Will I Ever Make it Downstream?

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There’s a capitalization-averse Substack called “Milk and Cookies” by a woman named Ayushi Thakkar. I found it a month or so ago, and I have to say, she’s been publishing some really incisive reflections. There’s one I’ve had open for days that I want to share with you today.

The post is called, “why feeling lost might mean you’re finally doing it right,” and while it would be very pretty to think so, I’m not nearly so sure for myself.

And yet…there’s something in it.

Let me start by saying that I’m trying to find my feet, but yes, I’m still lost.

Today, for some reason, has been a really rough day.

I woke up feeling lost, depressed, purposeless, unwanted.

I found it extremely hard to drag my mysteriously aching body out of bed. To do what? Phone it in? Show up in insufficient ways? Question what the hell I’m even for? Watch as others with focus and direction build things they can be proud of, while I do ontological snow angels in the fever swamps of my mind?

I’ve been trying to work through all of this on my own without broadcasting it here like a livestreamed heart surgery.

Some days, I can put the mask back on long enough to write a halfway decent post that isn’t obnoxiously self-referential.

On the days that I can’t, I usually just…don’t.

But consistency matters. Showing up matters. At least, that’s what I keep being told.

Allow me a lame analogy:

I hate carrots. Despise them. Actually, most root vegetables. I also find beets utterly revolting. I am not a picky eater, but there is something in my DNA that views this category of plant life as a hostile alien threat, and on those occasions where I find them in my meal, I have to force myself to choke down just enough that I do not insult the cook.

It’s the culinary equivalent of listening to nails on a chalkboard.

So today, when I sat down to take a crack at a post, I felt like someone had stuck a giant bowl of carrots in front of me. [shudder] I couldn’t make myself suppress the gag reflex and eat. Instead of chowing down, I decided to let someone else do most of the eating. And by eating, of course, I mean writing:

there’s a strange ache that comes with outgrowing a version of your life that you worked hard to create. it’s the kind of feeling that doesn’t announce itself as grief but hums in the background of your daily routine — in the moments when the things that used to feel important start to feel hollow, when your goals no longer excite you, when you’re not quite burnt out but can’t seem to care either. it’s not depression, not exactly. it’s disorientation. and for many people, especially in their mid- to late-twenties or early thirties, it’s the quiet emotional truth behind the phrase “i feel lost.” but what if being lost isn’t a failure to find yourself — what if it’s the beginning of finally doing it right?

God, I wish this had happened to me in my mid-to-late twenties or early thirties, instead of my mid-to-late forties, when I’m supposed to have all this shit figured out.

I am so damn tired of being lost.

I’m exhausted from trying to figure out what the mission is. I want something to pursue with everything I’ve got.

I have the skills. I’m not afraid of the work. But the compass won’t stop spinning. Which the hell way am I supposed to go?