When You Feel Like the Universe Skipped You Vol. 22 — WordsByEkta🌿
Do You Feel Like the Universe Forgot to Choose You?
For years, I've had this quiet, haunting feeling that I wasn't carefully made — just hastily assembled. Like the universe ran out of ideas and threw together whatever scraps it could find.
A pinch of someone else's anxiety. A trace of another's shame. Leftover pieces of overthinking, comparison, and doubt — all mashed into something resembling a person. Labeled: me.
I wasn't anyone's first choice. Not the loudest voice, the brightest smile, or the life of any room. Mostly, I was the one hoping not to be noticed — trying to hold myself together without falling apart in front of people who never asked to see the mess.
I still remember being part of a school singing group. I wasn't naturally confident, but group activities gave me cover — a way to stay close to something brave without having to stand alone. Even though the group activities were way above my comfort level, I lingered, hoping effort might count for something. Hoping I'd slowly grow into someone who belonged.
Then one day, the teacher asked each of us to sing solo.
One by one, voices rose — bold, sure, practiced. When it was my turn, I froze. I don't remember the exact note I missed, only the heat in my face and the tremble in my voice.
In that moment, I was out of the group.
No conversation. No encouragement. No second chance. Just… quietly gone.
And it didn't devastate me in a loud way. It simply confirmed what I'd always feared: that some people were meant to be seen and heard — and some, like me, were background filler. Trying not to be the note that made the whole song falter. Fading out quietly, like I was never meant to stay. Knowing, deep down, how easily some people are replaced.
There were moments I felt like a background character in someone else's story. Like I'd been stitched together from all the things I couldn't be.
- A singer? My voice shook.
- A dancer? I never learned.
- A dreamer? Maybe once — but I didn't last.
- A beautiful girl? A smart one? A wildly talented one? Not really.
- Just... average.
I didn't have a voice people paused to listen to. I cheered for others. Watched them win. Stepped aside when the spotlight came near. Not because anyone told me to — but because I believed I didn't belong in it.
Somewhere along the way, I began to believe that if anyone saw the real version of me — the unformed, unfinished, emotionally tangled me — they'd either leave or confirm what I feared most: that I wasn't enough.
It startled me. I paused. Reread it. Then cried harder.
Not because I was weak — but because something inside me shifted.
What if I wasn't a mistake? What if I wasn't made from scraps, but from substance — just a kind of substance not everyone recognizes? What if everything I thought was "less" — my softness, my confusion, my depth — was not evidence of absence, but evidence of process?
Maybe I wasn't made from leftovers. Maybe I was made for the ones who feel like leftovers.
☸What if I wasn't made from leftovers, but for the ones who feel like leftovers? What if my softness and depth were not evidence of absence, but evidence of process?
I'm learning now that my pain isn't just a thing to endure — it's something I can offer. Not in a performative way. Not in a way that demands attention or applause. But quietly. Honestly. In case someone out there is feeling the way I used to — like life skipped over them, forgot to give them the manual, handed them a mess and said, "Make do."
I'm not trying to sell my story. But I am laying it down like a breadcrumb trail. In case someone needs a map. In case someone needs a voice that echoes back their own questions.
And maybe that's enough.
Maybe the world doesn't only belong to the loudest, the most beautiful, the most certain. Maybe there's room, too, for the ones who sit quietly in their questions. The ones who aren't on a journey upward or outward — but are still here. Still breathing. Still trying.
Maybe we don't need to be becoming anything. Maybe being — with all our ache, our softness, our stumbles — is enough.
And maybe — just maybe — even leftovers carry flavor.
Maybe you're not thriving in the way others do — not in the loud, spotlighted, wildly blooming way. But that doesn't mean you're failing. Maybe you just haven't found your element yet. Maybe you're a paraglider trying to swim — not failing, just waiting to find your wings.
And when you do… maybe you'll realize you were never broken. And maybe those wings? They've been forming all along — right beneath the ache.
And those wings? They've been forming all along — right beneath the ache.
✍️ Written by WordsByEkta🌿
🖋️ Emotional Storyteller | Writing what hearts never say aloud
💌 If you connected with my way of saying hard truths — often overlooked but deeply felt — explore one of my free letters:
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