ON FEELING ALIVE

Hi.

I feel like I’ve been stuck in the throes of writer’s block (and a touch of laziness) for the last six months. I’ve been trying to write something that felt worth sharing every day, and nothing ever felt right. Let’s hope this one sticks, because I truly have missed writing for you guys.

I just recently finished reading The Wedding People by Alison Espach, and haven’t been able to stop thinking about it since. I picked it up because I liked the cover. Sue me! Every so often, I let myself judge a book by its cover, and I think that’s okay. The caveat is that you should only ever do this in the literal sense, never in the metaphorical sense, but I digress.

I loved the premise of this book (minor spoiler and trigger warning ahead!). The Wedding People follows a recently divorced woman who checks herself into a gorgeous seaside hotel with the sole intent of killing herself. Instead, she accidentally crashes a wedding, which sort of interrupts her plans. Over the course of a week, she forms strange, tender connections with the wedding people. Through absurd, funny, and unexpectedly moving conversations, little flickers of life begin to return to her. It’s quiet and strange and beautiful and so full of heart. 

It’s everything I didn’t know I needed in this moment. Because lately, it feels like we’re all walking around a little numb. The world is heavy. The news cycle never lets up. Every headline seems designed to drain what little hope you’ve managed to hang onto. And in times like these, it’s easy to feel like we’re just going through the motions.

It made me think about how close we are to that edge without even realizing it—not necessarily in dramatic ways, but in the quiet erosion of joy. The world lately feels especially bleak. It’s hard to stay soft when everything feels like it’s crumbling. Hope starts to feel like something naive, or even foolish.

But still, it finds its way in.

In the tiniest, most unexpected forms.

So this is my love letter to the little things that make me feel alive, even when everything else tells me not to.

Live audiences

If you know me even a little bit, you know my addiction to live audiences. I love the theater and I love concerts and I love Broadway more than I can put into words. I don’t know how else to say it, I just feel more alive when I’m part of a crowd. But it also doesn’t have to be anything fancy. I’ve felt it sitting in the back row of a high school talent show, at a concert where I didn’t even know all the lyrics, at a jazz night in a basement speakeasy where the speakers kept cutting out, or watching man at the subway station with his saxophone somehow manage to get a whole platform of tired strangers to stop and listen. There’s something about that shared attention. About being surrounded by people who are all tuned into the same moment. For once, no one’s looking at their phones or trying to seem detached. Everyone’s just... there. Feeling something. Laughing at the same line, reacting to the same note, holding their breath at the same time.

And when I’m in that space, I don’t feel like I need to be anywhere else or be anyone else. I’m not thinking about how I look or what I should be doing next. I just get to exist. To feel something deeply and know that other people are feeling it too. That connection—even if we never speak, even if we all go our separate ways the second it ends—it lingers. 

Group laughter

Not the polite kind. The uncontrollable, someone-snorted, everyone’s-crying kind. The kind that derails the conversation and doesn’t let go. There’s something holy about it, something deeply human. I always notice the moment when the laughter quiets just enough and someone tries to speak, only to start laughing again. That loop. That loss of control. For a second, nobody’s pretending to be cooler or calmer than they are. It’s pure, shared release. Afterwards, I always feel lighter. A little wrung out. A little more alive.

Ribs by Lorde

Every time I hear this song, I feel seventeen again. Not the real seventeen, but the cinematic version. The one where you’re riding in the backseat with your head against the window, feeling both invincible and already nostalgic for your own youth. Dizzy, aching, honest. It captures the exact panic of realizing you're growing up while it’s happening. I never just listen to that song. I surrender to it. This song ruins me, in the best way. The lyrics hit like truths you didn’t realize you already knew. It feels so scary, getting old. That line makes my stomach flip, still. I never, ever skip Ribs, it’s too sacred. I brace for it. I welcome it. Sometimes I cry, sometimes I just stare at the ceiling, sometimes I sing along like my life depends on it. It’s not just a song, it’s a timestamp. For growing pains. For sisterhood. For deep friendships that feel like falling in love. For fear. For freedom. For nostalgia you didn’t earn yet. Ribs doesn’t just make me feel alive, it reminds me that I’ve always been, even in the quiet moments I tried to forget.

The feeling you get when you write something you’re proud of

I’m feeling it right now.

-

This is just what comes to mind. Of course, there are much more profound ways to feel alive. But there are also the little moments.The seemingly insignificant moments. Those are the moments I’ve been paying attention to lately. They don’t always make sense, and they rarely last long, but they pull me back into myself. And for now, that’s enough.

By Nazly Elbosaty

Published June 27, 2025