LostIn The Fog

Lost in the Fog: Why Numbing Out Fails (But Purpose Lights the Way)

Ever feel like life’s a GPS that’s just spinning, no signal, no clue where you’re headed? That was me—lost, stuck, and staring into the void, wondering, “What do I even do with this mess?” At 44, I’ve danced with that fog more times than I’d like, and let me tell you—it’s a heavy, wobbly beast. It’s not just “I don’t know what’s next”—it’s a soul-deep ache that makes you feel like the only one who missed the memo. If you’re there right now, I get it. It’s rough. And the ways we try to fix it? Oh, we’re a bunch of lovable weirdos fumbling in the dark. Here’s my tale of sinking, numbing, and finally breaking through—plus a big, goofy hug for wherever you’re at.

The Numb Zone: A Red Chair and a Quiet Collapse

When I didn’t know what to do, it wasn’t quirky or cute—it was a slow, sad numb. Think less “funny hermit” and more “depressed dude in a red folding chair.” I’d plop down for hours, book in hand, staring at pages like they’d magically zap me back to life. My wife would peek in, worried sick, wondering if the guy she married—the playful, giving me—had checked out for good. I wasn’t cracking jokes or chasing dreams; I was a ghost in my own house, fading into a haze of “maybe if I sit here long enough, I’ll figure it out.” Spoiler: I didn’t. The quiet I craved? Never came. My head was a nonstop buzz of “what now?”—like a radio stuck between stations, all static, no song.

And the withdrawal? It crept in slow. I stopped going out, ditched the “hey, let’s grab a beer” texts, and left my friends and family scratching their heads. My immediate crew—my wife, my kids—they didn’t know what to do either. Watching me struggle was like watching a kite tangled in a tree, flapping helplessly. They wanted to fix it, but I’d built a wall of books and silence, leaving them on the outside, feeling useless. I wasn’t dragging them down with tantrums—just a heavy, unspoken “I’m lost” that sucked the air out of the room.

The Flops: Books, Booze, and a Belly Full of Nope

My big fix? Oh, I went all in on books—The Four Agreements, Man’s Search for Meaning, self-help stacks taller than my laundry pile. I’d sit in that red chair, guzzling coffee gone cold, thinking, “I’m not budging ’til I’ve got every answer.” Don’t take it personally became my mantra, whispering control when I felt like a pinata mid-swing. Viktor Frankl’s grit told me purpose was mine to find, even in the muck. But here’s the kicker: I didn’t want to do anything with it yet—I just hoarded wisdom like a dragon on a pile of gold, waiting for the perfect “aha” to save me. Newsflash: it doesn’t work that way.

Then there was the other stuff. Emotional eating? Check—I’d shovel snacks like they’d fill the hole in my soul (pro tip: they don’t). Drinking to repress the feels? Yep—pour a glass, mute the noise, repeat. It was like trying to patch a leaky boat with chewing gum—temporary, messy, and a whole lotta nope. I thought I’d crack the code in isolation, but all I got was a louder brain, a worried wife, and a family tiptoeing around my gloom.

The Now: Purpose Pops the Party Back On

But hold up—here’s where it gets good, and I mean good. One day, I stopped chasing the perfect fix and started owning my mess. Purpose didn’t hit me like a lightning bolt—it snuck in, quiet and steady, whispering, “Hey, you’re enough.” For me, it’s coaching—helping folks like you find your spark, turning my struggles into a big, neon “I get it” sign. Suddenly, life’s not just open—it’s a wild, amazing, laugh-too-loud party.

Now? I’m 44 and buzzing, learning, figuring things out, and loving every second of lifting others up. My failures? They’re gold—every stumble’s a story that says, “You’re not alone.” I’ve gone from numbing out to nerding out—reading for joy, not escape, and coaching with a grin that’d make my old self snort-laugh. Picture this: me, cranking “Sweet Caroline” at midnight, belting “bah-bah-bah” while my wife shakes her head, giggling. That’s the now—exciting, messy, mine. “If it’s to be, it’s up to me,” and man, it’s a blast making it happen.

The Real Deal: You Don’t Need All the Answers

So, if you’re lost, listen up: you don’t have to numb out or hide to fix it. That fog? It’s not a dead end—it’s a detour to something epic. Don’t pull a me—don’t sink into snacks, sips, or a chair ’til your family’s whispering, “Is he okay?” Start small. Crack open Man’s Search For Meaning to get a nudge, not a cure. Text a friend, “I’m a mess—wanna laugh about it?” Take one tiny step—wear that goofy hat, hum a tune, ask, “What’d I do if I wasn’t scared of sucking?” (I started with flamingo socks—zero regrets.)

You’re not broken, and you’re not dragging anyone down—you’re just mid-adventure. Purpose isn’t a finish line; it’s a spark that grows when you move. So, what’s your next goofy, brave step? Hit me with it—I’m over here, cheering like a dork with pom-poms, ready to see you soar.