Sometimes I think the universe laughs at us.
Not in a mean, patronizing way, but in a quiet, distant way. Almost as if it’s asking, ‘Do you really think you matter that much? You look up and see endless stars, galaxies stacked on galaxies, and you think your failed test matters?’
Suddenly, all the stuff that feels heavy, the weight on our chests–grades, arguments, crushes, your entire future–shrinks. Maybe it was never that important in the first place. It’s almost insulting, honestly. The idea that we’re these tiny dots running around, trying to make things “important” in a place so big it doesn’t even notice us.
But with that thought comes another. Maybe that’s what’s kind of beautiful about it. The fact that we run around anyway, that we care, even knowing how small and insignificant this all is in “the grand scheme of things.” It is like a quiet rebellion against meaninglessness. Every time we fall in love, or laugh, or make art, or just exist, it’s our way of saying, “I know the universe doesn’t care, but I do, and that’s enough.”
There’s a deeply human aspect in that.
Still, that feeling of insignificance hits hard sometimes, especially when you’re young and everything feels like it’s supposed to be “the start of something.” You’re supposed to find your purpose, your path, your whatever. Then you remember that we’re literally spinning on a floating rock in space. It’s this mix of awe and dread. Who decided to make us aware of all this? Why do we get to know how small we are? And if I really am as small as I seem, what’s the point in any of this?
What helps is realizing that small doesn’t mean meaningless. Being small means you’re part of something huge: an ant in the colony, a bee to the hive, and a piece of the larger puzzle.
Every person, every moment, every random chain of events folds into this massive, complicated universe that somehow works. You don’t have to be the center of it to matter. You can exist inside it and still be real, still have weight in your own small way. Each piece of the puzzle may not seem as important in the grand scheme of things, but it’s noticeable when it’s missing.
Sonder — noun: The realization that each random passerby is living a life as vivid and complex as your own.
The complexity of life is scary, but it can also be inviting. To think that each person we pass by on the street, each face that walks past us, each person we forget in moments, has a life of their own is incomprehensible at times. You could walk past hundreds of people who are having a good day, bad day, or even the worst day of their lives. And you would never know.
There’s beauty in the unknown–a soft cradle of uncertainty holding our hand, leading us out into the world.
Sometimes, when everything feels like too much, I remind myself that the universe has existed for billions of years and it’s still doing its thing. The chaos never stops. So maybe my job isn’t to control it or or even slightly understand it. Maybe my job is just to live inside it as best I can, feel the smallness, feel the wonder, and stop trying to make it all mean more than it does.
The impermanence of it all is what gives loving something value.
If everything lasted forever, nothing would feel urgent or worth doing. But because we know it’s temporary, we cling harder. We make meaning out of seconds, hold hands a little tighter, and write down our thoughts so they can outlive us, even if just by a little.
Your existence is like a quiet ripple that spreads further than you ever get to see. You say something kind to someone one day, and maybe that changes how they see themselves. Maybe they pass that kindness on to another person, and that energy keeps moving long after you forget the moment. Maybe meaning isn’t about personally being seen, but about creating something that moves quietly through the world.
Every person is a universe, full of thoughts and feelings we’ll never know.
It’s humbling to realize that you’re one story in a collection of billions, all happening at once. It makes you wonder about the people you’ll never meet, the ones you brushed shoulders with at a subway station, or the person who smiled at you once in a coffee shop. They exist somewhere right now, breathing, thinking–feeling. And for a second, your worlds touched. In a way, it’s kind of poetic.
And perhaps that’s the secret, to stop fighting the vastness of it all and instead learn to rest inside it. To realize that insignificance can be freeing. If nothing truly “matters” on a cosmic scale, then everything matters in a personal one. You can choose your meaning. You can choose what’s worth your time. You can decide that your small circle of people, your passions, your late-night thoughts, your laughter, are enough.
“When I look at the night sky on a starry night or the vast expense of the ocean, I often realize my tiny place in the world and feel it on a visceral level. I don’t find this feeling unpleasant, in contrast, I find it often liberating to know that my place in the universe is so infinitesimal. If I’m struggling with an issue or a question, I realize that in the overall scope of things, my problems really are insignificant,” said Mrs. Jordana Bales, a post-AP Psychology teacher at Bronx Science.
Her words capture a kind of peace that can come from accepting our smallness–a shift from fear to freedom. Instead of feeling crushed by the vastness of it all, she finds comfort in it, as if the universe’s size gives her permission to let go of what doesn’t matter. That mindset reframes insignificance not as a void, but as relief–a reminder that the weight we carry day to day isn’t as permanent or monumental as it sometimes feels.
There are so many ways you can combat these feelings of insignificance as well. From journaling to confiding in your loved ones, and even just sitting and meditating can be helpful. You can ground yourself in the tiny, beautiful details that make up your world: the people who care about you, the laughter that fills a room, the comfort of routine, the quiet of a late night. The universe may be endless, but so is our capacity to find meaning within it.
Sometimes I sit outside at night and just look up. The stars look like holes punched into a dark ceiling, and I imagine light pouring through from something larger, something eternal.
And in that moment, I don’t feel small in a sad way. I feel small in a connected way, as if I’m part of a long, endless thread woven through time. Every human before me has looked up and felt this same thing–the same awe, the same confusion. Maybe that’s what connects us more than anything else: the shared realization that we’ll never fully understand, and yet we keep asking anyway.
There is a peace that comes when you realize you don’t have to carry the world on your shoulders. You just have to live in it–feel it, be kind, create, connect, and then let go. The universe will keep spinning, and somehow, so will you.
Being small means you’re part of something huge: an ant in the colony, a bee to the hive, and a piece of the larger puzzle.