(in honour of the original post)
There’s a particular kind of ache that stirs when life goes quiet.
Not loud or sharp.
Just… persistent.
It hums beneath the noise of goals, tasks, ambitions.
And when the striving pauses, there it is—restlessness, craving, a pull toward something new.
As the original post put it:
“We have, all of us and to varying degrees, been duped by the sales pitches, the flashing cascade of advertisements traipsing through the sidebar. That jam-packed flow of ads is full of shiny new things, new techniques, new experiences that promise to finally alleviate the so-far insatiable, burning, lonely, primordial ache.”
And yet:
“I used to blame advertisers for that restlessness and dissatisfaction, but I don’t think that’s right. We were already restless; we always have been.”
That hit.
Because I’ve spent years wrestling with my own hunger for more: more success, more impact, more clarity.
And I’ve just as often blamed the culture that sells me that dream.
But what if restlessness isn’t a flaw?
What if it’s just part of being human?
When I suffered a significant financial loss recently, I didn’t pivot or rebuild.
I returned.
To quiet.
To self.
To what was already here.
I didn’t use the words “repair” or “remain” at the time—but that’s what it was.
Zoomed out, my life has changed.
Work, friendships, habits—all reshaped.
But zoomed in?
The changes feel more like echoes than explosions.
Familiar ingredients, rearranged.
Maybe this is what personal sustainability looks like.
Not constant reinvention.
But a deepening.
A quiet repair.
A decision to remain.
These days, I feel more at ease in my body.
Happier at home than chasing a horizon.
The ache hasn’t gone.
But I’ve stopped trying to outrun it.