I don’t know how to explain this neatly, so I won’t try. Some essays demand polish, and some demand honesty, and this one… well, this one crawled out of my head at an odd hour, a little tangled, a little bruised, but very real. I think the universe has a strange habit of catching us off guard like that. You go through life doing normal human things — checking your phone, stressing about your future, wondering whether you locked the door — and then suddenly, a thought slips in: What are we even doing here? And that one question can sit with you for days. Sometimes years.
I didn’t start writing this because I wanted to sound clever. I started because for a long time, the universe felt like this enormous, silent thing hanging above me, and I kept wishing someone would explain it in a way that didn’t feel like a physics textbook. I wanted someone to tell me that being confused is okay. That feeling small is normal. That my existence, however chaotic, wasn’t a mistake.
No one told me, so I wrote it myself.
And maybe — I don’t know — maybe you’ve felt this too. Those late nights when the fan hums like a tired lullaby but your thoughts refuse to settle. When you stare at the ceiling and your brain drifts far beyond your room, imagining galaxies folding into themselves or stars exploding like fireworks for an audience of no one. Those moments when the world feels heavy for reasons you can’t name, and you almost want someone to tap you on the shoulder and say, “Hey, it’s okay. Nothing makes sense, but that’s part of the magic.”
I honestly miss the way I used to feel about the universe as a child. Back then, the night sky wasn’t intimidating. It was a playground. I remember lying on the terrace, convinced the stars were tiny holes poked into a big dark curtain, and if I stared hard enough, I would glimpse whatever was behind it. Growing up didn’t kill that wonder. It just buried it under schedules, responsibilities, expectations, and the constant ringing of notifications.
So I’m writing this to unbury it. To remind myself — and maybe you — that the universe isn’t something separate from us. It is literally inside us. It shaped us. It breathed us into being.
These ten truths changed me when I learned them. They didn’t give me answers, but they gave me perspective. And sometimes, that’s enough.
- The Universe Is Not Big. It Is Something Our Brain Cannot Even Imagine.
We call it “big” because English doesn’t offer a word larger than that. But big is still relatable — mountains are big, oceans are big. The universe is not.
The universe laughs at the word big.
Trying to imagine its size is like trying to imagine a color you’ve never seen before. Our mind just… refuses. It glitches. It shrinks it down to something manageable because the real scale is unbearable.
What calms me is this:
Even the universe doesn’t fit into neat boundaries. It expands constantly. It stretches without asking for permission.
So when you feel like you don’t fit into the boxes people put you in, remember this: even the universe refuses to behave. Why should you?
- You Are Made of Stardust. Literally. Not Metaphorically.
The first time I heard this, I thought it was just poetic nonsense. Something you’d find on an Instagram quote page. But no — it’s scientific fact.
The iron in your blood was forged inside an ancient star.
The calcium in your bones came from a cosmic explosion.
The oxygen in your lungs was born in galaxies older than we can comprehend.
You have starlight in your veins.
On days when you feel ordinary, remind yourself you are made of debris from supernovas. You are ancient. You are improbable. You are a walking, breathing mosaic of the cosmos.
Of course you matter. How could you not?
- Time Doesn’t Move the Same for Everyone. And That Changes Everything.
We treat time like a strict teacher. Do this now. You’re late. You’re behind. Hurry. Hurry. Hurry.
But time is soft. Time bends. Time stretches depending on gravity, speed, and where you are in the universe.
A clock on a mountaintop ticks differently from one at sea level.
And if you travelled unbelievably fast, you would age slower than everyone you left behind.
So maybe you are not “behind”.
Maybe your timeline is simply unfolding differently.
What a relief, honestly.
To know your pace is not wrong — it is just yours.
- Somewhere, Another Version of You Might Exist
I don’t mean in a sci-fi, multiverse movie way (although that’s fun too). I simply mean this:
If the universe is infinite, then somewhere out there, a version of you made a different choice. A version of you stayed. A version of you left. A version of you confessed their feelings. A version of you didn’t break. A version of you became the person you still dream about becoming.
This idea used to scare me, but now it feels comforting. It means you are not trapped in one storyline. You can rewrite yourself whenever you choose.
The other you isn’t competition.
The other you is proof that possibilities don’t end.
- Most of the Universe Is Invisible
We think we are so clever, but ninety-five percent of the universe is made of stuff we cannot see, name, touch, or understand. Dark matter. Dark energy. We don’t know what they truly are.
We are basically living inside a cosmic puzzle with half the pieces missing.
So when life itself feels confusing — when nothing seems to align, when you don’t know what you’re doing — maybe it’s okay. Maybe confusion is simply the natural state of things.
If the universe can be 95 percent mystery and still function beautifully, then maybe you don’t need to have everything figured out either.
- Black Holes Are Not Destroyers. They Are Sculptors.
Hollywood made black holes look like cosmic monsters, but the truth is more poetic.
Black holes sculpt galaxies.
They bend light into impossible shapes.
They stretch time until it becomes a slow, trembling thing.
If you fell into one — which you obviously shouldn’t — you’d watch the future of the universe unfold in a flash. Everything would speed up while time for you slows down.
To think something so terrifying can be so beautiful… it reminds me that extremes often coexist. Pain and wonder. Fear and curiosity. Ending and beginning.
- The Universe Doesn’t Give Life Meaning. We Do.
The universe does not care. It does not send signs. It does not assign purpose.
It simply exists.
But we — humans — we cannot live with that silence. So we shape meaning out of moments. A sunrise becomes hope. A heartbreak becomes a lesson. A person becomes a memory that changes us.
Maybe that is our role here.
The universe creates stars.
We create meaning.
And both creations matter.
- Life Might Be Everywhere. Quiet. Waiting. Curious.
Maybe somewhere on an icy moon, tiny organisms are swimming in dark oceans. Maybe on a warm planet far away, someone is looking up at their sky wondering the same things you wonder.
Life might not be rare.
Communication might be.
And maybe the reason the universe is so big is because life needs space to grow, to evolve, to learn itself again and again.
It’s oddly comforting to think we’re not alone.
Not the center, but not the only ones.
- Nothing Lasts Forever. Not Even the Universe.
Everything ends. The stars. The galaxies. Even time itself might collapse or fade someday.
This used to frighten me.
Now it frees me.
Your mistakes will fade.
Your heartbreaks will ease.
Your fears will loosen their grip.
Impermanence is the thread that makes everything meaningful. If life were endless, nothing would matter. It is the ending that makes every moment worth something.
- You Should Not Exist. Yet Here You Are.
This one always hits me the hardest.
Mathematically, biologically, cosmically — you should not exist. Too many things had to go right. Too many coincidences stacked like fragile dominoes.
Yet here you are.
Alive.
Feeling.
Breathing.
Reading words written by another creature made of stardust.
You are the universe trying to understand itself.
And that makes you extraordinary.
A Final Thought
And if there is one thing I keep learning over and over, it is this: the universe never stops inviting us to pay attention. Not to the big cosmic explosions or the distant galaxies, but to the tiny things we overlook — the warmth of a cup in your hands, the way someone says your name, the quiet relief after a long day. These small moments are the galaxies of ordinary life. They are the reminders that even though the universe is enormous and wild and ancient, it still somehow finds a way to meet you exactly where you are.
The next time you look at the night sky, don’t just see stars. See stories. See time. See your own origins glowing faintly above you.
And remember this:
If even one sentence in this essay softened something inside you, even a tiny bit, that means the universe — in the strangest, quietest way — connected two pieces of itself.
You and me. And maybe that connection was the whole point all along.
By: Amaira Khindri
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