The Lie of Meaning

If it defines you, it’s in the way

This might not feel good, which probably means it’s worth reading.

Meaning is the bait.

It promises direction. It promises purpose. It promises that all of this leads somewhere. It keeps you moving. It keeps you becoming. It keeps the story alive.

I chased it for years without realizing it. Even when I said I wasn’t.

Without meaning, things feel empty. And that’s exactly the point.

Meaning is how the self keeps itself together. It’s not a concept. It’s a glue. It binds everything to a center that doesn’t exist. That’s why it feels so important. That’s why it feels sacred. It’s the last thread holding the illusion in place.

I didn’t see it until the glue started peeling off and I was left staring at this strange, silent absence underneath everything I thought I was.

It doesn’t matter what the meaning is. Helping others. Raising a family. Becoming whole. Being of service. Telling the truth. Making something beautiful. Even waking up.

I’ve found myself clinging to all of these, thinking they were different. Thinking some meanings were more noble than others. They’re not.

It all serves the same function. It gives the sense of being someone who is doing something that matters.

So ask yourself:

Who would you be if your children no longer gave your life meaning?
Who would you be without your spiritual path?
Who would you be if helping others gave you nothing in return—not even a sense of being good?
Who would you be without your pain?
Without your healing?
Without your insight?
Without the story of what you’ve been through?

I had to face these questions. Not as an exercise, but because life stopped letting me pretend. And I didn’t like the answers at first. They stripped me bare.

Who are you when none of it matters?

If those questions sting, good. That’s where the grip is. That’s where the self still hides. That’s where identity is clinging to meaning like it’s oxygen.

But look closer.

What happens when meaning is gone? What’s left when nothing points to anything? What do you become when there’s no reason left to be?

Most people never find out. They double down. They decorate the emptiness. They call it purpose. They spiritualize the story. I did too. For a while, I thought I had to.

But all of it is a distraction from the raw silence underneath.

And the silence isn’t comforting.

It doesn’t tell you you’re on the right path. It doesn’t give you a reason to keep going. It doesn’t explain anything. It just stares back at you. Quiet. Vast. Unmoved.

I’ve sat in that. I still do. Not because I’m brave, but because there’s nowhere else to go.

Meaning can’t survive in that. It only works when you believe something is at stake. When you think your life is about something. When you still need to be someone.

But when that need dies, meaning dies with it. And what’s left is not a better story. It’s the absence of story altogether.

It’s not uplifting. It’s not inspiring. It’s not profound.

It’s just real. Once you’ve seen it, there’s no going back.

And strangely, without trying to be anything, without pointing to anything, without needing to matter, it’s beautiful.

Not the kind of beauty you can hold. Not the kind you can share. Just the quiet, naked presence of what’s here when there’s nothing left to protect.

And for the first time, it doesn’t need a reason to be.

Who are you without anything to live for?