What We Endure, We Begin to Keep

I used to hate the colors yellow and orange. They felt too bright, too loud—too much. But at some point, I made myself like them. I looked for reasons: warmth, joy, sunlight. I told myself they symbolized happiness. Eventually, the resistance softened. And now? I can’t stop liking them. I get a little obsessed, even.

It happened with Keroppi too. Back in grade school, all my notebooks were Keroppi-themed. I had no choice but to use them. So I stared at his strange little face until I got used to him. Then I wanted to like him. Then I did.

It’s strange how that works. Maybe even sad.

You really can learn to love almost anything if you try hard enough. And that’s kind of beautiful. It means joy can be sculpted from very little. That you can fall in love with life, piece by piece, just by noticing.

But there’s another side to it.

Sometimes, you train yourself to stay. In the job. In the city. In the relationship. You learn to tolerate what once made your skin crawl, not because it changed, but because you did. What was once unbearable becomes familiar. Then comfortable. Then permanent.

We like to call that adaptability. We praise it as a strength. And sometimes it is. Other times, it’s surrender in disguise. You start reshaping yourself to survive something you were never meant to stay in. Until one day, you wake up and barely recognize the shape you’ve become.

I’ve done that. With colors. With characters. With music. With entire chapters of my life. But I’ve also seen what it looks like to choose something different. To want something because I am free to want it. To reach for something good out of clarity.

That was the turning point. I realized I no longer want a life built on endurance. I want a life built on intention. Not love born from pain, but love chosen freely. Quietly. Because I asked for it. Because I could.