Since childhood, they whispered: “You’re chosen, a light,

The world awaits your genius, like rain after night.”

Golden medals, clubs, “you’re always the best,”

Then graduation — and silence instead of the rest.

You are not special, forgive me, it’s true,

No one awaits your masterpiece at the venue.

Just an ordinary person in an ordinary hell,

Where “you must” quietly became “you should” as well.

Twenty-five — a failure, thirty — like snow,

In the mirror, a stranger; in feeds, others’ glow.

Mom still expects a Nobel from her son,

While you just want to sleep without feeling undone.

You are not special, and that is your freedom,

Take off the crown, exhale, stop being “someone.”

You can simply live — no triumph, no feat,

And be happy. No quotes. Simply complete.

All those “you musts” — they’re other voices,

Their fears, their dreams, their unfinished choices.

Let go.

You’re not obliged to live by their stories.

You are not special.

And for the first time in countless years,

It feels like breathing after the weight disappears.