The Uncertainty Within

 By: Mary Ellen Juma-ang Reyes

Grade 12 - Sartre

The day was unraveling like a ribbon of light, the campus slowly exhaling the last traces of laughter and hurried footsteps. Above us, the sky was painted in strokes of dark blue and orange, colors bleeding into one another like secrets too heavy to keep apart. It was the kind of sky that asked you to pause, to simply look, as if it were whispering, “The day is ending, but something still lingers.”

Behind the library stood the old cottage-like shade, a sanctuary of weathered wood and stories. By noon it was usually alive—buzzing with laughter, wrappers crinkling, a chorus of voices. But that afternoon, silence had claimed it. Only Lori and I remained, two small figures beneath branches that swayed gently, scattering shadows across the dimming earth. The breeze carried the fragrance of leaves and fading light, and for a moment, the world seemed to bend, to slow, to hold its breath for us.

Inside me, however, there was no stillness. My thoughts circled endlessly, a restless storm with no eye of calm. Who am I? Why am I here? What meaning does my life hold? The questions rose like smoke, choking, filling every corner of me. I felt as though I were drowning in a sea of my own making, each wave of doubt pulling me deeper. The weight of existence pressed hard against my chest, a heaviness without shape, without mercy.

“Mary,” Lori’s voice cut through the fog, soft yet certain. She tilted her head, her short hair catching the slanted sunlight. “You’ve been quiet all afternoon. What’s going on inside that mind of yours?”

I laughed, though it trembled at the edges. “Inside my head? It’s chaos. I keep asking questions I can’t answer. What’s my purpose? Why am I here? Does any of this matter?” My voice faltered. “And the more I ask, the more lost I feel.”

Lori didn’t rush to reply. She didn’t try to stitch me back together with hurried words. Instead, she leaned against the bench, her eyes tracing the canopy above us. The branches danced lightly in the fading wind, casting ripples of shadow across her face. Finally, she said, almost like a prayer, “Maybe confusion isn’t something to fear. Maybe it’s just part of finding your way.”

Her words fell into me like water onto cracked earth—not enough to flood, but enough to soothe, to soften the ground. And it wasn’t only her words, but her presence—steady, luminous, unshaken. She was small in stature, yet beside her, the heaviness I carried felt a little lighter, as though she were an anchor keeping me from drifting too far.

That moment behind the library wasn’t dramatic. There was no thunderous revelation, no sudden clarity. But it was real. Quiet. Sacred. For a little while, the world seemed to slow its turning, holding us in the hush of its twilight. And though the questions did not vanish—they still circle me, even now—I walked away lighter, as though some hidden weight had been lifted.

Sometimes, you do not need the answers. Sometimes, it is enough to have someone sit beside you in the silence, reminding you that even in uncertainty, you are not alone.