“I Don’t Know How to Want Anything Anymore”
“I used to have things I looked forward to. Dreams, plans, even little pleasures that brought me comfort. But now, it’s like that part of me has gone dark. I don’t feel pulled toward anything. I’m not excited, not hopeful, not even particularly curious. I go through the motions, but there’s no spark behind it. I don’t know how to want anymore.”
Dear Rae,
I felt a heaviness settle in my chest as I read your words. Not a sharp pain, but a quiet, dull ache—the kind that creeps in when a part of your inner world has gone silent. And I want to say, right from the beginning, that this isn’t uncommon. It’s not talked about much, but it’s real. That hollow place where desire used to live, where plans used to take root, where your imagination once played freely… it’s a kind of absence that doesn’t always look like suffering from the outside, but it’s a deeply human grief.
The inability to want isn’t laziness. It’s not a moral failure. It’s not a lack of discipline or ambition. It’s disconnection. Disconnection from self, from aliveness, from the thread of meaning that used to run through your days like a current. And when that thread frays—or disappears altogether—you’re left floating. Not lost in chaos, but suspended in blankness. And sometimes that’s harder to name. Harder to explain. Because what do you call it when nothing’s wrong, exactly, but nothing feels right, either?
This space—this numbness, this void—can emerge after so many different experiences. Sometimes it comes after prolonged stress, after months or years of being in crisis mode. You get so used to managing, fixing, surviving, that when there’s finally space to breathe, you don’t know what to do with it. The system doesn’t shift gears just because circumstances do. It stays guarded. It stays quiet. It stays shut down.
Other times, it comes after grief. The loss of a relationship, a role, a dream. Even the loss of a version of yourself you used to recognize. You might still be standing, still functioning, still speaking in full sentences—but a vital part of your internal world has gone into hiding. And that kind of emotional disappearance is hard to articulate. Because it’s not just about sadness. It’s about vacancy.
You said you don’t know how to want. That sentence is so honest, so unguarded. And I wonder how long you’ve been holding it in. Because in a world that celebrates desire—desire for success, for love, for progress—not being able to want can feel like disobedience. Like you’ve stepped out of rhythm with the rest of the world, and now you’re watching it pass you by through glass. And people may try to encourage you, offer suggestions, give you reasons to feel better. But that’s not what you need. What you need is space. And presence. And someone to say: Yes. I hear you. That blankness you feel—it’s real. And it makes sense.
Because here’s the thing: desire is a form of trust. To want something means believing that it might be possible. That you’re allowed to pursue it. That there’s enough safety in the world to take a risk, to hope, to move. And when that trust is broken—by trauma, by disappointment, by burnout, by prolonged invisibility—the desire retreats. Not forever, but until it feels safe to return.
And sometimes the numbness is a defense. A brilliant, painful, protective strategy. Because to want is to become vulnerable. To admit need. To step toward something that could reject you, or elude you, or hurt you. And if your body has learned that wanting often leads to pain, then of course it shuts down that system. Not out of weakness, but out of wisdom. Out of love.
So if desire has gone quiet in you, maybe that’s not because you’ve failed. Maybe it’s because your system is still trying to protect you. Still trying to make sense of things. Still waiting for signs that it’s safe to feel again.
And that means the work isn’t about forcing yourself to want something. It’s about learning how to listen. To notice the tiniest flickers of interest, of ease, of gentleness. Not because they’ll light you up right away—but because they remind you that the capacity to feel is still somewhere inside you. Even if buried.
This numbness you’re describing—it won’t last forever. It never does. But I know it can feel endless when you’re in it. Days pass. Weeks. Seasons. And you wonder if anything will ever feel real again. If joy will return. If you’ll ever laugh without effort. If you’ll ever wake up wanting something.
It’s okay if you don’t have answers yet. It’s okay if all you have is breath. Sometimes that’s enough. Enough to keep you tethered to this moment, to this quiet pulse of life beneath the stillness.
If you can, let yourself rest without demanding clarity. Let yourself exist without demanding momentum. Wanting will return when it’s ready. Not as a fire, maybe, but as a whisper. A thread of interest. A curious pause. A sense of possibility. A subtle turn toward aliveness.
You don’t have to chase it. You only have to stay with yourself long enough for it to come back.
You’re not broken. You’re not behind. You’re in the part of the story that doesn’t get celebrated, but holds everything together.
I’m walking it too.
–RJ