Một dòng thở nhẹ – Nhật ký Thiền

I am no longer young.
But I am still running.

Not running fast like I once did.
Not running to achieve anything grand.
Not running to prove I’m capable.

I run…
so I won’t be left behind.
So I won’t become invisible in my own life.

When you grow older,
you don’t just lose strength.
You lose your place.
Your role.
Your sense of being needed.

And so you begin to run —
not to move forward,
but to hold on to what little remains.

I run to keep up with technology,
so people won’t call me “outdated.”
I run so my children won’t find me troublesome.
I run so my coworkers won’t see me as a burden.
I run so society won’t quietly decide
that I no longer matter.

I run because I fear the day someone says:

“You should stop now.
You can’t keep up anymore.”

Those words would hurt more than anything else.

Some mornings, I look in the mirror
and see a little more gray in my hair.
I sigh.

Not because I’m sad about aging,
but because I know:

Every strand of gray
pushes me a little further away
from the world I once belonged to.

I try to learn new apps.
Try to understand new slang.
Try to keep up with changes
that young people find effortless.

I don’t want to be the person
who needs everything explained twice.
I don’t want to be the person
others must be patient with.
I don’t want to be pitied.

I just want to be seen —
as someone who still has value,
still has a voice.

Once, I asked my child how to use an app.
They explained quickly — too quickly.
I didn’t understand.
I asked again.

They sighed:

“Oh my god, why are parents so slow?”

They didn’t mean harm.
But it hurt.

Not because I didn’t understand the app.
But because I realized:

I am slowly becoming someone
my own child no longer has patience for.

I run to stay healthy —
not to live longer,
but so I won’t become a burden.

I run to keep working —
not because I need the money,
but because I fear the day
no one needs me anymore.

I run to maintain relationships —
not because I crave company,
but because I fear the silence
that waits for me in old age.

One afternoon, I sat in the park
watching young people walk by —
laughing, rushing, full of energy.

I looked at them and wondered:

“Was I like that once?”

Then I realized:

I don’t miss being young.
I miss being seen.

I don’t know how long I’ll keep running.
Maybe until my legs can’t carry me.
Maybe until I accept
that I can’t keep up with this world.
Maybe until I learn
how to stand still without disappearing.

But I know one thing:

I don’t run to be better than anyone.
I run so I won’t fade away.

And sometimes,
just having someone understand that
is enough to make me feel
like I still have a small place in this world.

A place where I am heard.
A place where I don’t have to pretend to be strong.
A place where I don’t have to prove
that I still have “value.”

A place where I can simply be myself —
even if I am slow,
even if I am old,
even if I no longer fit the pace outside.

Some evenings, I sit and watch the sunset fall slowly.
And I realize:

Maybe I don’t need to run faster.
Maybe I just need someone
to walk a little slower with me.

Just a little.

So I don’t feel like I’m disappearing.