as physical fatigue. I tossed my phone onto the bed and drifted off to sleep again. When I woke up, it was noon, and the same fog of confusion settled over me.

I tried to fight it, to push away the creeping thoughts that told me I wasn’t enough, that I was stuck. I knew these feelings weren’t new—they were shadows from my past, echoes of trauma and hardship. Maybe it was genetics. Maybe it was life. But the weight of it all was suffocating.

Desperate for distraction, I turned to YouTube again. I found myself watching videos of people in other countries, observing how they lived. Somehow, it made me feel better. I even stumbled upon a video of people eating snake soup. The idea was wild to me—could I ever eat something like that? Maybe. Maybe not. It didn’t really matter.

Then, I switched to another video: a day in the life of a Harvard student. As I watched, I couldn’t help but compare. Here was a young man, around 21, waking up in his room, grabbing breakfast, hitting the gym, studying, having lunch with friends, and still finding time to relax in the evening before hitting the books again. His life seemed so structured, so effortless.

And then there was me. At that age, I was waking up at 5 a.m. in a country that wasn’t mine, washing dishes in a restaurant to survive, sharing a room with a stranger, struggling to save enough money to even consider studying. My life had been tough for a long time. And yet, I still found myself comparing, as if it was fair to do so.

But was it fair? Could I really compare myself to someone who had been raised in a loving home, with supportive parents and financial stability? I didn’t have that. I started working at 14. I practically raised myself. My father left when I was five, and I met him again only when I was 14. My mother was always working, rarely home. The only person who looked out for me was my uncle, making sure I didn’t get lost in the crime that lurked around my neighborhood in Peru.

Comparing myself to others hurt. But I couldn’t stop. Deep down, I wished I had even a fraction of the opportunities they did. Not Harvard, necessarily. Just the simple chance to attend university without the constant weight of survival pressing down on me.

Life isn’t fair or fair. I don’t believe in fairness. You’re dealt a hand, and that’s it. You either make something out of it, or you don’t. And yet, even when you try, there are circumstances beyond your control that can turn your life into a disaster. That thought alone left me more confused than ever.

I shut my laptop. It was 3 p.m. already. I needed to do something—anything—to break the cycle. So, I got up and cleaned my room. It was a small thing, but it gave me a sense of control. At least here, in this moment, I had power over something. And that, in itself, was a start.

Action brings other actions, so I thought a shower was needed. The water was cold, but it didn’t matter. It had been at least two days, maybe more. Saving water wasn’t a bad idea, and besides, I had convinced myself that it was good for my skin.

As the water ran down my body, something shifted. A thought, a memory, a wave of frustration. It hit me all at once. I felt sick, tired—not just physically, but deep in my core.

It took me back to my last year of secondary school. I was never a good student, never cared enough to try. “Useless” was the word that echoed in my mind back then, the same word my ex-girlfriend used when she decided she didn’t want to be with someone who couldn’t even study. That stung—deeply. But what hurt more was the truth hidden in her words.

There were only two ways out: let her go and keep believing school was pointless, or prove to her—and to myself—that school wasn’t the problem. If I wanted, I could beat the system. I was sixteen, stubborn, and driven by the kind of pride only a teenager can have. So, I studied. Hard. Six months of pure focus, and I discovered something unexpected—I liked physics. Not only did I get good grades, but I excelled.

I still remember the best student in school approaching me during an exam, asking for help with a problem. Me—the kid who never cared—was now the one people turned to. It felt good. For the first time, I wasn’t just floating through school. I was good at everything, and when I finally graduated, I had momentum. But then… nothing.

Confusion. Indecision. Pressure. What now?

I turned off the shower and stood there, water dripping, mind racing.

Why did I let that drive slip away? Why did I stop using that power? And then it hit me: the confusion wasn’t real. It was a trap. A mental trick.

It wasn’t that I didn’t know what to do—it was that my brain resisted doing it. The reptilian part of my mind, the one designed for survival, didn’t want to waste energy. And since I lacked discipline, lacked the habits that could push me forward, my neocortex—the rational, thinking part of me—was too weak to fight back.

So, I did nothing. And in that nothingness, my mind started spinning in circles, feeding me doubts. Am I good enough? Am I wasting my time? Why can’t I just get up and do what needs to be done? The cycle repeated, over and over, a loop of overthinking disguised as deep reflection.

But it wasn’t reflection. It was just my reptilian brain keeping me trapped. It didn’t understand words or reasoning; it only knew survival. And survival meant conserving energy.

I exhaled, feeling both relieved and frustrated. If my reptilian brain resisted action, and my mind created illusions to justify it, then how could I break free? How do you fight a part of yourself that doesn’t listen to reason?

I don’t have the answer yet. Maybe the key is in meditation, in rewiring my neocortex through observation, through new habits. Maybe it’s something else entirely. But I’ll keep searching, keep writing about it.

Another day in my life—frustrating, confusing, but in some strange way, hopeful. Because if there’s no one to blame, then there’s nothing stopping me.

And maybe, just maybe, life will get easier. I think so.