Self

I’m Feeling A Bit Lost

An honest reflection on the situation.

It feels a bit weird to be writing this.

I’m someone who often writes about self-improvement — and may seem like I have everything figured out, though it’s never my intention to seem that way.

I’m at a weird juncture in life. I’m 39. Most of my friends have kids, careers, and are busier than all hell.

Sure, my life is great. I have a great relationship. I love what I do for work. But there’s this weird void and I don’t think Jesus can fill it.

This moment was probably inevitable

I’ve been writing for seven years. I quit my finance job in the Fall of 2019 to do this full-time.

Prior to quitting finance, writing was my creative outlet. It was my beloved hobby that gave me so much joy.

It was my release from the existential dread of being in a cubicle all day, from being so constricted with who I was, with what I said and did.

And it isn’t that becoming a full-time writer killed my love of writing. It just, well, changed things. It is also work. And like any job, has its sources of heartburn and frustration. I still love it. But it’s still work.

After quitting my corporate job, my life became this very wide-open thing with no rules, no work calendar, and no meetings.

I didn’t (and still mostly don’t) do emails.

Initially, it was exhilarating. Yet I knew this was a dangerous type of freedom that shouldn’t be taken for granted.

And so my day-to-day existence became monk-like and regimented — but on my own terms. I’d wake up. Exercise. Get a smoothie. Clean the house for a moment, and get into my writing session.

Each day was a handful of writing sprints, with other things to break up any creeping monotony.

Later in the day, I hang out with Laura. We live a normal couple life. We go out to eat and go on walks. We mostly balance being active with decompressing and watching shows.

Somewhere in the past six to twelve months, I started feeling restless. I don’t know when exactly. But it started happening and I wasn’t sure what needed to change.

I started teaching writing to a cohort — just to mix things up. It has been a very pleasant experience — with plenty of surprises too. Yet this still didn’t “scratch the itch”.

Up until recently, I’d mostly kept my restlessness to myself. Finally, I explained it to Laura and, understandably, she was concerned it might have to do with “us”.

It doesn’t — and we talked it out.

We reasoned I should get a hobby of some type. I’ve always been a hobbyist and figured it might fill the void.

When I was a teen and 20-something, I’d been a big gamer. It was a known commodity. So I went and bought a graphics card and a game I knew I’d enjoy.

Beforehand, I had a minor concern I’d get sucked into the vortex: I get very passionate about things I do. I seem to only have two gears in life: all in, or not at all.

Well, sure enough, every time I sat down to write a draft, I’d notice the icon for the game tugging at me.

Instead of working on a draft, I figured, “Hey, why not just play a quick game.”

Two hours would fly by.

Then, when it was time to write, I was sick of staring at the screen and loathed myself for wasting two hours. I still muscled through a rough draft — but all semblance of joy was sucked out of the process.

I tracked my time and realized, within five days of getting the game, I’d played 12 hours and my daily time was going up: 1, 2, 3, 4.

It was literally a 45-degree angle.

Even worse, the game was compromising my time with Laura and eating into my headspace. I found myself laying in bed thinking of strategies for the game, obsessing over how to get better.

The same thing happened many years ago with Call of Duty and League of Legends — until I realized I was wasting my life, putting endless hours into these games.

When I thought about it and mapped my life out 5 and 10 years from now, I knew I’d look back and regret wasting time on these games. I’ve already been a gamer. Some chapters of our life need to be closed so that others can be opened.

And so I made an executive decision to cut the gaming.

It’s frustrating on a certain level. In my quieter moments, I question myself, “Are you a friggen junkie? You can’t just enjoy something without going overboard?”

I felt like that person who realizes they just aren’t good at relationships. After a dozen failed and chaotic relationships, they conclude, “You know what? Maybe I’m the problem. Maybe I’m just not equipped to handle being with someone.”

There was also a functional problem

I was putting something I loved — right where I do all my work. With one click, I could switch from work to gaming. I work for myself and there’s nobody tracking my time or internet use.

The game was always there, pulsing and whispering my name every 5 seconds.

Laura made a good analogy. She’s a horse girl. She said, “If my work computer was in a stable — I would get zero, freaking work done.”

Even further — it was too much time in one room.

My hobby and my job were all happening in the same four square feet. It wasn’t healthy. It only made me more restless than when I began.

Here I am — 39. I write, exercise, and hang out with my girlfriend. I have so many great things going for me.

I have my health and that of my family. I own a home. I have financial security and a loving relationship. Part of me wonders how I can have the audacity to be bored and restless.

One thing writing has taught me — without fail — is that knowing what to write is often about knowing what not to write. Over time, you learn to wander blindfolded through the editorial maze.

And perhaps this will be the path to my solution.

I knew gaming was a dead end in my maze. I went and returned a $1000 graphics card and gladly ate a $200 restocking fee. I feel lighter and freer already.

Yet I still have this central problem to resolve.

I know I don’t want to start drinking and partying, nor do I want to take up gambling, or any other vices or risky hobbies. Photography is a no (been there, done that).

I’ve thought about taking up blacksmithing, just to do work with my hands and because it’s kind of gritty and different.

Perhaps I need to socialize more. Maybe I need better human connections? Yet my inner introvert recoils at that.

Sometimes life hands you a card with a question mark on it. Then, it’s on you — not only to figure out what the answer is — but what the original question was.

I’m feeling a bit lost. But that’s OK.

In the interim, I will continue my search, and report back when I get through this maze.

Subscribe to my newsletter for more free content.