Earlier this summer, a bout of existential void hit me. Sweat from the heat mixed with sweat from my anxiety. I knew something was missing, but I couldn’t figure out what. Paired with it was deep existential exhaustion—the kind that makes your hair feel tired. The kind you feel in your bones, even in the cells of your marrow. The weariness. The fragility of bones and spirit about to break.
“You don’t seem happy.