The Existential Storm: Weathering the Quiet Ache of Being

Wanderer in the Storm by Julius von Leypold

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Maybe it’s when you’re rinsing your morning mug.

Or folding your towel with less care than usual.

That soft sigh from nowhere.

That’s when you feel it.

That quiet fatigue that stretches beyond the physical and into the existential. A profound, often unspoken weariness that stems from grappling with life’s deeper questions—its meaning, its messiness, and the disillusionment that quietly trails behind hope.

This isn’t just about feeling tired or burnt out.

It’s a soul-weariness.

A kind of ache that doesn’t go away with a nap or a weekend off.

It’s what happens when the world keeps spinning, and you’re there, barely holding on, wondering what it’s all for.

Like rowing across a foggy lake with one broken oar. Going through the motions, but not quite getting anywhere that feels real.

For many of us, it starts with idealism. When we’re young, we believe in the script: work hard, be good, follow the path—and happiness will follow. But then real life arrives, muddy boots and all.

It doesn’t unfold in perfect scenes.

Instead, it’s full of loss and longing, missed chances and unexpected detours. The life we imagined starts to fray at the edges, and we’re left holding the pieces, wondering where we went wrong—or if we did at all.

This gap between the life we hoped for and the one we’re actually living—that’s where existential fatigue often settles. We realise the world isn’t as simple or fair as we once thought. And in that realisation, something soft and hopeful within us begins to dim. We start to ask the hard, lonely questions.

Why am I here?

What’s the point of it all?

And underneath those questions is often a quieter fear:

What if there isn’t one?

Disillusionment isn’t failure—it’s part of growing up. The stories we were told about success and happiness lose their sparkle, and we begin to see the cracks.

And yet, the ache remains.

Existential fatigue doesn’t usually arrive with a bang. It creeps in—through ordinary disappointments, through watching others hurt, through the quiet sadness of days that don’t feel like they belong to you.

We realise how little we can actually control.

We make mistakes.

We lose people.

We feel alone.

And still, somehow, we’re expected to carry on.

Viktor Frankl wrote that meaning is essential to survival. Even in the most unbearable circumstances, we can choose how to respond—and find meaning in that choice. But in practice? That search for meaning can feel like trying to catch smoke. What gives one person purpose might not work for you.

Maybe it’s family, or faith.

Maybe it’s creativity, service, or simply bearing witness.

And maybe you don’t know yet.

That’s ok, too.

When you’re weary to the bone, it’s hard to believe that meaning exists at all. The hunger for it can feel like another burden to carry.

So, what do we do with existential fatigue?

We start, gently, by accepting the mess. Not as resignation, but as a kind of courage. A soft, strong willingness to meet life as it is.

We stop clenching our fists against what we can’t change.

We stop pretending that we’re meant to feel good all the time.

We make peace with not knowing.

With imperfection.

With being human.

This isn’t giving up.

It’s coming home to ourselves.

We might not be able to control how we feel. But we can choose what we do. When we act in line with our values—what actually matters to us—we begin to stitch something sturdy into the fabric of our lives. Something that holds, even when things fall apart.

Resilience isn’t about avoiding pain.

It’s about staying soft in the middle of it.

It’s trusting that this ache doesn’t mean you’re broken.

It means you’re awake.

Existential fatigue is a call to come back to yourself.

To slow down.

To sit with what matters.

To find meaning not beyond the mess, but inside it.

It’s not glamorous work.

It won’t earn you a medal.

But it’s how we begin again.

One quiet, hopeful choice at a time.