Does this count?

The making of a meaningful existence

Q: What do you get meaning from and what have you defined as your purpose after loss?

TL;DR — I have not defined a purpose. Just choices. Again and again. Toward joy, or comfort, or curiosity, or distraction, or connection.

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For the first year or so, I withdrew from people. And life. I was acting as the unofficial executor. The logistics weren't too bad in the grand scheme of things, but deeply exhausting to me in the day-to-day: waiting on hold for hours during work hours to tell strangers at financial institutions that yes, my mom died, and no, I don’t know where her T4 slips are. Then I’d wrap up for some thrilling errands after work, like hunting for stamps at the closest Shoppers Drug Mart near me to mail her passport into the bureaucratic abyss.

At the time, it felt like no one around me really understood grief, no matter how well-meaning they were. I didn’t want to burden others with my pain, either. I read a lot about grief and mental health, because I was seeking validation for how I felt: I wanted to know that it was okay to feel completely not okay.

I also started questioning whether my work still felt meaningful, which led to me switching startup jobs, toward one with a mission closer to my heart. That brought some renewed purpose. Something to hold on to. For some time, at least. For that I’m grateful for, even if that job eventually became a source of stress and pain. But that’s a different story.

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At some point, I started finding small pockets of “meaning”: habits, hobbies, even vain impulse purchases. I tried video games, books, miniature painting, gardening, cross-stitching, dying my hair, and probably spending too much money. When something sparked even the faintest flicker of joy—or comfort, or curiosity, or distraction—I intentionally tried to lean into it a little bit more. Because I now understand, so achingly, that everything is precious and fleeting.

To this day, I remind myself to appreciate the things I appreciate, while I still appreciate them.

Some of these sources of meaning stuck. Most didn’t. But I found new ones, sooner or later. More importantly, I had to learn, over and over, to trust that I would continue to find new ones. Even when I was deep in the pit and it didn’t feel that way. Especially then. It felt like doing a trust fall with myself. Every damn day. Exhilarating.

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At first, I only looked for meaning in things that didn’t involve other people. Things that were more or less within my control. Relationships can never be (nor should be) controlled. And I wanted control. I wanted all the levers and toggles.

Writing was the one practice I somewhat kept up, and it became a lifeline. I think it was because it gave me a safe space to connect with myself. And also because it didn’t require me to put on pants.

Writing allowed me to show up even when I’m falling apart, and be okay with anything that showed up. The contradictions. The discomfort. The uncontrollable messiness of it all.

Writing led me to therapy. (Go to therapy, kids.)

Writing eased me into giving up control. I don’t enjoy giving up control, but I can’t enjoy everything that is good for me.

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Slowly, I started reconnecting with friends. I ventured out of my pit like a bear after a long cold winter in isolation. Feverishly starved, but cautious. (I don’t actually know if that’s how bears feel in the spring. Just a guess. I could’ve looked it up. I didn’t. Look, it’s now 4am, and I’m not the Discovery Channel.)

My friends aren’t saints. Most of them didn’t know what the hell to do or say around me, but that was fine. If I wanted someone to say all the “right things”, I’d go to ChatGPT! The imperfect ways we show up for each other are what makes our human connections real and meaningful.

On days—or more likely, nights—when my feelings and thoughts overflowed and overwhelmed me and I couldn’t possibly fathom burdening anyone with them, I started to write about it on a quiet little Substack. This quiet little Substack.

I still have those nights. When everything that I feel and think feels too much. Too loud. Too abrasive. Too wobbly. I come back to this Substack at 3am (now 4am) on a week day, and write about it. Like tonight. Hello. Hi. How are you?

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I think the thing about meaning is that it usually isn’t one thing, forever. It’s what you choose. And you don’t have to choose explicitly. And you can always choose again.

I am someone who often becomes paralyzed by having to choose. I suspect I’m not the only one. Choosing can be scary. But choose anyway.

More often than not, you simply can’t predict if something’s meaningful until after you’ve chosen to do it. You might have inklings or cost-benefit analyses. But it’s the doing that makes it real. So choose.

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Right now, I find meaning in vain fitness goals, discovering new music and finding concerts I may or may not cry at, working on side projects where I feel curious and vaguely competent enough to not fidget endlessly, and spending time with people who I care about, to one extent or another.

Does this count? Is this enough to qualify as a meaningful and purposeful existence? I think so.

If I did none of those things but found comfort in reading YA fiction, hyper fixating on coffee beans, or taking inhumanely hot baths that scald away existential dread: Does that count? I think so, too.

Try something. See how it feels. Then try something else. That’s all we get to do here.

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When a friend asked me this question, I told them I probably had three essays’ worth of thoughts.

This is, I guess, one of those essays.

Do I now have to come up with two more?