“Why me?” This question rises unbidden in times of crisis. It may arrive in a hospital ward, in the stillness after a diagnosis, or at the bedside of a loved one. It is the human soul’s most honest protest when life turns suddenly unjust, cruel, meaningless.
As a retired psychiatrist and a husband watching his beloved wife of 52 years suffer the indignities of advanced Parkinson’s Disease, I know this question well. It is not a theoretical query, but one shaped by breath, loss, and long nights.
Albert Camus wrote that the only serious philosophical question is whether life is worth living. He gave us the haunting image of Sisyphus, condemned to push a boulder up a hill only for it to roll back down. Yet, Camus invites us to imagine Sisyphus happy. Not because his task has changed, but because his mind has. He has accepted the absurd and still chosen to live.
We are not always given reasons for what happens. Often, we are left with the bare reality, and our response becomes the only form of dignity we possess. In that sense, “Why me?” is not just a cry of anguish but a plea for meaning. It is an invitation to examine what lies at the core of our existence.
Psychologically, the question arises when we are brought face to face with our limits. When illness strikes, or a career ends abruptly, or grief overwhelms us, our internal compass spins. The story we told ourselves about our life no longer holds. Psychiatrist Viktor Frankl, who survived Auschwitz, believed that human beings could endure unimaginable suffering as long as they had a “why”, a purpose. “When we are no longer able to change a situation,” he wrote, “we are challenged to change ourselves”.
This has been true in my life. My wife’s decline has changed everything. There are no holidays now, no spontaneous walks, no ordinary ease. Yet, every morning, as we begin the rituals of care, feeding, physiotherapy, soft music, gentle words, I realise that love remains. And in love, there is still meaning.
Caregiving brings its own burden, a quieter suffering. It is a slow, private erosion of one’s energy and identity. But it also deepens character. What begins as duty slowly becomes devotion. The question “Why me?” may persist, but the answer becomes less important than the daily act of showing up.
For people of faith, “Why me?” becomes a prayer. The psalmist cried, “My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?” These same words were echoed by Christ on the cross. Doubt is not the opposite of faith; it is part of it.
In Hinduism and Buddhism, suffering is accepted as part of the human condition, dukkha, something to be transcended through awareness, detachment, compassion. In Islam, the concept of sabr, or patient endurance, teaches that the divine is closest to the broken-hearted.
Sometimes, faith does not remove the suffering — it simply holds it. It gives us a wider frame in which to place our pain. One need not understand suffering to bear it with grace. Biologically speaking, suffering protects us — pain alerts us to danger. Anguish compels us to seek others. The cry of “why me?” has evolutionary value; it invites others to come close, to witness, to help.
But beyond biology, there is empathy. When we suffer, we become more capable of understanding others who suffer. If we let it, pain can open the heart. That may be one of the few hidden blessings of suffering: It deepens us.
Over time, “Why me?” may shift to “What now?” or “How shall I live through this?” That shift is subtle but powerful. It marks a move from protest to purpose. From paralysis to action.
Not all questions need answers. Some simply need listening. As theologian Paul Tillich said, “The first duty of love is to listen.” So, we listen to ourselves, to those we love, and to the silence where no words come.
In my home, amid medicines, wheelchairs, nurses, there is still laughter. There is music. There is prayer. No one escapes suffering. But we can choose how we suffer. In that choice lies our freedom.
The writer is a retired psychiatrist
