This article was automatically translated from the original Turkish version.
The other day, while talking with a friend, he said he felt his life was like being “inside a circle.” There was no corner to it; therefore, the very idea of “turning a corner,” as we understand it, never occurred in his life. No matter what he did, he always ended up in the same place, bumping into the same walls, falling back into the same emotions. He believed he would end where he began—not along a straight line, but in a cycle that kept returning to its own path.
This sentence immediately triggered two thoughts in me: the concept of storytelling’s “arc”—that is, the character’s journey of transformation—and the reality that sometimes, that arc never forms at all.
Sometimes an event occurs and it reminds you of a book or a TV series or film you once read or watched. I am writing this essay inspired by some TV and film moments that came to mind during and after that conversation. In The Sopranos, there is a famous outburst by Christopher Moltisanti:
Christopher: Have you ever felt like nothing good will ever happen to you?
Paulie: Yes. And nothing happened. So what? I’m alive. I’m surviving.
Christopher: That’s it. I don’t just want to survive. Books and screenplays say every character has a story. Do you understand? Everyone starts somewhere, does something, something happens to them, and it changes their life. That’s called a story. Where is my arc?
Here, “arc” refers to the idea that a character must begin somewhere, experience something, and change as a result—that’s what books tell us. Christopher’s frustration is deeply familiar: “Why don’t I change? Why don’t I rise? Why am I always stuck in the same place?” At one point, he even says he refuses to settle for merely surviving. I have always interpreted this as the difference between “living” and “being carried along.”
My friend’s sense of being trapped in a circle is closely related: Something “must” happen. A corner must be turned. A door must open… But the door always leads back to the same corridor.
For this reason, I place Manchester by the Sea in a separate category in my mind. The film seems to have all the right ingredients for the classic narrative arc: a traumatic event, followed by responsibility, then the possibility of a new beginning… As viewers, we inevitably expect: “Alright, now something will break here.”
But the film refuses that familiar comfort and says something else instead: Sometimes a breakdown happens, but transformation does not. Sometimes people do not change—not because they are incapable, but because change does not occur in the dramatic form we expect. Sometimes there is no “rebirth,” only “continuation.” And this is, surprisingly, a profoundly honest form of storytelling.
My friend’s circle resembles this honesty exactly: “Something happened, yes. Something was tried, yes. But life remains exactly where it was.”
I also place The Wire alongside this theme. In the series, everyone tries to fix something: police officers, teachers, journalists, politicians… There is a fierce battle against drugs. But in the end, the series whispers to the viewer: “This is not a knot that can be undone by the will of a single hero.” There is a desire for change, but the outcome is often merely a shift in roles—the cycle continues.
Watching this, one feels a tightness in the chest, because it mirrors real life: You struggle hard, you exhaust yourself, then you look up… and the machinery is still the same machinery.
The phrase “turning a corner” carries an implicit promise: Once you cross a threshold, you enter a new life—a new page, a new self, a new order. But the circle metaphor takes that promise away. In a circle, there is no threshold. There is no “just once.” There is no “everything has changed now.”
But inside the circle, something remains: rhythm. Habits, repetitions, returns… Sometimes this feels like prison; sometimes it is the only anchor a person has left.
My friend’s description made me ask myself this question: Do we truly want to turn a corner—or do we just want to appear as if we have turned one? Because stories sell us the “arc” so well that we come to see stagnation as a flaw. Yet some lives—especially those fractured by loss, guilt, or trauma—are not told as stories of ascent. Sometimes a story does not end with “I became better”; it ends with “I am still here.”
I understand Christopher’s search for his arc very well. At some point, we all ask: “Where is my story going?” But what Manchester by the Sea and The Wire show us is this: An arc is not always a curve of victory. Sometimes an arc is a person learning to live with the same pain. Sometimes it is not “escaping,” but “carrying.” Sometimes it is not turning a corner, but accepting that there is no corner and continuing to walk anyway.
And perhaps the truest pain is this: Acceptance does not look dramatic to an outside observer. It is not applauded. No final music swells. But for the one living it, it is often the hardest thing of all.
I do not want to close this essay with a concluding sentence, because the issue here is not “conclusion.” But I can say this: My friend’s circle reminded me that life does not always flow like a story. Not every character needs an arc. Some characters tell us so much precisely because they do not change.
Perhaps the question we should sometimes ask is not “Where’s my arc?” but this:
“Inside this circle, can I today carve out even a centimeter of space for myself?”
Even if there is no corner… perhaps sometimes, there is a small opening. And sometimes, in real life, the greatest transformation is simply noticing that opening.
“Where’s My Arc?”: The Promise of Transformation and Its Disappointment
Manchester by the Sea: Breakdown Can Happen Without Transformation
The Wire: There Is Struggle, But Where Is the Corner?
What Does It Mean to Never Turn a Corner?
Perhaps an Arc Is Not Always an Arrow Pointing Upward
Small Ways to Breathe Inside the Circle