There was a moment when a specific shade of green coloured my inner world. It was the shade I experienced, looking out from the shore, as others sailed in the sunlight. Every promotion I heard about to a coworker, each smiley family photo shared by someone you know, and every testimony to the “good life” made me feel like an intimate, private reflection on my own weaknesses. It wasn’t a malicious desire; it was a melancholy. It was a feeling of an apparent absence, a constant ring from “not-enough” that played throughout my daily life. It was like being an archaeologist for other people’s joy, sorting through the remnants of their lives, attempting to figure out the patterns that I could not.
Then it was the earthquake. It wasn’t a singular moment, but a series of events, a heartbreak that didn’t break but destroyed foundations, a career plan that slid into loose scree, and a sense of self that just disappeared. The pain wasn’t sharp but a vast hollow. It was the type of pain that strips you of all adjectives and reduces your suffering to a simple pulsed noun, hurt. Lost. Alone.
And, from that zero, an eerie and peaceful process of alchemy started. The envy didn’t fade away; it transformed. To what? It was not joy, but an overwhelming, almost reverent joy. The realisation was easy and shocking: if I knew just a tiny fraction of this pain, the reality that someone, somewhere, had been spared it, that they were joking over dinner, celebrating a small win, or feeling secure in love, gave me a reason to be grateful. Their joy was no longer a cause for my resentment but rather a small, glowing, soaring flame in global darkness. I found myself praying that it wouldn’t disappear. It humbled me because it was a result of the fracture.
This humility is reinforced by the most basic truth that we can think about but don’t notice in our bodies until we’re broken. The life of a human being is a bubble. A perfect, shimmering, iridescent globe. It cradles the entire sky within its arc for a single breathtaking moment. And then it disappears in the smallest breath, not leaving even an impression of the dampness. We are the bubble. Our time in the bubble is a brief, fragile suspension. We amplify our ambitions and anxieties, as well as our fears, and even our lusts, inside the gloom of a thin, threatening membrane.
My brain is now holding an unsettling ledger, a listing of unnatural restrictions that plague the edges of our lives. It is a whirlwind of moments:
Accident: The world’s accidental punctuation of a sentence, a punctuation mark placed between sentences by a strip of ice, an unintentional glance, and a second of mistaken thinking.
Disease: A betrayal that is intimate of a mutiny that is silent within the very inner palace of self, which is rewriting the future from the inside out.
Suicide: The most tragic, painful editing of one’s own life, A pain so complete it seeks silence, the full end.
Life-long trauma: The psychological shrapnel that is never removed, A winter that sets in the soul’s bones and never completely thaws.
With this backdrop, my personal story fits into the daily routine of a relativistic appreciation.
My private life is judged against the heroic and exhausting loneliness of a single parent who is also the only designer of the universe for their kid.
My financial limitations are set lightly against the suffocating insecurity that kills aspiration before it has the chance to develop fully.
My minor pains are viewed as a side effect of the chronic illnesses, which turn the body into an inhumane prison of discomfort.
It’s not about superiority; it’s about the context. It’s the psychological equivalent of stepping back from a naive brushstroke and seeing the complete, intricate painting of human suffering and strength.
So, I am at the most central, enigmatic point of my existence: “I am happy, but I am not complete in my life.” It’s an expression that has its own peaceful storm. The joy is absolute; it is the joy of perception, of baseline security, and of scars from wounds. It’s the absence of those old and gnawing jealousies. It is also real. Is the echo that echoes in the rooms designed for families that never came or the silence that the narrative of a career was intended to unfold, the unanswered issue of what will fill the space when the pain fades?
My biographical start place. From there, with the bubble of water twitching in my hands, I began a long personal search into what, at the end, is really important. What would I want to fill this delicate vessel when I finally feel its sludge start to shrink?
Chapter One: Conversion Of the Golden Frame – Chasing Happiness
My first instinct, like many others, was to seek out the elusive dream of something I had always admired the most: happiness. In psychology, I was seeking the state of hedonic well-being, defined as an elevated level of life satisfaction and a balanced mix of positive feelings. I delved into the research. I discovered that happiness is associated with security, stable relationships, and financial stability that eases the stress of desperation. It made sense. My desire was actually the form of a map, though distorted and pointing at these exact things.
I attempted to establish the attitude that research suggested. I began journaling gratitude and jotting down small, tangible moments of joy each evening: a cosy bed, a delicious meal, or a text from a friend. I focused on enjoying and consciously extending pleasant moments, the first sip of coffee, the sensation of the sun’s rays on my skin, squeezing every drop of pleasure. I wanted to be a satisfied person, making decisions that were “good enough,” and to silence my inner optimiser, which would constantly whisper of a better choice just a few miles away.
It worked to a degree. A soft contentment hung over me. The rough edge of my losses mellowed. I had an environment that, according to many measures, was comfortable. Safe. Stable. It was like building the most beautiful room, with great lighting. I was at the place my envious self had long awaited.
The emptiness was still there. It was a quiet background sound in my well-appointed room. The psychology helped me comprehend the reason. The desire for happiness, although essential to a person’s baseline functioning, often emphasises stability and comfort. It can encourage risk-aversion. In my serene space, I realised it lacked windows to a storm, and consequently, there was no view of the dramatic peaks. The happiness research discussed “positive emotional state”; however, it did not define the deep, sweet, bittersweet feeling that arises when you are deeply involved in difficult things, or the mysterious peace that can follow a cathartic loss. My happiness felt… two-dimensional. It was lacking shadow and depth. It was a decent sketch, but it was not an accurate portrait. I had retreated from the hurt, but did not answer the question that its appearance had been asking.
Chapter Two Part Two: Building Monuments within the Sand The Find the Meaning
If happiness is about feeling good, the remedy for feeling empty is to do something meaningful. This led me into the world of eudaimonic well-being, or the psychology behind meaning.
The language here felt more solid. Meaning, as I discovered, is based on three pillars: coherence (your life story is logical), purpose (you want to contribute to something greater than yourself), and importance (you believe your life is essential).
This was challenging but worthwhile work. I tried to restore coherence from the wreckage of my fragmented narrative. In my journaling and therapy sessions, I attempted the process of autobiographical thinking. Instead of viewing my heartbreak and career savagery as an unimportant tragedy, I tried to connect them to a narrative about “resilience,” “learning,” “a vital clearing for a new development.” It felt a bit forced at first, as if I were trying to put together the pieces of a puzzle using different boxes, but over time it became clear that a fresher, sturdier story was emerging.
I was looking for a reason. I volunteered. I was able to mentor those who were lost in ways I understood. I devoted myself to my job with renewed, if not intense, passion. It was a lot of fun, active, and, at times, exhausting. It was a time of profound satisfaction in connecting and contributing. Victor Frankl’s concept of the “will to find meaning” seemed like a more powerful engine than the desire for pleasure.
However, a subtle tension developed. In my quest to craft an engaging narrative, I was tempted to sand down the ragged edges of my own experiences to fit the brand-new “redemptive” narrative. Did I try to force coherence that wasn’t entirely authentic? In addition, an attempt to achieve a larger goal could be a type of pressure, a new standard that I can use to gauge myself. Was I doing enough? Was my mission meaningful enough? A shadow that smacked of purpose, as I discovered, might be a form of perfectionist ethos.
There was a small portion of me that was… fascinated by the boundaries of things. The beautiful melancholy of a rainy afternoon. The enthralling complexity of a person’s choices in life, I couldn’t comprehend. The intriguing appeal of sad-sounding music and tragic art. It didn’t fit well in either the “happy” or the “meaningful” category. It was a longing not for pleasure or a purpose, but rather for deep understanding. It was the portion of me that gained more knowledge from my worst failures than from my most significant victories.
Chapter Three: The Unseen Country: The Psychology of Richness: Discovering the Unforeseen Country
This curious, agitated part of me finally found an identity, not in self-help but in the field of psychology research, the life of a psychologically rich person.
It was the missing piece. The concept of psychological richness doesn’t refer to happiness or one purpose; rather, it is a lifestyle marked by curiosity, variety, and experiences that alter perspective. The engines of this are curiosity and an openness to the world. It is committed to the complexity of our brains. Importantly, it allows for negative emotions, not as failures, but rather as valuable sources of data and radical transformation.
A light went on. My entire experience was reframed. The time of envy was not simply a flaw; it was an (painful) condition of comparison and blindness. The shattered reality I felt was the most profound event that changed my perspective. It violently ripped me away from my worldview and tossed me into a different one. It was the humility and gratitude of others’ happiness – these weren’t just moral stances. They were also cognitive achievements and evidence of a broader lens.
I began actively seeking the richness of life, not to escape desperation, but for its substance. I travelled alone to places where I didn’t speak the language, embracing the cognitive dissonance that creates different neural pathways. I read books that frightened and challenged me. I sat in the vicarious emotions of sadness and confusion, and, paradoxically, it made me more aware of human life. I began to view my personal “empty” space not just as a vacuum, but as an opportunity for reflection, for unstructured thoughts, and simply taking in the world around me.
The study confirmed the findings. Research shows that those drawn to challenging, new experiences aren’t always able to report greater satisfaction in the present. They describe feeling enthused, engaged, and transformed. They stimulate the brain’s search system, which is a dopamine-fuelled web of exploration. This is the psychology of the philosopher, the wanderer, or survivor who gains wisdom from suffering. This is why we see sad films, why we dive into the tragic stories of history, and why we want to engage in conversations with people who disagree with us. It’s research into the meaning of a person’s life that is fascinating.
My “emptiness” started to change. It was no longer a hole to be filled by someone else’s notion of a perfect life. It was the place where this fresh, more profound understanding was reflected. It was the quiet space needed to preserve the complexity.
Epilogue: The Tapestry on the Deathbed – What is the most important thing
What did I learn in this quiet space and shaky bubble in my hand? What can I say that matters from a biographical perspective?
It’s not a single thing, but rather the braiding of three braids.
In my final days, I am not sure I’ll be reliving only my most joyful moments. Also, I won’t be looking solely at my list of accomplishments and responsibilities; I would like to see them bring some happiness. The thing I’m convinced will be reflected in my mind, what will make my life seem as if it were lived to the fullest, is an intricate tapestry woven from the three threads.
I’ll be able to see those golden threads that represent joy, the warmth of the simplest comforts, the hurt of sharing a laugh with family and friends, and the tranquillity of a secure harbour. The threads of happiness provide the tapestry with warmth and light.
I will be able to see the solid, sturdy threads of meaning: the times I stepped up, the little changes I made, the affection pouring into the lives of others and into my work, and the narrative I created from the pieces that were broken. The threads provide the tapestry with its form and sturdiness.
And I’ll be able to discover the vibrant, unimaginable, and often deeply coloured threads of psychological riches: the pain that taught me compassion, the loss that teaches me humility, the bizarre beauty of a deserted landscape, the transformative impact of a new concept, or the eerie silence following an enormous loss. The threads in these tapestries contribute to their richness, texture, and unique, intricate beauty.
The phrase “I am content, but empty” wasn’t the end of my story. It was a crucial, uncomfortable, painful beginning. The joy was the foundation I needed to build on. The absence was the space which beckoned, but not demanded that I move beyond comfort and mere pleasure in search of the meaning and the profundity.
We all hold an air bubble. The gloom and beauty of it lies in the fact that you can decide what happens within its tiny globe. What will be the tranquil, clear waters of enjoyment? Are they the shrewd, solid, stout particles of accomplishment? Or, will we have the courage to present the intricate, stunning colours of our lives, of love and loss, of triumph and loss of certainty and wonder, and blend them into a unique pattern so rich that the moment of its disappearance does not feel like an act of tragedy, but rather the end of an amazing, unique work of art?
My space is now my studio. I am now working, and gratefully so.