When Everything Feels Flat and You’re Still Trying to Feel Like Yourself

Dear Land Loved,

I don’t really know how to phrase this properly so I’m just gonna say it kind of how it comes out.

I feel like I’m okay in the basic sense, like I’m working, I’m eating, I’m showing up to things, but inside I don’t really feel like I’m in my life. It’s more like I’m watching it or managing it or something.

I used to have things I liked, I think? or at least I remember feeling more like myself. Now when people ask me what I like doing I kind of freeze a bit because I don’t know what the honest answer is anymore. Nothing feels wrong exactly, just flat. Like I can’t get interested in things the way I used to.

And the world feels really loud all the time even when nothing is happening directly to me. Like there’s always something bad going on somewhere and I guess I’ve just gotten used to carrying that in the background all the time. I don’t know how to shut it off or if you even can.

I guess what I’m asking is, how do you find your joy when everything just feels kind of too much and you don’t even know where to start looking for it anymore. Or like… what if it’s gone and you’re just pretending it’s there.

I don’t know. I hope this makes sense.

I really hear you, let’s dive in.

I keep sitting with what you said about feeling like you’re kind of watching your life instead of being inside it. Like nothing is technically wrong, but it all feels flat and distant anyway. That’s a really specific kind of tired, and it can make you doubt your own experience because there’s nothing obvious to point at or blame.

I don’t think joy disappears completely. It’s more like it gets harder to access. Like the signal is still there but everything else is louder.

One thing I come back to is glimmers. Tiny moments that cut through without asking for anything from you. Not big “happy” moments, just brief flashes where time feels like it softens. Practice noticing things outside yourself. A bee collecting nectar and being completely absorbed in it. A butterfly drifting past like it has nowhere else to be. Plants on a walk just existing in their quiet way. A spider web catching light so precisely you almost miss it if you blink. Even just a small shift in air or light that makes you pause for half a second. Those things don’t fix anything, but they can remind you you’re still here and still able to notice beauty.

And I think part of what happens when everything feels heavy in the background is that we stop noticing those things. Not because they’re gone, but because your attention gets pulled inward or flattened out. So sometimes it’s less about “finding joy” and more about gently training your attention to catch the small flickers again, without needing them to become something bigger than they are.

There’s also something you said about not knowing what you even like anymore. I don’t think that always means it’s gone. Sometimes it just means you’ve been in survival mode long enough that curiosity and preference go quiet. In that state, joy doesn’t usually arrive as a big clear answer like “this is my passion.” It tends to come back in pieces. A moment that feels slightly less numb. A laugh you didn’t plan. A few minutes where you’re not bracing or running a routine.

The world being constantly loud doesn’t help with any of that. There’s a kind of background stress that builds when you’re always absorbing everything happening everywhere. It makes sense that it would flatten things. You’re not meant to hold that much input all the time. If you can, creating some boundaries around it can really help. Not ignoring everything, but giving yourself set times to check in with news or social media instead of letting it run in the background of everything. Because that constant input is addictive in a way that slowly drains your attention away from your own life.

And if life has started to feel too structured or repetitive, even small changes can matter. Walking somewhere you don’t usually go. Changing the route. Doing something slightly unfamiliar just to break the loop your days fall into. It doesn’t have to be dramatic, just enough to remind your brain that your life isn’t only one shape.

I also want to say something more direct about your body, because being disconnected from yourself isn’t just mental. Pleasure can be part of coming back into your own skin. That can include sexual pleasure or just any kind of physical sensation that feels good and grounding. Not as a fix, but as a way of remembering you’re a person inside a body, not just someone moving through tasks. I really encourage making space for pleasure where it feels right for you, whether that’s touch, rest, massage, yoga, or anything that brings you back into your body in a way that feels safe and good.

And then there are the smaller anchors. Things that don’t demand much but still help you return to yourself. Laughing when something actually hits you, even if it feels brief.

Gratitude, not as forcing positivity, but just noticing what isn’t heavy for a moment. Warm tea. A quiet second where nothing is required of you.

I keep thinking about lemon balm too. Lemon balm is such a joyful plant. Growing it, or even just having lemon balm tea, can be a small ritual that brings a bit of softness into the day without trying too hard.

I don’t think you’re missing joy. I think you’re mostly dealing with a kind of overload and disconnection that makes it harder to feel the things that are still happening around you. But the fact that you’re noticing the absence of it usually means you’re still in contact with it, even if it’s faint right now.

And sometimes it really does come back in glimmers first, not in big answers.

Be gentle with yourself. Have patience with where you are, and trust that the spark is still there, even if it feels quiet or out of reach right now, and it will come back with time.

With love,

Vanessa 🖤

P.S. I also want to mention something I offer personally. I hold free monthly women’s circles in Nelson BC, and they’re very much a space where you don’t have to show up as anything specific. All feelings are welcome there, even the absence of feeling, even the “I don’t know” parts.