I found myself constantly asking how I would proceed in life. I’ve been reflecting more and more, and with that reflection comes an unsettling feeling — that everything that I do leads to a dead end. I feel unworthy. I don’t know who I am or what I am doing. I wonder if these moments will leave any mark on my future self, or if they will simply fade into the background — becoming part of the negative areas of who I am yet to be.

On Easter Sunday, a priest asked a question that stayed with me: “Why do we feel sad or anxious when we see or feel a void in our lives and our home?” “Why do we always feel the need to fill it?” His words made me realize how uncomfortable we are with emptiness. We rush to fill every gap, as if a space left unoccupied means something is missing within us.

He explained that not all voids are created equal. There is a kind of emptiness that feels heavy and final, like a grave — an ending that leaves us in despair. But there is also another kind: a “happy emptiness.” Like the empty tomb on Easter morning, this void is not a sign of death but of victory. In this sense, emptiness is not something to fear, but something to rejoice in, that holds the possibility of transformation. It is not absence, but anticipation.

This idea made me reflect on my own life. I began to ask myself, “Why do I constantly fill spaces that may need to remain empty?” I realized that my fears come from uncertainty. The negative space in my life — the parts I cannot define or control — makes me anxious because it offers no clear identity, no solid direction. The fear of the unknown is my biggest enemy, especially as someone who is constantly expected to have answers, to have plans, and to know exactly who I am becoming. It is easier to fill that space with goals, plans, and expectations than to sit with the discomfort of not knowing.

Perhaps this is why we cling so tightly to the future. We create vision boards, set timelines, and map out our lives in an attempt to give shape to what is still unknown. These plans provide a sense of purpose and identity, making us feel secure in who we are becoming. But in doing so, we may be trying to erase the very space where growth is meant to happen.

I have come to realize that I was so focused on building a “complete” life that I became afraid of its gaps. I treated uncertainty as something to fix, rather than something to understand. Yet the image of the empty tomb suggests otherwise. Identity is not found in what remains fixed and certain, but in what dares to move beyond it. It is not in the filled spaces, but in the willingness to stand within the negative space and patiently wait.

Maybe the most important parts of our lives are not the ones we carefully plan and define. Maybe they are the ones that remain open, unwritten, and uncertain. The negative space we try so hard to avoid may actually be where we begin to become — not by forcing meaning into every moment, but by allowing meaning to unfold in its own time.

In the end, I am starting to understand that emptiness is not always a dead end. Sometimes, it is simply a pause before something new begins. And maybe, instead of rushing to fill every space, I need to learn how to exist within it — because in that space, I am not lost. I am becoming. And if I am becoming, why should I be afraid of the very space that allows me to grow?