A modern cry for help ?
There’s a phrase I keep coming back to lately. It slips out of my mouth in conversations, texts, voice notes, even in moments when no one’s around to hear it. I say it to the universe, to myself, to anyone who’ll listen. “Make it make sense.”
And honestly? Nothing does. Nothing makes sense. I’m in my twenties, which apparently is the era of life where you’re supposed to be figuring things out, building the foundation of your future, “stepping into your purpose” or whatever. But half the time I’m just trying to remember if I ate lunch or if that was yesterday. I’m balancing dreams and deadlines, hoping at least one thing this week doesn’t fall apart.
Like, why did no one warn me that being an adult is basically just a constant loop of checking your bank balance, googling how long chicken lasts in the fridge, and pretending to be okay while you spiral internally? Why is rent so expensive? Why is water not free when it falls from the sky? Why do I need three years of experience for an entry-level job? Why is everyone either getting married, starting a company, or posting “just landed in Paris” while I’m here reusing the same tote bag for groceries, gym clothes, and emotional baggage? Make it make sense.
I wake up exhausted even though I slept for eight hours. I answer emails like a professional while eating cereal for dinner. I try to be present and grateful and “grounded,” but then I open Instagram and somehow feel behind on a life I haven’t even lived yet. Make it make sense. I’m navigating relationships that feel like puzzles with missing pieces, trying to act chill while internally screeching. Seriously, make it make sense.
And in the middle of all this, I’m still showing up. Still trying. Still hoping things will eventually click. Because as much as I say it with a sigh or a laugh or a dramatic eye-roll, “make it make sense” is really just me admitting I’m looking for clarity. For meaning. For something that ties it all together and helps me believe that I’m not just floating through chaos for no reason.
But until then, I say it. I say it when the world doesn’t add up, when I’m doing my best and everything still feels a little off, when I’ve paid R45 for an iced coffee and don’t even feel awake. I say it when I get ghosted, when I spill on a white shirt, when I realise it’s the end of the month and somehow I’m still emotionally in March. “Make it make sense.”
It’s not just a phrase anymore, it’s a coping mechanism, a little laugh in the middle of the madness, a way of saying, “I don’t get it, but I’m here, trying anyway.” And maybe that’s enough. Maybe the fact that we keep showing up, keep asking questions, keep trying to find our way through the mess, maybe that’s what makes sense. Or maybe it doesn’t. I don’t know. Either way, I’ll probably keep saying it.