Holding Space for Empty Things

Sometimes, it just hits you—this… weight. Not sadness, not exactly loneliness, but something lighter than either, yet somehow heavier. Like trying to hold a cloud. For a while there, those moments felt like they were winning. Six months. Just staring at the ceiling fan, watching the dust motes dance in the sunlight and wondering what it all *meant*. Wondering if I'd made the right call walking away from things.

I used to chalk it up to writer’s block, or just being down on my luck—the usual artist excuses. But there was something deeper than that. It wasn’t about not having anything to say; it was a feeling of… lacking *something* foundational. A place to anchor those ideas. Like building a house on sand. I kept making beats anyway. Kept posting, even when the likes felt like pity points. Showed up because showing up is half the battle, right? My grandma used to tell me that.

There's this new thing they're doing now—people tracking how they feel throughout the day, not just relying on those big, yearly check-ups with the therapist or remembering back at the end of the week. They ask you little questions, like, "Right now, what's going through your head?" and “How connected do you feel?” Several times a day. It’s interesting because it feels almost invasive – logging these fleeting moments - but also incredibly clarifying. Like suddenly seeing the patterns in the static noise of everyday life.

I realized I’ve been avoiding this. Confronting it was just too… much. Because what those responses showed, especially for people who *care*—the really empathetic ones—is that they feel it more. That capacity to put yourself in someone else's shoes? It doesn’t make you immune to emptiness; it can amplify the feeling of being untethered from something essential. Like holding space for other people’s pain, and realizing your own has nowhere to go.

It makes sense now, a little bit at least. When I was younger, trying to figure out who I was—Chicago summers on the lakefront, Atlanta heat still clinging to my skin—I always felt this urgency. Like there was some grand purpose waiting for me just around the corner. But maybe that’s not how it works. Maybe life isn’t about finding a pre-existing destination; maybe it's about creating something out of the blank space, layer by layer. Beat by beat.

The six hundred dollars from that first placement… that wasn't some miracle cure. It didn't magically fill anything up. But it was a signal—a tiny crack in a wall I thought was impenetrable. Proof that maybe, just maybe, this path – the one built on making stuff, sharing it with people - was actually *mine*. It’s been slow going still, but I feel like momentum is building; not some crazy overnight success thing, but steady, consistent growth.

I started noticing how those feelings of “lightness” often come when I'm disconnected—when I haven't really engaged with anyone or anything meaningful that day. Not scrolling through Instagram doesn’t magically cure it, though. It's about *doing*. Actually making something. Connecting to someone on a real level, even if it's just for five minutes. Helping somebody out, no strings attached. These small moments – they create an anchor.

It's weird how easy it is to get lost in the noise of wanting—wanting more followers, more recognition, more *something*. But maybe what I really want isn’t "out there." Maybe it's already inside me, waiting to be built, piece by piece. And maybe the emptiness isn’t a problem to solve, but just… space. A canvas. A place where something new can begin.