To Live is a Privilege
It begins with a heartbeat.
Then another. And another. A breath follows. The first sign of life.
A chest rising and falling, lungs expanding to take in air. It is effortless, so natural that we forget its value. We wake up each day, stretch our body, blink our eyes, and move through the world as if this gift is ordinary.
But to live is a privilege. This is a truth we only seem to grasp when life begins to slip away.
The human body is a masterpiece of nature, a collection of bones and veins, of a heart that beats without command, of lungs that breathe without thought.
Yet, so many of us take this for granted. We complain about early mornings, about the weight of responsibilities, about the routine of our days. But somewhere in the world, someone lies in a hospital bed, watching their time unravel, wishing for just one more sunrise.
Only one.
For them, the night feels endless, not because they cannot sleep, but because they know what awaits them when morning comes. Another battle, another pill, another reminder that time is not in their hands anymore.
They listen to the sound of their own breathing, something they never noticed before, something that now feels like a blessing.
They watch the hands of the clock move too quickly, then too slowly, then frozen in place, as if mocking them.
They hold onto memories like lifelines, replaying them over and over, as if by remembering, they can make them last longer. Afraid that if they let go, those moments will vanish..completely.
They remember the days when they could run without gasping for breath, when they could laugh without pain in their ribs. They regret all the moments they spent wishing for something more, for something different…because now, even the smallest things, like the ability to walk to the kitchen, to hold a cup of water without trembling hands, feel like a dream they can never reclaim.
And when the morning arrives, they close their eyes, aching for time that isn’t theirs, wishing they could steal a few hours from someone who wastes them, someone who doesn’t care as much.
But not everyone who is alive is living.
There are people whose hearts still beat, whose lungs still pull in air, yet life has been completely stolen from them.
A man who stands in a war-torn city, looking at the rubble where his home used to be. He touches the broken bricks, but they no longer feel like home. The walls that once held his laughter, the room where he first learned to dream—gone.
Now, they are nothing but rubble.
A woman who was taken, sold, used and caged. She survived, they say, as if survival is enough. But survival is not freedom.
Survival is waking up in a body that no longer feels like your own. She walks the people like a ghost, unseen, unheard , surrounded by people who will never understand what it means to have lived as someone’s possession.
A soldier who came home with his body intact but his mind fractured. He cannot look at fireworks without flinching. He cannot sleep without seeing faces he left behind. People tell him he is safe now, but how do you tell that to a mind that still hears gunfire?
There are so many walking among us who have hearts that beat, lungs that breathe—yet they are not alive.
What does it mean to live when you no longer feel like a person?
It’s strange, isn’t it? How we spend so much of our lives waiting for things.
Waiting for the weekend, for the next vacation, for the next big thing. We count down the days, wishing time away, as if we have an infinite supply.
And yet, for some, time is all they have left, and it is not enough.
To live is a privilege denied to many.
Somewhere, someone is holding a loved one’s hand, whispering, “Stay a little longer.”
Somewhere, someone is staring at the night sky, wondering if they will get to see another.
Somewhere, someone is sitting alone, wishing they could trade their remaining days for just one moment of true joy.
And we? We keep moving forward, thinking there will always be more time, more chances, more tomorrows.
Maybe there will be.
But maybe there won’t.
