Why Manifestation Isn’t Enough

What if I feel nothing?

They say love is chemical—a perfect cocktail of dopamine, serotonin, and oxytocin, all swirling in my brain, waiting for a spark. A brush of fingertips. A fleeting glance. But what if those signals never fire? What if the butterflies in my stomach have long since folded their wings, lying dormant, refusing to stir?

A supposed heartbreak should leave me shattered, should rip through my chest like a storm. But instead, it leaves me blank. Not broken—just… floating. Like a body adrift in the ocean, carried by currents I never bothered to fight. No resistance. No direction. Just the gentle, indifferent lull of the waves.

But isn’t this—this passive existence—a kind of death?

Looking back, I see how mechanical it all was. How I let the wind decide my path, how I moved only when pushed. And now, for the first time, I grip the wheel, and the weight of it startles me. So you’re telling me it was always on me? The work, the discipline, the effort—my responsibility all along?

For years, I let the world tell me who I was. My failures weren’t mine, they were the consequences of forces beyond me—wrong place, wrong time, wrong choices made by someone else. College didn’t work out. That’s why I’m here, jobless, feeling like an academic failure. But if I love to learn so much, why am I not doing something about it?

That truth hit me last year. I had done what so many others do: manifested my goals, crafted a vision board, plastered my walls with the person I was supposed to become by the end of 2024. I will achieve this. I will become that. But I didn’t realise that manifestation without effort isn’t vision—it’s delusion. And I was delusional.

I sat with myself, really sat with myself, and asked: Why do I keep failing? Why do I always fall back, no matter how many times I start over?

So I journaled for hours, peeling back the layers, dissecting my patterns. And I realized the problem wasn’t that I didn’t work—it was that I never worked with intention. My effort was scattered, disorganized, aimless. I had spent an entire year thinking I was making progress, only to reach the end of it without even remembering what my goals had been. That’s how distant I had become from my own ambition.

No matter how much I manifested, nothing would change unless I aligned my actions with my goals—until I sat down and put in the damn effort.

So I came up with a solution.

Instead of vague, year-long goals that faded into the background, I broke them down into quarters. Smaller steps, clearer milestones. The foundation first, then the structure, then the refining. It wasn’t about chasing a dream anymore—it was about building toward it.

Of course, I still have things to fix. I still struggle with time management. I still fall back on binge-watching when things get overwhelming. But this time, I’m not lost. I know what I’m working toward, and that changes everything.

I used to look at my life—jobless, waiting for an opportunity to fall into my lap—and let it define me. But instead of waiting for internships, waiting for a chance, waiting for someone to tell me you’re good enough, I decided to become good enough. I started taking on projects—not because anyone asked me to, but because I wanted to earn my own confidence. To reach a place where rejection didn’t scare me anymore.

Because right now, I feel like I lack something. And maybe that’s okay. Maybe that lack is fuel. But I don’t want it to chip away at my confidence, at how I see myself. So I’m throwing myself into challenges, into discomfort, into the things that scare me. Because growth isn’t supposed to be comfortable.

And for the first time, I feel like I’m steering my own ship.

Doom-scrolling brought me an unexpected gift: advice I didn’t know I needed. Your twenties are going to suck. But winning requires reps. Show up every day. Put in the work. Learn. That’s it. That’s the secret.
Maybe in ten years, I’ll look back at my twenties and feel grateful—not because they were easy, but because they cracked me open, forced me to confront myself. Being cooped up in my room for so long came with side effects, sure, but it also gave me something priceless: self-awareness. An unshakable understanding of who I am.

And so, I shift my focus—not on results, not on external validation, but on the process itself. The messy, complex, exhilarating process of becoming. I fall in love with challenges, with self-motivation, with the small, daily victories that no one else will ever see.

No one asked me to do this. No one told me to step outside my comfort zone.

But here I am. Doing it anyway. Loving it.

Because I want to be better.

Because I finally understand that I can be.