I’ve been thinking a lot about the idea of “choice” lately. People outside think we still make choices the way they do, the choices of what job to take, where to live, what the next step in life should be.

But here, during a genocide, choices don’t feel like choices. They feel like forced directions that all lead to different kinds of pain.

Every time I try to plan my life, something shifts under my feet. I feel like I’m asked to choose between things that shouldn’t be competing in the first place:

Do I try to keep working on things that give me purpose: the projects, the writing, the little ways I try to help? Or do I put everything aside and focus only on surviving the day with my family?

Do I stay where I’m needed? Or go where I’m loved?

Do I push forward for a future that keeps getting delayed? Or do I just hold onto the present before it’s taken?

It’s not “options.” It’s “which part of your heart hurts less.”

Every day here comes with a different calculation: Who needs me today? Who might not be here tomorrow? What part of my life can wait? What part can’t?

People love to say “stay strong,” “keep going,” “you’ll rebuild.” But they don’t understand that we are forced to make choices that break us long before anything can be rebuilt.

And what scares me the most is that I’m getting used to it. Getting used to choosing between two losses. Getting used to carrying guilt for decisions no human should ever have to make.

I don’t know if this is resilience or just survival instincts. But I do know this:

Every choice I make here is not a sign of freedom. It’s a reminder of how much has been taken away.

If you’ve ever had to choose between two things you couldn’t afford to lose, how did you carry it?