Rediscovering Being: A Slow Rebuild

This ain’t about finding happiness, not in that picture-perfect Instagram way. It's more like... rediscovering the feeling of *being* happy, the stuff you forget when you're just going through the motions. For a while there, I felt like a passenger in my own life. Days blurring into weeks, then months—all spent chasing something I couldn't quite name, while ignoring what was already right in front of me.

It hit hardest after March. Dropping out... that wasn't some grand rebellion. It was an admission. A letting go. And the space it opened up? Terrifying. Every notification felt like a judgment, every silence a confirmation that I was off-course. Doubt crept in, whispering its usual poison: *You’re wasting time. You’re irrelevant.* It would have been easy to just… stop. To let the inertia win.

But something stubborn kept me going. Making beats. Posting them online, even when the numbers were crickets. Showing up at that open mic night downtown even though I knew I’d probably freeze onstage. That part wasn’t about ambition or recognition; it was about refusing to disappear. It was about reaffirming my existence, one small action at a time.

I started paying attention – really paying attention – to how certain things *felt*. Not in some profound, meditative way, but just noticing. A specific chord progression that sparked something deep inside me. The feeling of the Chicago wind on my face during a late-night walk through Pilsen. The quiet satisfaction of crafting a beat from scratch, hearing a melody emerge out of nothing. It wasn't about maximizing joy; it was about recognizing and holding onto the fragments of contentment already present.

Nietzsche’s idea of *eternal recurrence* always felt heavy to me—too philosophical for everyday life. But I started looking at it differently. Not as some cosmic test, but as a prompt: Would I want to live this exact day, in this precise moment, over and over again? The answer wasn’t always yes. In fact, there were plenty of days where the response was an uncomfortable, resounding no. Those became data points. Signals for course correction.

The thing is, you can't force yourself into feeling something that isn’t already simmering beneath the surface. Trying to manufacture joy feels hollow, even insulting. It’s about uncovering what *already* moves you—the things that genuinely resonate—and building your days around those touchstones. It’s a slow process, a constant recalibration. Like mixing a beat – sometimes you have to subtract more than you add.

That first paid placement back in September? Six hundred dollars felt incredible, sure. But the real victory wasn't the money itself. It was the confirmation that I was headed somewhere worthwhile. A validation of the countless hours spent honing my craft, despite the doubt and the silence. It cracked something open inside me—a sense of momentum, a belief in the direction I’d chosen, even if the progress felt glacial at times.

Now, it's about integrating those small moments into the larger landscape of my days. Not chasing some grand purpose, but finding meaning in the intentional act of *being*. It's not about eradicating the hard feelings—they're part of the process—but understanding them, learning from them, and choosing to focus on what brings a sense of groundedness, even if it’s just for a few minutes at a time. That's real living. And that's what I'm building towards.