fact or fiction
Is it a fact or is it merely fiction? Fact or Fiction explores relationship myths and truths to get your head out of the clouds and back into romantic reality.
How Our Digital Addictions Are Quietly Rewiring the American Mind. AI-Generated.
I wake up not to an alarm, but to a reflex. My hand fumbles in the dark, finding the cool, flat rectangle on my nightstand. The screen flares to life, a portal to a world of notifications, updates, and a silent, screaming demand for my attention. Before my feet have even hit the floor, I have scrolled through a global news cycle, liked a vacation photo from a college acquaintance, and felt a pang of anxiety about a political headline I can barely process.
By kashif khanabout a year ago in Humans
A Relationship Difference
In today’s fast-paced world, relationships can be both rewarding and complicated. While many strive for meaningful connections, others find themselves trapped in “fake” relationships—connections that look perfect on the surface but lack substance underneath. Understanding the difference between a genuine adult relationship and a fake one is crucial for emotional health and personal growth.
By Sheikh Suffyanabout a year ago in Humans
Letters from the Hospital Roof
Letters from the Hospital Roof By Abdul Muhammad The hospital roof became my secret sanctuary. It wasn’t supposed to — it was just a square of concrete with a rusty railing and a blinking red light that kept planes away. But every night after my shift ended, I climbed the narrow metal stairs, pushed open the heavy door, and stepped into the quiet. The city stretched beneath me, glowing like a patient’s monitor. The smell of disinfectant was replaced by cool night air, and for a few minutes, I could breathe again. That’s where I started writing the letters. At first, I didn’t know who I was writing to. My hand moved faster than my mind, spilling words onto the cheap notepad I kept in my coat pocket. The first one started simply: > Dear Mrs. Hanley, I’m sorry we couldn’t save you. I wrote about how her son stood by her bed whispering prayers until dawn, about how I held her hand even though my gloves were damp with sweat, about how she was the first patient I lost during my internship. When I finished, I tore the page out, folded it once, and let it sit on my lap. The wind didn’t take it. I didn’t throw it away. I just wrote another one. --- Some nights, I wrote to my younger self. > Dear Me at Seventeen, You think you’re strong because you got into medical school. But strength isn’t about grades. Strength is telling a family that their father didn’t make it through the night, even when your voice shakes. I wrote about the coffee that never tasted strong enough, the laughter that broke out in the residents’ lounge at three a.m., the way we all pretended we were fine. > Dear Me at Seventeen, You’ll cry in the supply closet. More than once. That doesn’t mean you’re weak. It means you’re still human. --- There were nights when I didn’t write at all. I just sat there with my legs dangling over the edge, my pager silent for once, listening to the sounds of the city. Those nights felt like a stolen miracle. But then there were the nights after bad shifts. The worst was a little boy named Omar. Seven years old, pneumonia. We tried everything — oxygen, antibiotics, prayers whispered under our breath like medicine. His mother clutched his small hands and begged me to tell her he’d get better. When the monitors went flat, I felt something inside me go flat too. That night on the roof, my hands shook so hard I almost dropped the pen. > Dear Omar, I wanted to tell you that you were the bravest kid I ever met. That the way you smiled at me when I put the IV in made me believe, just for a second, that maybe I was good at this job. I wrote until the words blurred with tears. --- Weeks passed. The letters piled up in my locker, folded and creased, some smeared with coffee rings, some with tear stains. No one ever saw them. One morning, after a 36-hour shift, I left the hospital and found the city waking up — shopkeepers sweeping sidewalks, buses rumbling by. And I realized that I felt… lighter. It wasn’t because the grief had gone away. It hadn’t. But the letters had taken some of the weight. That night, instead of writing to the dead, I wrote to the living. > Dear Future Me, One day, you’ll be the doctor who teaches the new interns. Please tell them it’s okay to grieve. Tell them to go to the roof and breathe. Tell them to write letters, even if they never send them. --- On my last night of internship, I carried the entire stack of letters to the roof. I sat cross-legged and read each one aloud under the stars. Mrs. Hanley. Omar. The others. My seventeen-year-old self. My future self. When I finished, I tore the letters into small pieces and let the wind take them. White paper floated into the night like snow. I walked back down the metal stairs with empty hands and a steady heartbeat. Tomorrow, there would be new patients, new shifts, new heartbreaks. But there would also be new letters — and maybe, one day, I would teach someone else to write theirs. Because sometimes, healing doesn’t come from saving everyone. Sometimes, healing comes from letting yourself be human.
By Abdul Muhammad about a year ago in Humans
Are You a "Sensible" Woman Who's Being Ignored?
Many women mistakenly believe that being "sensible" means asking for nothing and not bothering their partners. But in the end, it's these overly sensible women who are most likely to be ignored. It's not that men aren't willing to give; it's that you’ve never let them know what you need. A truly intelligent woman never silently endures. Instead, she speaks up at just the right moment.
By Emily Chan - Life and love sharingabout a year ago in Humans
Complex PTSD - The Damage from Abuse and Trauma. Content Warning.
The Damage of Abuse Childhood abuse is one of the worst forms of torture that a person can endure. It feels like being in a war zone, imprisoned by cruel dictators and forced to live under their every will and command until the law "says" you are old enough to have your own life. I know this because I have lived in this particular "war zone" called child abuse.
By Elizabeth Woodsabout a year ago in Humans
The Boy Who Refused to Give Up: An Inspirational Story of Hope
Ali was born in a small rural village where dusty roads, mud-brick houses, and endless fields of wheat defined the horizon. Life in his village was simple, yet harsh. Most children dropped out of school before they reached their teenage years. Their days were spent helping their families in the fields or working odd jobs to earn a few extra coins. Education, for many, was considered a luxury—something only the privileged could afford. Ali’s family struggled to make ends meet. His father worked long hours in the scorching sun, plowing fields that barely produced enough to feed them. His mother, though uneducated herself, carried the wisdom of generations. She often reminded Ali, “My son, hunger can break the body, but never let it break your spirit.” Unlike the other children in the village, Ali carried within him an unshakable dream. He wanted to study, to learn, and to see a world beyond the narrow lanes of his village. When his friends laughed at the idea of going to university one day, Ali only smiled. He knew they couldn’t see what he saw: a life where knowledge could change not just his destiny, but that of his family and community. --- The Struggle Ali’s journey was anything but easy. Every morning, before the sun rose, he would help his father water the crops and tend to the animals. His hands bore the marks of labor, calloused from carrying heavy buckets and tilling the soil. By the time he walked to school—a two-hour journey each way—his body already felt drained. At school, he often felt out of place. His clothes were worn out, his shoes patched and dusty. Yet, when he opened his books, the world transformed. He devoured stories of scientists, poets, and leaders who had shaped history. These stories became his fuel, igniting a fire that poverty could not extinguish. But the struggle didn’t stop there. When evening fell, and most children returned home to rest, Ali’s work continued. The family’s kerosene lamp barely lit their small room, and when the lamp ran out of oil, he would study under the faint glow of his old, scratched mobile phone. His eyes burned with exhaustion, but he kept reading. His mother’s gentle words echoed in his mind: “Dreams only come true when you dare to chase them.” --- The Breaking Point There were moments when Ali felt like giving up. Once, during exam season, his father fell ill. The responsibility of the fields suddenly fell on Ali’s young shoulders. For weeks, he woke before dawn, worked the land until noon, and studied through the night. Sleep became a luxury. His teachers noticed his grades slipping, and some even advised him to “focus on farming” instead of wasting time with books. One evening, frustrated and exhausted, Ali closed his notebook and declared, “Maybe they’re right. Maybe I’m chasing something impossible.” But his mother placed her hand on his shoulder and said, “Ali, the world will try to convince you that your dreams are too big. Don’t listen. Dreams are not measured by where you come from, but by how far you are willing to go.” That night, Ali picked up his books again. --- The Turning Point Years of hard work eventually paid off. Ali applied for a scholarship to a university in the city—a place so different from his village that it felt like another universe. When the acceptance letter arrived, his hands trembled as he read the words. His family couldn’t believe it. The boy who once studied by candlelight had earned a chance to pursue higher education. Moving to the city was overwhelming. Skyscrapers replaced mud houses, and busy streets replaced dirt roads. For the first time, Ali had access to libraries filled with thousands of books, computers, and professors who encouraged him to think critically. Still, the transition wasn’t easy. He often felt like an outsider, surrounded by classmates who came from privileged backgrounds. But instead of shrinking, Ali reminded himself why he was there—not just for himself, but for his family, and for every child back in his village who had been told that education wasn’t meant for them. --- Success and Giving Back Ali graduated with honors in computer science and soon secured a job as a software engineer. With his first paycheck, he bought his mother a new sewing machine and paid off his family’s debts. But Ali knew his journey wasn’t only about personal success. He returned to his village with a new mission: to make education accessible to children who, like him, dared to dream. He started free weekend classes under a large banyan tree. At first, only a few children attended. But word spread quickly, and soon dozens gathered with notebooks in hand, eager to learn. Ali told them stories of his own struggles. He showed them that it didn’t matter if they came from poverty or privilege—the key to unlocking their potential lay in persistence, courage, and hope. His story became a beacon, proving that dreams can flourish even in the harshest soil. --- The Lesson Ali’s journey reminds us that success is not defined by where you begin, but by how far you are willing to go. Poverty, doubt, and hardship may slow you down, but they cannot stop you if you refuse to give up. Every time Ali looks back at his younger self, studying under the weak light of a flickering lamp, he smiles. He knows now that the dream he once carried so fiercely was never just his—it was a dream for his family, his community, and for anyone who believes that hope can survive against all odds. And perhaps, the most beautiful part of his story is this: Ali did not just escape his struggles—he turned them into stepping stones that continue to inspire others.
By Hazrat Bilalabout a year ago in Humans
The Map that Carries Me
When I was a young boy, my Mama taught me to move through life with dignity and grace. She prepared meals on a wood burning stove while keeping an eye on her four children, each demanding in their own way. I watched her combine handfuls of flour, water, and whatever vegetables we had, and somehow it became a nourishing meal. She measured care with her hands, her tone, her love, the way she paused before answering each of our questions. I learned from her that survival required creativity, patience, and, above all, a willingness to love fully, even when circumstances tried to make that impossible.
By Tim Carmichaelabout a year ago in Humans
