That’s how I feel sometimes. Not sad. Not angry. Just… numb. Like I’m drifting through the days on autopilot, stuck in the loop of the same meetings, errands, tasks, and small talk.
Weirdly, it’s not like this when things are falling apart. Crisis mode? That’s when I wake up. I feel sharp. Powerful. Focused. Needed. Like I matter.
Is that why I sometimes let things spiral? Just to feel something other than… this?
I don’t think I’m the only one.
They say time speeds up as we age. And yeah—kids feel every day because it’s all new to them. Every experience is a first. Every moment glows.
But the older you get, the fewer firsts you have left. You’ve driven a thousand places. Signed a hundred contracts. Said “Happy Birthday” a million times. That rush from getting your license? Gone. That thrill from a new relationship, new job, new home? Fades.
And slowly, everything just… settles.
Into blah.
Not long ago, life threw me a curveball. My kidneys failed. Out of nowhere. Just shut down.
Suddenly, I found myself in a dialysis center a few times a week, hanging out with amazing older folks—warriors, really. And strangely enough, during that time?
No blah.
Everything felt heightened. Food tasted richer. Conversations had more depth. My family felt like everything. I noticed things. I appreciated people. I felt alive.
Nothing changed—except my life expectancy.
And that was enough.
Turns out, my kidneys weren’t producing the blah. That came from somewhere else.
It was perspective.
See, it’s basic human nature to want more. That’s how we evolve. We chase the next thing. Always climbing. Always hungry. But to move forward, we usually have to step over what we already have.
And once we finally get to a place of “enough”? Where life is comfortable. Predictable. Safe.
That’s when things lose their edge. The thrill fades. The days blend. The blah settles in.
But maybe the answer isn’t more. Maybe it’s seeing again. Paying attention again. Feeling now, instead of waiting for something to shake us awake.
Because crisis might make us feel alive—but it shouldn’t be the only thing that does.
In the 12-step world—a refuge for all kinds of addicts—there’s an old belief:
No one’s really addicted to a drink, a drug, or a behavior.
What we’re addicted to… is more.
More is what drives people to betray everything—values, loved ones, themselves. It’s what takes root when we feel uncomfortable in our own skin. When what we have starts feeling like a cage instead of a gift. When stillness feels like suffocation.
So we run. Not toward something—but away. Away from the old. Away from what we know.
And it doesn’t just happen to addicts.
It happens to anyone who’s built a life—steady, stable, secure—and starts to see that life as a ceiling instead of a foundation. You look around and think, this is it?
Two cars. Spouse. Kids. Mortgage. Everything you once prayed for… now just more proof that maybe there’s no more more.
And that? That’s where the blah comes from, too.
So… how do you unblah the blah?
How do you get your mojo back?
(And if you know what mojo is—and remember Austin Powers—you’re exactly the right age to be reading this.)
But really—how do you find spark again?
Without inventing a crisis.
Without buying a Porsche.
Or even a Honda.
At this stage of life, we’re told to slow down. Not in performance—no. We’re still expected to show up, crush it, provide, lead.
But what separates a grounded forty-something from a hungry twenty-something?
It’s not what’s ahead.
It’s what’s underneath.
It’s the ground we stand on now. The life we’ve already built. The weight we’ve already carried. The truth we’ve already earned.
That’s the difference.
And maybe—just maybe—that’s where the mojo lives now.
Meditate. Try psychedelics. Talk to a therapist.
But not about your fear that nothing lies ahead.
Talk about your connection to what’s within you.
What you’ve lived. What you’ve built. The experience. The relationships. The depth.
That’s your greatest asset now.
The days of hiding behind “potential” to excuse immaturity? They’re over.
You’re not waiting to become someone. You are someone.
Don’t look at the ground beneath you as a trap. It’s not holding you back.
It’s holding you up.
It’s your foundation. Your arsenal. The sum of everything you’ve been through.
The blah creeps in when you disconnect from that.
When you forget that you’re not lost—you’re rooted.
And that’s not the end of something.
That’s where it all begins.
