Yung Lean
I just watched a clip from a Yung Lean interview with the New York Times where he talks about realising that all of “this” isn’t that deep after going sober. In his case, “this” referred to the noise surrounding fame and the music industry but for me, it resonated in a different way.
My mum had asked me to come to the “old house” to see what things I wanted to keep. This was the house we moved into when she finally left an emotionally abusive relationship that she’d been in for over a decade. She has worked very hard to build another home for us now, which we moved into just six months ago. As much as the old house was in an unfavourable area and riddled with rats, it symbolised our freedom. So as much as I hated that house and begged my mum over and over for us to move, or at least fix the collapsing roof, it gave us the shelter and the mental peace we had been deprived of for many, many years. Freedom from living with that man felt so good that I never mourned the more luxurious lifestyle I’d had living with him.
All I cared about salvaging were my diaries. Most of them were half-empty because I loved buying new ones but never managed to stay consistent with journaling. I even found old audio notes buried in my phone, my sleepy voice whispering various “deep thoughts” that honestly made me cringe a little. Some of the writing, though, was surprisingly good. I was impressed by how clearly I could articulate my feelings back then, how well I understood what I was going through as a tween.
I sat there for hours, reading, listening, and reliving every emotion, instantly transported back to the person I was in those moments.
Then came a wave of sadness when I realised that so many of the things I’d been worried about or struggled with hadn’t really changed. It hit me that I’ve spent years feeling upset and confused about the same things, again and again. It felt maddening, like Groundhog Day repeating the same thoughts as if trapped in some loop of obsession. I pictured myself as that person at the metro station, rocking back and forth, mumbling the same sentence endlessly.
Nothing in life should be deep enough for me to struggle with for over a decade. Or at least, I no longer want to accept that for myself.
I’ve tried to give myself grace and I still believe in being patient with myself but I think I may have gone too far. I’ve spent years viewing myself as this chubby, pouty little crybaby who constantly needs care and attention, pointing fingers at all the people who have hurt her. I’ve tried to heal, and to some extent, I have. But I see now that I could never fully do it, because I’ve given too much power to the things that happened to me. As much as being shaped by the trauma you’ve endured is something we cannot change, being defined by it is a choice. It also means giving too much credit to those who have disrespected me, allowing them enough power to live within me for so long. Why would I want them to be a part of me forever? Who are they to have such an impact on the way I move through the world? Why would I allow their actions to rob me of experiencing the beautiful things in this life?
None of us are special. This may sound harsh at first, but if anything, it’s comforting. No one is special enough to have a completely unique thing solely happen to them. Even when something feels like an isolated struggle, we are never truly alone. The beauty of the human experience is that, no matter the distance between us, someone, somewhere, will walk a path that mirrors our own. So to excuse bad behaviour or have a perpetual case of the sulks because that one thing happened to you is too easy. Because there is someone out there who went through the same thing, yet was able to be decent and happy because, well, they simply made the effort to do and be better. It may feel like there is no light at the end of that tunnel sometimes, but there is always a light, always. I don’t know anything about anything, but this is something I could swear down on.
There is real power in letting go. It no longer matters whether they feel regret or share your pain. I’ve learned that it doesn’t make things any easier. Maybe a touch of empathy is better than none, but the pain remains all the same. Now that they’ve done the damage, now what? Are we just going to sit there and scream at the void with no one listening? Maybe it’s time to turn around, walk the other way, and continue on the path.
Now, if you’re reading this and feel some type of way about what was said, I understand and I’m sorry. Who am I to dismiss how you feel?
But all I hope is that you’ll look back one day and realise that Yung Lean was right — it wasn’t that deep.
Vahine Blaise, Bali, November 2025
