In the Stillness, I Breathe

Finding Life in the Emptiness

That deep sense of emptiness, the crushing weight that makes it hard to rise from bed, is a feeling I understand intimately. There are days when waking up feels more like a defeat than a renewal. The promise of another day looms heavy rather than offering relief. It’s as though life has set a trap — making us move through the motions with no reward, no solace. And, on those days, the idea of simply not waking up, of fading into a gentle nothingness, seems less terrifying and more inviting. It’s easier to imagine a kind of soft departure, slipping into sleep with the quiet hope that you won’t have to face another morning. 

I think about what it is to live in a world that doesn’t make much sense. We are born without a say, thrown into a series of responsibilities, relationships, societal expectations, and all the while, we’re supposed to “find” something — purpose, love, meaning, happiness. But what happens when those things feel elusive, or worse, like illusions altogether? When nothing in life seems to offer respite or comfort? It’s an overwhelming reality to grapple with. For me, it took a long time to realise that much of the sorrow I was carrying was deeply tied to the stories I had been told about what a life should look like.

You wake up one day, and you are meant to feel grateful. You have people in your life who love you. You are educated, fed, clothed, housed — so why isn’t that enough? And then, of course, the guilt creeps in, as it always does. It tells you that this sadness is unfounded, that you are selfish to wish for death when so many fight to stay alive. It’s a brutal inner dialogue, a loop of shame that often worsens the very feeling it’s trying to dismiss. So, what does life offer when you can’t find joy in it? When you look around, and all that’s reflected back is an empty shell of existence? I wish there were an easy answer, but that would be too neat. Life is messy, and maybe the biggest lie we’ve been fed is that there’s a formula to “fix” it — a step-by-step guide to meaning. It took me years to come to terms with the idea that life might not offer meaning in the traditional sense. There’s no guaranteed prize at the end, no promise of fulfilment, no perfect relationship or career or passion project that will finally make everything make sense. 

On the days when I feel empty, the question becomes not what life offers me, but what can “I” offer life. That shift, subtle as it may seem, has been a lifeline. What does the world need from me, even in my emptiness? Can I give something, even if it’s small? When I frame my existence this way, it feels less like a burden I’m shouldering and more like a chance to observe, to engage with the world from a place of stillness. 

Some days, all I can offer is survival. It’s not poetic, it’s not glamorous, but it is something. To live in the face of sadness, to breathe when your lungs feel heavy, to step out of bed when every fibre of your being pulls you to stay. That act, as mundane as it sounds, is defiance. It’s the choice to say, “I’m here, despite it all.”  But there are also other days, rare as they may be, when I can offer more. A poem, a conversation, a listening ear, a laugh, a sketch in the margins of a notebook. On those days, life feels a little less empty, because I am giving something to it, even if it’s not monumental or earth-shattering. And then there’s the acceptance of emptiness itself.

Our culture is obsessed with filling voids — with entertainment, with achievements, with relationships, with material possessions. But what if the void isn’t something to be feared or avoided? What if the emptiness inside us is a space that allows us to reflect, to feel, to question?

I think about how nature, in its quiet moments, thrives in stillness. The earth is replenished in the dark of night, the ocean breathes in its pauses between waves. Maybe our emptiness is not a curse, but a necessary pause. It’s a space for something new to grow, even if we can’t see it yet.

For me, the trick — if there even is a trick — has been in lowering the stakes. Life doesn’t have to be this grand, fulfilling adventure every single day. Some days, it’s just surviving. Some days, it’s observing the way the light hits the wall, the soft flicker of a candle in a dark room. Some days, it’s letting the fantasy of dying in your sleep linger, not out of despair, but as a gentle reminder that life is fragile, that each day is a choice, and that we’re allowed to feel tired. There’s also something strangely freeing in admitting that you don’t know what life offers. When you release the pressure to always be happy, to always strive for something, you can sit with what is — even if what is feels hollow. I think about this often when I struggle to get out of bed, when the day stretches before me like an insurmountable mountain. I ask myself not what life expects of me, but what small thing I can offer. Sometimes, the answer is nothing. Sometimes, it’s just surviving. But sometimes, it’s something as simple as noticing the sound of rain outside my window, or writing a few words that reflect the heaviness I’m feeling. One of the things that keeps me tethered to life, even when it feels pointless, is the idea that perhaps, in all the chaos, we’re meant to leave some kind of imprint. Not in the grand sense — not as a legacy or something to be remembered by — but as a ripple in the lives of others. A kind word, a shared silence, a hand held through a dark time. I think we underestimate the power of just being present, even in our darkest moments.

Life doesn’t always offer joy, or meaning, or even hope. But it offers moments. Fleeting, sometimes painful, sometimes beautiful. And in those moments, there’s a chance to connect — with others, with yourself, with the world around you. That connection doesn’t have to be monumental. It can be a brief encounter with a friend, two soft words of affection, a quiet afternoon spent alone with your thoughts. These moments are what I cling to when the sadness becomes overwhelming, when the emptiness feels too vast to navigate. They remind me that, in the midst of it all, there’s still something — however small — to hold onto. Maybe that’s the heart of it. We live not because life offers us something grand or meaningful, but because we’re human, and humans cling to moments. Moments of connection, of quiet, of noticing. And maybe, just maybe, those moments are enough. Or, if not enough, at least something to keep us here, to keep us waking up, even when we’d rather not. It’s not a neat answer, and it’s certainly not a solution. But it’s honest. Life doesn’t have to offer you anything. You don’t have to feel grateful for every day, or find purpose in every hour. Sometimes, you just survive. And on some days, that’s the most profound thing you can do.