Nothing is Something: Why am I so sad all the time?

Where Did You Go?

I’ve often thought that if I were to write a book about my life, it would be incredibly boring, because it felt like nothing really happened. No big defining moment, no dramatic story, or so I thought. My teenager tells me about the deep, compelling backstories of characters in her books and games, and I catch myself thinking — the intriguing pull that makes the story fascinating.

For a long time, it felt like my story was just… ordinary. No big traumas (thankfully). No major turning point, apart from maybe the divorce of my parents — and even that felt more like a shift in scenery than a dramatic collision. School, childhood, family life — all of it was more or less okay. Pretty average. Which, to be fair, is not a bad thing. Many people would take average over painful any day.

But not really a page turner.

So I thought that there is not much there to write about, yet I felt a longing to write. As a way to wade through the this nothingness. And what I’ve come to realise is that nothing is not nothing, it is something. The nothingness is full and it is my calling to retrieve those pieces of me that are tucked a way in the shadows.

But I find it a story that is hard to tell. The slow disappearance of light. The way numbness creeps in. The deadening of something that once felt alive, without knowing why or how exactly it happened. How do you write about absence of something? How do you put a wordless experience into words?

People I work with in therapy often describe something similar. When they try to connect with numbness, it’s murky and hazy. The word that shows up most is “nothing.” It feels like there’s nothing there. No impressions. No feeling. Just this quiet blankness.

And this is when we can get oh so curious. What happens if we stay with that? What shows up in the body? How can we get close to nothing? The nothing is not neutral — it carries weight. It holds meaning. Sometimes the absence speaks louder than presence.

In therapy, we can sit with that. We don’t need to rush it into language. Sometimes movement, or art, or collage helps. Something wordless that allows the experience to show itself. And slowly, gently, something begins to emerge. A shape. A felt sense. A beginning of words. From that, we can tend to what needs care. What needs presence. What was left in the shadows. But only if we stay curious and not knowing. We try to tolerate the uncertainty of the unknown.

Like so many of the people I see, you would not have known that there was anything astray if you listened and looked at me, not even when I wanted to completely put my light out. I walked through the world looking fine. Doing fine. Saying the right things. No one saw how I was fading on the inside. Not the doctor, not the midwife, not the therapist I tried to talk to. Not even my closest people.

I don’t say this with a smugness that I could fool anyone, no. It is with the wish to portray how subtle, powerful and layered this kind of protection was. That was so quiet, so sophisticated, that even I didn’t realise how much I was holding in.

As I was crumbling inside my faithful protector allowed for me to, say things like “Yeah, I’m a bit tired but okay” and it sounded believable. It was believable. That’s the power of the protector.

And many of the people I work with carry that same protector. There’s a longing to be held, seen, understood — but alongside that, a deep implicit memory that being seen can be painful. Shameful. Unsafe. That others can’t be trusted with our tenderness. That no one will stay. No one will get it. And so we learn: it’s safer to stay quiet. To contain it all.

This doesn’t always come from abuse or violence. Often it comes from absence. From caregivers who were distracted, overwhelmed, caught in their own survival. They might have loved us — but they weren’t really with us. They weren’t attuned. And so we were left to hold our worlds alone and often theirs too.

I hear this a lot in therapy. “I had a good childhood.” “There wasn’t anything wrong.” And then, gently, we start to look at what “good” really meant. I might ask, “Who did you go to when you were scared or overwhelmed?” “Who lit up when you entered the room?” And so often, the truth begins to come through: no one really did. There was food. A house. Maybe even holidays. But there wasn’t presence. There wasn’t delight. There wasn’t someone saying, “You matter, just as you are.”

We learned to keep things in. To manage alone. Our bodies become containers — solid, sealed, leakproof. Holding everything in, keeping others out. Because being let down felt inevitable. Not the kind of disappointment that stings for a day, but the kind that sinks into your bones. That ache of not being known by the people who were supposed to know you. Of being invisible in your own home.

And when connection did happen, it was perhaps practical. Focused on fixing, improving, managing. Not on being with. Or worse — it was dismissed, shamed, or ignored. No wonder we end up confused. No wonder we struggle to understand our low mood, our exhaustion, our anxiety, when everything “looked fine.”

This absence of presence is profound. It leaves a mark. And it creates a longing that many people carry well into adulthood: the longing to be seen. Not just noticed — truly seen. Held in someone’s attention without being criticised, evaluated or fixed. As Bonnie Badenoch writes, that going unseen is to fall out of existence.

The child in us needed someone to take their time. To remind us we mattered. That we weren’t too much. That we were wanted, not for our good behaviour, but for our humanness. That we didn’t have to hold the weight of the world alone.

The protector that stepped in — that part of us that said “I’m fine” — did its job. It’s been loyal. Fierce. Thank goodness it was there. We don’t need to get rid of it. We need to meet it with care. With tenderness. It has been carrying us for a long time.

I know this might sound heavy — and in some ways, it is. But it’s also deeply beautiful. Because it means we stayed alive. Our systems adapted. They created safety, even when that safety meant shutting down. The nervous system isn’t failing. It’s protecting.

When we’re in this kind of state — what’s called dorsal vagal activation— everything slows down. There’s a quiet withdrawal from the world. And it can feel like nothing will ever change. But I’ve seen how things can shift. And it begins in relationship. A consistent, present, grounded connection with another person. That’s what allows the protector to soften. That’s what reminds the system: it’s safe enough to feel again.

Movement helps too — not always exercise, but embodied movement that brings you back into your body. And no, it doesn’t mean you have to do yoga or that your movement has to be gentle, it can be, but you have to find your way. Creativity helps. Small rituals. Being in nature. Anything that reconnects you to your aliveness.

Numbness can look like a lot of things. Exhaustion that won’t lift. A smile that doesn’t feel real. Doing all the “right” things, and still feeling empty. It can look like being easygoing — but losing track of your own needs. Like always tuning in to others, while being completely tuned out from yourself.

Sometimes it feels like the lights went out a long time ago.

Like joy slipped away quietly.

Like you’re functioning, but not quite living.

For many of us, safety has meant retreating. Getting small. Going quiet. Carrying life’s weight on our own. For too long.

But what if that weight wasn’t something to fight?

What if it’s carrying a message?

What if the numbness is not the end of the story — but the doorway in.

If any of this resonates with you — the numbness, the quiet ache, the sense that something's missing but you can’t quite name it — know that you’re not alone. You don’t have to explain it perfectly or have a neat story to tell.

Your system found ways to adapt. To protect what was tender and vulnerable. And that’s something we can honour, not fight.

Healing doesn’t always come in big breakthroughs. Sometimes it comes slowly — in moments of presence, in being gently witnessed, in reconnecting with parts of yourself you thought were lost.

And even if you still feel far away from all that… you’re already on your way. Just by wondering. Just by noticing.

Sometimes, the way back begins with the question: Where did I go?

I’d love to hear if there is anything that resonates for you in here and what?