The Purple Papers by Christen

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

Published March 13, 2026

The Song That Sat With Me

As many of you know, my real introduction to BTS was Cypher pt. 3. The Dark&Wild album confirmed that this was a group I could enjoy. At some point, though, BTS became a door for me to enter, to discover my voice and realize my life was worth living. But first, I needed to come out of that dark place. I don’t remember the first time I heard “Forever Rain.” I just remember how quickly it became part of my routine — quietly looping in the background while I cried into the darkness. I didn’t even look up the lyrics. I didn’t need to. The emotion in Namjoon’s voice said everything I couldn’t. The loneliness, the exhaustion, the ache — it was all there, peeking out from every note, and it made me feel like I wasn’t crying alone.

It’s a strange kind of comfort when sadness recognizes sadness. That song didn’t try to fix me. It didn’t offer promises or motivational lines about things getting better. It simply sat with me in the heaviness. And when you’ve spent so much time pretending you’re fine — smiling through the ache, insisting you’re okay — there’s something profoundly healing about a song that says, “You don’t have to pretend here.” Letting me know it’s okay not to be okay.

Before “Forever Rain,” I treated sadness with shame — something to hide from the world, to bury beneath distractions. But this song taught me that grief isn’t a negative thing. It’s part of life, it comes with being human. It’s a companion that, when acknowledged, can lead you home. It taught me that healing doesn’t begin with pushing the feelings away. It begins with letting them exist. With understanding them fully.

What struck me most was that it was Namjoon — someone I had come to see as strong and composed, someone I believed had it all together — who was brave enough to give voice to that kind of vulnerability. Hearing him articulate the very feelings I was drowning in made me feel seen in a way I hadn’t in a long time. If he could feel this way and still stand tall, maybe there was hope for me too.

That’s what “Forever Rain” did for me. It came in like a loving friend — giving me permission to be sad without shame. Reminding me that crying didn’t mean I was broken. It meant I was still here. Still capable of feeling. Still capable of becoming.

And before I could rebuild my life, before I could learn to dream out loud, I had to start there — in the rain, in the tears, in the stillness of a song that understood and cried with me.

But I couldn’t stay there.

Speak Yourself

One day, I found myself just aimlessly scrolling — trying to drown out the noise in my head with more noise from the world. It was one of those days where every thought felt too heavy and too familiar: You’ve wasted your life. You’ll never be enough. Nothing you do matters. No one cares. I had played those lines on repeat for so long that they no longer felt like thoughts — they felt like truth.

And then, in the middle of all that emptiness, I came across a clip, a voice that was slowly becoming familiar. RM, standing behind a podium at the United Nations, speaking words I didn’t know I desperately needed to hear.

“Maybe I made a mistake yesterday, but yesterday’s me is still me.”

I remember feeling the need to stay on the clip, telling my brain to pay attention.

Then it cut to this part:

“Tell me your story. I want to hear your voice, and I want to hear your conviction. No matter who you are, where you’re from, your skin color, your gender identity — just speak yourself.”