Lesson Fifteen: The Universe Doesn’t Blink

I have been stuck in this strange in-between lately.

Awake long after midnight, mind spinning, trying to make sense of things that refuse to make sense. There is an ache that comes with wanting something so badly you can feel it in your bones. You tell yourself to stay patient, to trust the process, but somewhere inside, the walls start closing in.

Sleep does not come easily when your heart feels unfinished.

It is hard to explain how it feels to be teased by hope, to reach out, feel it brush your fingertips, and then watch it fade into nothing. After a while, it starts to wear you down. You go through the motions, make coffee, answer emails, check your phone, but everything feels a little heavier, as if gravity has shifted just for you.

And underneath it all, there is anger. Not the loud, explosive kind, but the quiet kind that sits in your chest and hums. I do not know where to put it. There is no one to blame and nothing to fix. It just exists, feeding on silence and sleeplessness. And the worst part is hearing “everything happens for a reason” from well-meaning voices. Even if there is truth in it, those words sting like salt in a wound. They feel like a dismissal, a soft cover thrown over something still burning. I keep telling myself to let it go, to breathe, but the truth is, I don’t know how.

It feels like holding fire in your hands. You know it is burning you, but you cannot quite bring yourself to drop it.

Yet in the middle of that quiet burn, I find myself stepping back and staring up at the night sky, overwhelmed by the sheer enormity of the universe that holds all of this. Think about it, how improbable it is that my wife, my kids, and I are all here, breathing the same air, sharing the same fleeting moment in this vast cosmic timeline. The odds are staggering.

We live in a universe that began 13.8 billion years ago, where particles collided in just the right way to form stars, planets, and eventually life. Earth alone had to exist in the perfect Goldilocks zone, not too hot and not too cold, for water to pool, for cells to divide, and for us to stumble our way toward consciousness. Generations of ancestors survived wars, plagues, and famines just to lead to us. My path crossed with my wife’s in a sea of billions. Our kids arrived from that union. All of it aligned within this tiny window of existence.

It is like winning the lottery a million times over, except the prize is simply being alive together.

This touches the raw edge of existentialism. It is that Camus-like absurdity where we search for meaning in a universe that offers none on a silver platter. Sartre would say we are condemned to be free, forced to create our own purpose amid the indifference. Yet that very indifference is what makes our connections miraculous.

If the universe were scripted and every star aligned by design, maybe the awe lies in the possibility that none of this is random. What if the beauty of it all comes from the thought that something greater allowed these paths to cross at just the right time?

It is possible that what we call coincidence is actually an order we do not yet understand. That beneath the movement of atoms and the vastness of space, there is intention guiding what appears to be chaos.

We might not be here despite the entropy pulling everything apart, but because something willed it to hold together long enough for love, connection, and meaning to exist. That thought does not erase the anger or the ache. It reframes them. The frustration of unmet ambitions shifts from being about control to being about trust. A quiet acceptance that even when we cannot see the pattern, there might still be one..

Holding my child’s hand is not just a moment. It is a stand against oblivion. Laughing with my wife over a shared joke is no trivial matter. It is us etching meaning into the indifferent fabric of reality. Existentialism is not about despair; it is about ownership. We do not wait for the universe to validate us. We look into the abyss, feel its stare back, and choose to create anyway. That is the beauty hidden in the terror, the freedom to say that this matters because we say it does.

It is not just one thing. It is everything. It's about taking the next step in your career and wondering if you are standing in your own way. It is the frustration of pouring your effort into something that doesn't seem to yield a return. It is the exhaustion of chasing purpose in a world that keeps spinning, no matter what happens to you.

The truth is that the universe does not blink. It does not pause for our heartbreaks or our ambitions.

Stars explode

Galaxies drift apart

Tides rise and fall without hesitation.

The universe keeps moving forward, and perhaps that is what makes it so challenging, yet also what makes it beautiful.

If the universe does not blink, then maybe the point is not to be seen. Maybe it is to keep going anyway, to find peace in small things even when the big ones fall apart. The sound of a coffee cup setting down on the counter. The warmth of sunlight through the blinds. The quiet weight of someone’s hand on yours.

There is something sacred about persistence, about choosing to stay soft in a world that does not flinch. We cannot let our worth depend on what we gain or lose. We cannot live waiting for the universe to notice because it will not. But that does not mean what we do does not matter. It means we must create our own meaning, even if it is as simple as trying again tomorrow.

I am learning, slowly, to stop fighting the silence. To stop asking for signs. To let the anger cool without pretending it is gone. The universe does not blink, but I do. And maybe that is enough proof that I am still here.