It has been five months of this self-isolation. I don’t want to face the world and so this room serves as an escape from all realities. It knows everything about me — my misery, my failures, my losses and my regrets.

The walls of this room have listened to the echoes of my cries. And the lighting? There isn’t any. I now love darkness because it resonates with the void inside me. I usually don’t allow my family to enter. This space is only emptiness, and yes, it reflects how emotionless I have become and how badly I want to hide from the whole world.

One afternoon, a soft knock came. Persistent, but gentle. It was my mother.

“Honey? Just open the door a little. Can you please talk to me?” she asked.

I groaned, pulling the blanket over my head. “Mum. I’m fine.”

“No, you’re not,” she said, her voice tight with worry. “Let me just bring you some tea.”

I reluctantly pulled the door open a crack. The sliver of hallway light felt sharp against my eyes. “Just the tea, Mum!”

She slipped the mug into my hand, her fingers brushing mine and said, “I know this room holds so much of your pain. I know what you go through.”

“The hard work, the struggle, the silent battles, all I endured while being trapped inside this,” I confirmed, clutching the warm mug.

Yes, I had told my family to give me full privacy and not invade my personal space since it was my gap year, and I needed time and loneliness to figure out my issues.

She leaned against the door frame, her expression soft but firm. “I understand, beta,” she began gently. “And we respected your space. But look around, sweetheart. Your me-time has now turned into self-destruction. You have to understand something, don’t you? Life is not that serious. And the world doesn’t end when something doesn’t end well for you.” Her words, my own truth spoken back to me, hit harder than I expected.

“Since September 30th,” I confessed, the words finally tumbling out, “when I couldn’t get into medical school, this room became a refuge. It saved me from the taunts of relatives and so-called loved ones. But now, in my gap year, it feels like an entrapment.”

“I understand why you retreated,” she said, stepping just inside the threshold, not invading the room, but acknowledging it.

“This safe space was necessary at first. Something inside me died under the weight of my own failed expectations. It was protection, but it’s a cage now. I’m tired of the darkness,” I confessed.

“Then it’s time to step out,” she said, her voice full of encouragement. “You must slowly re-engage with the world, seek help and confront your fears. These are vital steps towards breaking free. You don’t have to face the whole world at once. Just let one strip of light in and then the next day, maybe two. I’m not telling you not to work hard. Do everything that helps you ace your MDCAT exam, but in the process, don’t lose yourself.”

The thought of letting the sun in was terrifying, yet incredibly appealing. I finally realised that my sanctuary had turned into the very thing I was hiding from — a self-made obstacle. After all, I couldn’t let my sanctuary become my cage.

Peace comes from giving your best and standing confidently in front of the world. Hiding is easy. Courage lies in trying. The outcome is best left to fate. And did I give my best during this gap year? I asked myself. Yes, I did.

So the result will not decide or cage the passion and fire in my heart. After all, how could I let my sanctuary become my cage?

Published in Dawn, Young World, January 31st, 2026