The Purple Papers by Christen

A personal essay series exploring how BTS became mirrors, teachers, and catalysts for healing, growth, and self-discovery.

Published February 13, 2026

Alone In The Darkness

I used to think I was fine.

I said it out loud often enough — in text messages, in conversations, in passing when someone asked how I was doing. “I’m fine,” I’d reply with a smile that felt believable even to me. But the truth is, I wasn’t fine. I was quietly unraveling, shrinking in on myself, slowly fading into the background of my own life.

There was a time when I thought about disappearing altogether. The darkness crept in quietly at first — small thoughts whispered at the edges of my mind — but before I knew it, they were everywhere. They told me I was a failure. That I had nothing to show for my life. That no one would miss me if I were gone. And as time went on, I started to believe them.

I felt disconnected — from friends, from family, from myself. After the pandemic, that disconnection deepened into something heavier. Friends grew distant, and though I knew they had responsibilities and lives of their own, I took their absence personally. The silence didn’t just hurt — it rewrote itself as abandonment. Any unanswered text, every unreturned call echoed the same message: You are alone. You don’t matter.

And when you start to believe you don’t matter, the world begins to lose its color.

The heaviest thing I carried back then wasn’t sadness — it was worthlessness. I measured my value in achievements and accomplishments, and when I couldn’t point to anything that felt “worthy,” I decided I wasn’t either. I hadn’t achieved my dream career. I hadn’t reached my goal weight. I hadn’t found a relationship that lasted. I looked at my life and saw nothing but empty space where I thought milestones should be.

I told myself I was unlovable, difficult, and destined to be overlooked. I convinced myself that others judged me harshly — but the truth was, no one judged me more cruelly than I judged myself. The inner critic in my mind was relentless. It was the first voice I heard when I woke up and the last one I heard before I fell asleep. And because there was no louder, kinder voice to drown it out, I believed every word it said.

Every year felt like the previous one recycled — the same days, the same emptiness, the same quiet ache that nothing was ever going to change. And with every cycle, I believed a little less in myself. But it didn’t have to be this way…

Buried Beneath The Noise

I had a routine: work, then endless consumption. Television shows I couldn’t remember the plots of. Movies that blurred together. Hours of social media scrolling while the screen glowed in the background. My days were full of noise, but my life was silent.

Looking back, I realize I was slipping away. And the most terrifying part is that I wasn’t even awake enough to notice it happening.

For a long time, I had a passion for Marvel and it felt like the only thing that gave me a sense of identity. I loved the stories, the characters, the community. People would come to me with their MCU questions, and I liked that — being “the Marvel girl” made me feel important.

But over time, I began to see the cracks in that illusion. My passion didn’t lead to new friendships. It didn’t help me feel less alone. It didn’t bring love or connection or purpose. At the end of the day, I was still just me — and I was still lonely.

I remember the rush of being in a theater during a big movie premiere — the electricity of a crowd gasping, cheering, reacting together. For a few hours, I almost felt like I belonged. But the moment the lights came up, that feeling disappeared. I walked out of the theater and back into my emptiness. Passion wasn’t enough. It was a spark, but the fire never followed.

If the version of me from back then could speak now, she’d probably ask, “Isn’t this how I’m supposed to feel?” Because to her, it was normal. We don’t grow up learning to love ourselves. We’re taught to chase validation like it’s oxygen. As children, we want approval from classmates. As teenagers, we want attention from crushes. As adults, we chase praise from bosses, affection from partners, admiration from our children. Society never hands us the blueprint for self-acceptance — so when it’s missing, we assume the emptiness is just part of life.