What Remains When Nothing Makes Sense

There are moments when life no longer adds up.

The roles we’ve played, the beliefs we’ve held, the routines that gave shape to our days—suddenly feel foreign. Untrue. Or simply… lifeless.

It can happen after a loss, a diagnosis, a departure. It can happen slowly, like a quiet erosion. Or all at once, like lightning splitting the sky. However it arrives, we find ourselves standing in the rubble of what once made sense.

And for a while, we may search—desperately—for the pieces. For a new certainty. A new map. Some version of "solid ground."

But eventually, if we allow it, something else begins to happen.

We stop searching.

We start noticing.

The way light falls on the floor in late afternoon. The sensation of breath—warm, cool, present. The tender ache of being here, without answers.

And we realize: maybe there’s nothing to solve.

Maybe this is not a problem, but a passage.

A humbling. A softening. A return.

To what?

To what is.

Not what was promised. Not what we were taught to expect. But what is—now, in this breath.

In this space, something quiet remains.

Not logic. Not resolution. But presence.

And perhaps that is more than enough.