3 a.m: time for profundity
thoughts on life, love, insecurities, and my "roman empire"-
It’s 3 a.m., and the world is asleep, or at least it pretends to be. Outside my window, the darkness feels dense, the kind you could sink into if you let yourself. The air in my room is still, but inside me, it’s chaos—a swirl of questions, regrets, and yearnings that refuse to quiet down.
This is the hour when the weight of existence feels heaviest, when I ask myself questions that I’ll never answer fully. Who am I becoming? Is this life enough? Am I enough? I wish I could tell you these thoughts come gently, but they don’t. They come like a flood, relentless and overwhelming, leaving me grasping for anything to hold on to. There’s something about this time of night—or morning, I guess, though it feels nothing like morning—that makes every thought sharper, every insecurity louder, every question more unanswerable. This is the hour when my fears come out to play, when my ambitions loom over me like shadows, and when I find myself staring into the void of my own existence, wondering what the hell I’m doing with it, and I am never ready for this strong sense of profundity. And tonight, as I sit here (my eyes are hurting from the amount of screentime in the dark, and even though I have glasses I only wear them on my head, why? because I like to be in pain)—, sleep nowhere in sight, I’m thinking about my insecurities, my endless yearning to be more, and what I’ve started to call my Roman Empire.
My Roman Empire: The Ache of Wanting Everything
It started as a joke. People laughing about men who think of the Roman Empire all the time. But the more I thought about it, the more I wondered: what’s my Roman Empire? What is the thought that creeps into my mind over and over, the thing I can’t stop obsessing over, even when I try? And then it hit me: it’s this—this aching, unrelenting need to be everything.
I’m an engineer, and I’ve worked so hard to get here. But it doesn’t feel like enough. It’s never felt like enough. I want to be a poet, the kind who writes words that make people stop and feel something so deeply they carry it with them. I want to write novels, stories that make someone feel less alone, that become the books they revisit on their worst days. I want to play the guitar and the piano—not just play, but feel music pour out of me like it’s been waiting there all along. I want to learn languages—Spanish, French, Italian, maybe even Russian—to know the world in words that aren’t my own.
I want to travel, to walk streets I’ve only ever seen in pictures, to stand in places that make me feel small in the best way possible. I want to be the kind of person who leaves behind something beautiful when I’m gone—a poem, a story, a memory, something.
But there’s only one life.
Sylvia Plath said it best in “The Bell Jar”:
"I saw my life branching out before me like the green fig tree in the story. From the tip of every branch, like a fat purple fig, a wonderful future beckoned and winked. One fig was a husband and a happy home and children, and another fig was a famous poet, and another fig was a brilliant professor, and another fig was Europe and Africa and South America, and another fig was Constantin and Socrates and Attila and a pack of other lovers with queer names and offbeat professions, and another fig was an Olympic lady crew champion, and beyond and above these figs were many more figs I couldn’t quite make out. I saw myself sitting in the crotch of this fig tree, starving to death, just because I couldn’t make up my mind which of the figs I would choose. I wanted each and every one of them, but choosing one meant losing all the rest, and, as I sat there, unable to decide, the figs began to wrinkle and go black, and, one by one, they plopped to the ground at my feet."
That’s exactly how I feel most days—like I’m starving under my own fig tree. I want so much, but I’m terrified of choosing wrong, of reaching for one branch and realizing too late that it wasn’t the right one. And so, I sit there, watching the figs fall, paralyzed by the fear of regret.
This is my Roman Empire. The constant, crushing thought that I’ll never live enough lives to do all the things I dream of. The unbearable weight of wanting everything and knowing I’ll never have enough time to be it all.
Sometimes, I’ll try to quiet the ache by focusing on one thing—writing, for example—but even then, my insecurities creep in. Am I even good enough to do this? Who would read what I have to say? The weight of wanting feels like trying to hold water in my hands. No matter how tightly I try to contain it, it slips through.
Insecurity: The Shape of Shadows
Insecurity is insidious. It doesn’t shout; it whispers. By day, it lingers quietly, subtly shaping my thoughts and actions. But at night, when the world is silent, it becomes deafening. It seeps into the spaces between my thoughts, wrapping itself around every flicker of doubt and magnifying it until it feels insurmountable.
Am I enough? This question lies at the heart of my insecurity, resonating across every facet of my identity. It is not only about who I am as an engineer or who I want to be as a writer or creator. It is about who I am as a person. Am I enough for the people I love? Am I enough for myself? The question feels endless, spiraling out into every corner of my life, touching everything I do and everything I dream of doing.
Virginia Woolf once wrote in The Waves:
"I am not one and simple, but complex and many."
This complexity should feel liberating. Instead, I often experience it as fragmentation. I reshape myself constantly to fit the expectations of others, tailoring my words, actions, and demeanor to suit their needs. Yet, no matter how much I give, the nagging feeling of insufficiency persists. It’s as though I am chasing a moving target—a version of myself that exists just out of reach, always one step ahead.
This is not limited to emotional or intellectual realms; it manifests in my physical existence too. I look into the mirror and see not a cohesive whole, but a collection of flaws. My reflection becomes a battlefield. My body feels simultaneously too much and not enough, a contradiction that I carry with me every day. My face, my voice, my posture—all become subjects of scrutiny. The act of self-critique is exhausting, and yet it feels inescapable.
There are days when I catch glimpses of acceptance. A fleeting moment where I see my reflection and think, Maybe this is okay. Maybe I am okay. But those moments are fragile, easily swept away by a passing comment, a careless glance, or the relentless comparisons I make to others. Social media doesn’t help—its curated perfection often feels like a yardstick against which I measure my perceived inadequacies.
Kafka’s words haunt me in these moments:
"I am free, and that is why I am lost."
The freedom to construct my identity feels overwhelming. With this freedom comes the weight of responsibility for my failures and shortcomings. It is not society or circumstance I blame, but myself. The knowledge that I am both the architect and the saboteur of my own life is a bitter realization.
And yet, insecurity is not always destructive. Sometimes it pushes me to try harder, to reach further, to become better. There is a strange duality to it: it holds me back while also driving me forward. It’s a force I wish I could tame, to channel only the parts of it that push me toward growth while silencing the parts that make me doubt my worth.
I think about how insecurity shapes my relationships. I give so much of myself to others, hoping it will be enough to make them stay, to make them love me. But I often wonder: Am I too much? Or not enough? This constant questioning creates a cycle of overcompensation, where I pour more and more of myself into people, leaving little behind for me. It’s exhausting, and yet, I don’t know how to stop.
Virginia Woolf also said:
"To want and not to have, sent all up her body a hardness, a hollowness, a strain."
This strain is something I carry. The gap between what I want and what I feel capable of having stretches endlessly before me. I want to feel whole, to feel secure in who I am and what I bring to the world. But insecurity thrives in those gaps, feeding on the spaces where confidence should reside.
At its worst, insecurity feels like a shadow I cannot escape. It follows me into every room, every conversation, every moment of stillness. It shapes the way I see myself and the way I assume others see me. And yet, I know it’s not the whole story. Insecurity is a part of me, but it is not all of me. It may shape my thoughts, but it doesn’t define my worth. This is a truth I’m still learning to hold.
Sometimes I think insecurity is simply a side effect of caring deeply. To care about how you are perceived, to care about the impact you have on others, to care about the kind of life you’re building—these are not inherently bad things. But when that care twists into self-doubt, it becomes something else entirely. The challenge, I think, is to care without letting it consume you. To strive for growth without letting the fear of failure paralyze you.
So I’m trying. I’m trying to see myself as a work in progress, to embrace the complexity Woolf described. I’m trying to remember that insecurity, though loud and persistent, is not an accurate reflection of my worth. I’m trying to hold space for the parts of myself that feel broken while also celebrating the parts that feel strong. And on the nights when the whispers of insecurity grow deafening, I remind myself of this: I have survived every doubt, every fear, every sleepless night before this one. I will survive this too.
The Weight of the Dark: Confronting the Night
At 3 a.m., time seems to warp. Minutes stretch into hours, and the past and future collapse into the present. This is the hour of reckoning, the time when the weight of existence feels heaviest. It’s when the walls between the conscious and subconscious blur, and the thoughts we’ve avoided during the day come flooding in, demanding attention.
Dostoevsky wrote:
"Man only likes to count his troubles; he doesn’t calculate his happiness."
This tendency resonates with me. In the stillness of the night, my mind becomes a ledger of regrets and shortcomings. I think about the opportunities I’ve let slip through my fingers, the conversations I wish I had handled differently, the dreams I’ve been too afraid to chase. My successes, though present, feel overshadowed by the looming shadow of what I perceive as failure.
Yet the night is not merely a space for despair; it is also a crucible of clarity. Its stillness strips away the distractions and noise that shield us from ourselves during the day. There is an uncomfortable honesty to the dark, a kind of unrelenting mirror that forces me to confront my own truths. In these hours, I see the parts of myself I’ve hidden away—the insecurities, the aspirations, the wounds I’ve tried to pretend don’t exist. And in seeing them, I start to understand them.
I think about time—how much of it has passed and how much of it might be left. Time feels infinite and fleeting all at once. I’m caught between the longing to freeze the moments I’ve cherished and the fear of running out of time to become the person I’ve always wanted to be. At night, time doesn’t just tick; it presses. It reminds me of the choices I’ve made, the ones I didn’t, and the vast unknown that lies ahead.
The dark doesn’t sugarcoat these truths. It lays them bare, stark and unrelenting. But it also offers an opportunity to ask: What now? If the past is unchangeable and the future is uncertain, what can I do in this moment to shape what comes next? The weight of the dark is heavy, but it is also grounding. It reminds me that growth, however painful, begins here—in the quiet moments of reckoning.
Virginia Woolf offered wisdom for these moments:
"Arrange whatever pieces come your way."
This is what I strive to do in the quiet of the night. The fragments of my identity, the scattered pieces of my dreams, and the shards of my insecurities—all of these can be assembled into something meaningful. The process may be imperfect, but it is no less valuable for its messiness. Every regret, every fear, every ambition—they are pieces of the puzzle that is me. And while the picture may not yet be clear, there is beauty in the act of arranging, of trying.
At 3 a.m., I also think about resilience—the quiet, stubborn force that has carried me through every sleepless night before this one. It’s easy to underestimate our own strength, to focus on the ways we fall short rather than the ways we persevere. But the dark has a way of reminding me of all the nights I’ve survived, of all the times I’ve felt like breaking but didn’t. It’s in the quiet hum of my breath, the steady beat of my heart, the fact that I am here, still standing, still trying.
Kafka’s words come to mind again:
"You do not need to leave your room. Remain sitting at your table and listen. Do not even listen, simply wait, be quiet, still, and solitary. The world will freely offer itself to you to be unmasked, it has no choice, it will roll in ecstasy at your feet."
There is something profound in this stillness, in the act of simply being. The dark doesn’t demand action; it demands presence. It asks us to sit with ourselves, to listen to the things we’ve been too afraid to hear. And in that listening, there is a kind of healing. The dark doesn’t erase the weight we carry, but it gives us the space to hold it, to understand it, to begin to make peace with it.
In these hours, I remind myself that it’s okay to feel lost. It’s okay to not have all the answers. Life is not a problem to be solved, but a journey to be experienced. The weight of the dark is not a burden to bear alone; it is a shared human experience, a reminder that we are all connected by our questions, our fears, our dreams. And in that connection, there is hope.
To Anyone Awake at 3 a.m.
If you’re awake right now, staring at the ceiling or sitting in the dark, wondering if you’re the only one who feels this way, you’re not alone. There’s a strange kind of solidarity in these sleepless hours. It’s as if, somewhere out there, others are sitting in their own silent rooms, grappling with their own insecurities, their own unanswerable questions. And maybe, just maybe, that thought can make us feel a little less alone.
I wonder if the night itself understands us better than the day ever could. In the dark, everything is stripped bare. There’s no one to perform for, no roles to play, no expectations to meet. It’s just you and your thoughts, messy and tangled but undeniably real. Maybe that’s why it’s so hard to sleep—because night doesn’t let us hide from ourselves. It demands honesty in a way the daylight never does.
At 3 a.m., the questions feel bigger. What does it mean to be enough? How do you measure a life well lived? What are we supposed to do with the endless ache of wanting? These questions don’t have easy answers—or maybe they don’t have answers at all. Maybe the beauty of being human is that we’re allowed to wonder, to question, to wrestle with the things we’ll never fully understand.
Anne Sexton wrote:
"Put your ear down close to your soul and listen hard."
I think about this often. How often do we really listen to ourselves? How often do we stop running long enough to hear what our hearts are trying to tell us? At 3 a.m., I try to listen, but what I hear isn’t always comforting. I hear the doubts I’ve been pushing away, the fears I’ve been too afraid to name. I hear the part of me that’s tired of pretending to be okay when I’m not. And I hear the quieter voice beneath it all—the one that says, Keep going.
I’m learning that maybe it’s okay to not have it all figured out. Maybe it’s okay to feel lost, to stumble, to start over as many times as it takes. Life isn’t a straight path; it’s a winding road with detours and dead ends and moments of breathtaking beauty. It’s messy and unpredictable, and that’s what makes it worth living.
Virginia Woolf once wrote:
"Arrange whatever pieces come your way."
So that’s what I’m trying to do. I’m trying to take the broken pieces of myself and arrange them into something beautiful. I’m trying to believe that even the jagged edges, even the parts of me that feel unfinished, have a place in the bigger picture. I’m trying to trust that the life I’m building—even with its imperfections—is enough.
Here’s what I know: the act of trying matters. Showing up for yourself matters. Even on the nights when you feel like you’re falling apart, the fact that you’re here, that you’re still reaching for something better, is enough.
If you’re reading this, I want you to know that your existence is enough. You don’t have to earn your place in the world. You don’t have to prove your worth to anyone—not even to yourself. You are enough simply because you are here, because you are trying, because you are alive.
At 3 a.m., it’s easy to feel small, to feel like your life is insignificant in the grand scheme of things. But here’s the truth: your life is your own, and that makes it extraordinary. No one else will ever live the exact life you’re living. No one else will ever see the world through your eyes, feel the things you feel, love the way you love. That’s something worth holding on to. That’s something worth fighting for.
Here’s a little song I am currently listening to at the moment, and I love this song so much—
So here’s to the 3 a.m. thoughts that keep us awake. Here’s to the Roman Empires that keep us dreaming. Here’s to the messy, imperfect, beautiful act of being human. And here’s to you—whoever you are, wherever you are—awake in the dark, but still reaching for the light.
With love,
Mukta <3
This newsletter was originally a vent post, but I sincerely hope you all can find it relatable and feel a little less alone reading this.
All the photos used are sourced from Pinterest and I own none of it.