K is for Karma. I was raised with the notion that bad things don’t happen to good people. Or at least it is how I oversimplified it in my head and firmly believed it for years.
Then bad things happened, and I couldn’t make sense of them: I had been a good person, how come this was happening to me? I hadn’t done anything to deserve it, so why? Countless nights I spent awake inventorying every single thing I did, each and every action I took just to find a reason, an explanation, anything. And nothing came. Sure, I hadn’t been perfect, but for the mistakes I made, the price to pay seemed disproportionated.
I felt betrayed by my own belief, and I turned my back to it, fully and heartfeltly. Or so I thought, because like the first love, the first thing you truly believed in, does not really go away for good. Memories of karma remained and they would sneak in among the creases of my pre-sleep thoughts.
Until I finally understood; Karma did not have anything to do with what happened to me or to anyone else. Karma is too sophisticated to care about facts. Karma is about feelings. Karma is about me. Not the events that populated my life but how I reacted to them. Karma is not practical, is psychological.
Karma is, to me, the fact that looking back at my direst times, I can say, my head high, that I did not lose my humanity; I could have been revengeful; I chose to be caring instead. I could have turned cold, but I remained warm-hearted.
That is my good karma; being able to look at my past and don’t feel ashamed of myself.
And there is nothing more I can ask for.