When Nothing Feels Real
“I don’t think I believe in anything anymore. Not religion, not purpose, not the promises I made to myself. I used to wake up with some kind of direction, or at least a sense of rhythm. But now it just feels like I’m drifting. I keep showing up—work, errands, small talk—but inside it’s like the lights are off. I’m not suicidal, I’m not even hopeless exactly. Just… hollow. It scares me, but I also don’t want to fake my way back to something I no longer feel.”
Dear Jo,
There’s a kind of grief that doesn’t announce itself. It doesn’t come with tears or funerals or some dramatic collapse. It’s the grief of living after the glue has come undone—when the things that used to hold you together, or at least hold you up, start to lose their grip. You’re still functional, technically. You’re still in motion. But inside, something has gone still. And when belief disappears—whether in something spiritual, or in the logic of life itself—it leaves behind a silence that’s hard to name.
The kind of hollow you’re describing doesn’t mean you’re broken. It means something once felt true, and now it doesn’t. And that’s a quiet kind of devastation. Most people won’t notice, because you’re still nodding, still clocking in, still replying to text messages. But you know the difference. You remember what it felt like to move with conviction, even if you never called it that. And now the days blur. Now you look around and feel like you’ve fallen out of step with everyone who still believes—believes in progress, in marriage, in karma, in something better coming.
I want to be clear with you, Jo: losing belief isn’t always a failure. Sometimes it’s a natural breaking point. Sometimes it’s the logical result of paying attention. If you’re someone who has tried, someone who once made promises to yourself, someone who gave a damn—then of course it hurts when none of it feels real anymore. That doesn’t make you a quitter. It makes you honest.
Here’s the thing we don’t say often enough: belief isn’t just about religion or purpose. It’s the scaffolding under your habits. It’s what makes you brew coffee in the morning, or check your calendar, or smile at someone even when you’re tired. Belief is what tells you there’s some reason to keep going. Some underlying thread that says: this matters. And when that thread goes slack, everything else starts to feel like performance. You go to the store, you pet the dog, you return the emails. But something essential isn’t clicking. The internal compass is quiet.
And yet, you’re still here. Which tells me something important.
You haven’t numbed out completely. You haven’t buried yourself in distraction or denial. You’re still close enough to your own pulse to notice what’s missing. That’s a kind of aliveness, even if it doesn’t feel like it. The fact that you can name this hollow space, without running from it or pretending it’s something else—that matters.
People talk about meaning like it’s something you stumble across one day—a revelation, a big idea, a lightning bolt. But in real life, meaning is something you build, slowly, often while doubting the entire process. And that building usually starts small. Tiny, almost embarrassingly simple actions. Making a meal you like. Noticing the light at 6:14 in the morning. Holding your tongue when you want to say something cruel. Going outside when you’d rather disappear. None of those things are meaning, on their own. But they are materials. They are the early ingredients of belief—belief not in some big idea, but in the fact that you are still here. And that you might still be capable of caring.
It’s okay that you don’t want to fake your way back into old beliefs. You don’t have to. Belief doesn’t have to be inherited, or lofty, or all-consuming. It can be humble. Local. Scrappy. It can start with believing that someone in your life is worth listening to. Or that your hands can still make something. Or that your future self, even if she doesn’t believe in much either, might still be glad you stayed open.
There’s a psychological truth I’ll share with you here, not as an expert but as someone who has seen it unfold again and again: the mind does not tolerate a vacuum for long. When we lose belief, we will reach—consciously or unconsciously—for something to replace it. That’s why some people fall into cynicism, or conspiracy, or distraction. The absence of meaning is unbearable. So if you’re not choosing your beliefs, something else will fill the space for you. That’s why noticing the hollow matters. That’s why it’s good you said it out loud.
I’m not going to tell you to “just believe in yourself.” That kind of line feels insulting when what’s missing is more elemental than self-esteem. What I will say is this: belief often follows behavior. Not the other way around. You don’t wait until you feel hopeful to start rebuilding. You start doing the small things, the things that aren’t performative, the things that feel real even when everything else feels fake. And slowly, quietly, the world starts to regain some texture.
Maybe you don’t believe in purpose right now. That’s okay. You don’t have to. But can you believe in warmth? In movement? In the possibility that the season you’re in is not the only one you’ll ever know? Not because someone said so. Not because it’s a mantra. But because you’ve lived long enough to know that nothing stays the same—not even hollowness.
There’s no timeline for this, Jo. No clean ending. But if I could offer you one anchor, it would be this: meaning isn’t something you find. It’s something you practice. And sometimes the practice starts by admitting you’ve lost your place. That you’re scared. That you’re still hoping something will shift, even if you don’t know what that something is.
You haven’t failed. You’ve just outgrown the old container. Now you get to decide what’s worth holding, what’s worth growing, and what might be possible if you stop trying to force belief and start building something quieter, smaller, and more honest.
Even now—especially now—you’re not alone.
-RJ