12:02 am - idc (i do care)

I’ve delivered countless speeches throughout my life. I'm literally the vice president of my speech and debate team. You’d think by now, after all the practice, after all the ribbons and awards and applause, that the fear would be gone. That I’d be able to walk up to a podium or stage with comfort, breathe in confidence, and let the words pour out like second nature.

But even now, no matter how short the speech, no matter how small the crowd is, I still feel that flutter of panic rise up in me like a wave. My stomach knots. My palms sweat. My brain starts spinning in twenty directions, each one whispering a new way I could fail.

I’ve always wondered why.

I know I’m fully capable. I know I’ve done this before. I know I have something worth saying. So why do I still get so scared?

I asked my mom once. She just smiled a little and said, “It’s because you care.”

You care.

People have often said that about me.

Most of the time, I take it as a compliment. I want to be someone who cares.

But sometimes, when I’m overthinking at 2 a.m. over something that shouldn’t bother me, I wish I could shut it off. I wish I could be a little more careless. A little more breezy. A little more like the world around me.

My generation is amazing in so many ways. We’re brave. We’re creative. We speak out. But there is also this trend that I've always found peculiar. We try hard to seem like we don’t care. Like nothing fazes us. Like we’re too cool for emotion.

Apathy has become the aesthetic.

“It's not that deep.”

"IDC"

Being nonchalant has quite literally become an ideal, promoted further by social media.

But I can’t do that.

I’ve never been able to.

I'm so chalant.

I care.

I care a lot.

I care about everything.

When I wake up and find my childhood stuffed bunny on the floor, I quickly pick her up and tuck her back in next to my pillow. I feel guilty, like I let her fall in her sleep.

When I see a deer by the side of the road, limp, I say a silent prayer. I wonder what its last moment felt like. I hope it wasn’t alone.

When someone holds the door open for me, I remember that. When someone forgets to say goodbye, I remember that, too.

I remember everything.

The way someone said my name.

The time a teacher complimented a specific thing I said.

The way I stumbled over a sentence in a speech I gave five years ago.

I feel deeply.

And I can't ever understand how people can say, “It’s not that deep.”

Because to me, it is that deep.

It always is.

When I see someone sitting alone, I want to know what kind of day they’re having.

When someone tells me they’re fine, I hear the way their voice trembles on the word “fine,” and I know they’re lying.

When a friend says they’re tired, I don’t just think “they need sleep.” I think about the weight they might be carrying.

But sometimes, late at night, or on the days when everything feels like “too much”, I wonder if I’m wrong.

What if I am just overly emotional?

What if I’m too dramatic, too intense, too sensitive?

What if it’s really not that deep?

Because caring a lot means hurting a lot.

It means crying over stories that aren’t mine.

It means apologizing too much. It means overthinking everything.

It's impractical, consuming in a world where thinking about yourself is the efficient move.

But caring a lot also means loving a lot.

It means noticing the little things.

Like how your best friend keeps a little noodle keychain on her dusty blue pair of jeans.

Or how your teacher always sighs a little before they talk about their favorite book.

It means remembering.

I might not know your favorite color, but I’ll remember the fears you trusted with me.

I might forget your favorite animal, but I’ll remember the place you've always wanted to go.

I won't know your birthdate, but I'll remember how you like your coffee.

I collect people in details.

Not in facts or bullet points, but in moments. In gestures. In feelings.

Because I care.

To care is to risk.

To risk being misunderstood.To risk being dismissed.To risk being hurt.

But it’s also to risk being known.

To risk making someone feel seen.

Because I care, I carry pieces of people with me.

And sure, sometimes it’s heavy. But mostly it’s beautiful.

So yes, I get anxious before I speak. Yes, I overthink. Yes, I care too much.

But if that’s the price of being someone who feels the world in full color, who notices, remembers, prays, holds, cherishes, then I’ll gladly keep paying it.

Because I’d rather feel everything than nothing at all.

Cheers,

emma