There are days when it all feels pointless.
You do the things. You show up. You try. You send the emails, make the calls, cook the meals, fold the laundry, show up for the people who need you. You do it again the next day. And the next. And somewhere in the middle of a Tuesday, you stop and think:
“What is any of this for?”
Not in a dramatic, throwing-hands-up way. Just a quiet, exhausted wondering. A sense that the thread between your efforts and any meaning has gone missing. That you’re moving, but you’re not sure toward what. That the whole thing might be nothing more than a series of tasks strung together until you die.
I’ve been there. I go there sometimes still. And I’ve learned a few things about those days that I wish someone had told me.
The Problem With Needing to Know
We’ve been sold a story that everything should feel meaningful.
That if you’re doing the right things, you’ll feel a sense of purpose. That the grind should glow. That the path should feel like a path, not just… walking.
But here’s the truth nobody tells you:
Most of life is just walking.
Most of it is unglamorous, unrewarded, uncelebrated. Most of it is showing up on days when showing up feels like the only thing you’re doing—and even that feels hard.
The idea that we should feel inspired and purposeful at all times? That’s not realistic. That’s not human. That’s a highlight reel we’ve mistaken for real life.
Real life is mostly B-roll. And B-roll still matters. It’s what holds the story together.
A Story About My Grandmother
My grandmother lived in the same house for sixty-two years.
She cooked thousands of meals. Washed thousands of dishes. Made beds, swept floors, pulled weeds, paid bills, drove carpool, attended recitals, sent birthday cards, answered phone calls, showed up.
When she died, we cleaned out her house. Drawers full of nothing special. Closets full of clothes she wore to do things that didn’t matter to anyone but her.
And I remember thinking: What was it all for? Where’s the proof that any of it mattered?
Then my cousin spoke at the funeral. She talked about how Grandma showed up at her school play when her own parents couldn’t make it. How she stayed after and said, “You were the best one up there. I’ve never seen anyone shine like that.”
My cousin is forty-three now. She still remembers that moment. Still holds it. Still becomes who she is partly because of it.
Grandma probably forgot that night by the time she got home. It was just another thing on the list. Just another Tuesday. Just another act of showing up that didn’t feel meaningful at the time.
But it mattered. It mattered so much that it’s still alive decades later.
That’s the thing about meaning. You don’t always get to know when you’re making it.
What I’m Learning About the Ordinary Days
I’m learning that meaning is not always something you feel.
Sometimes it’s something you build. Brick by brick. Meal by meal. Load of laundry by load of laundry. Showing up by showing up.
You don’t feel it while you’re doing it. You feel it later. In the child who remembers you came. In the friendship that survived because you didn’t give up. In the quiet pride of being someone who stayed when staying was hard.
The days that feel pointless? They’re not pointless. They’re the foundation. You just can’t see the house yet because you’re still laying bricks.
What to Do on the Pointless Days
When the meaning feels gone, here are a few things that might help:
Stop looking for the point.
Just for today. Give yourself permission to not need a reason. You’re not a machine that requires purpose to function. You’re a person. And sometimes people just… do things. Without fireworks. Without clarity. Without knowing why.
Do one small thing that feels slightly better than nothing.
Not the whole to-do list. Just one thing. Make your bed. Take a shower. Drink a glass of water. Text one person back. The goal isn’t productivity. The goal is proof that you’re still here, still capable, still showing up for yourself.
Notice what’s actually in front of you.
Not the big questions. Not the existential dread. Just what’s here. The way the light hits the wall. The warmth of your coffee cup. The sound of rain or traffic or whatever noise fills your particular Tuesday. Being present won’t answer your questions. But it might remind you that you’re alive. And sometimes that’s enough.
Remember that you don’t have to feel it to mean it.
You can show up without enthusiasm. You can love without fireworks. You can keep going without knowing why. The doing matters even when the feeling doesn’t. Especially when the feeling doesn’t.
A Question to Sit With
Instead of asking “what’s the point?” today, try asking this:
“What would I do if I trusted that this season has a point I just can’t see yet?”
Not if you knew. Not if you felt it. Just if you trusted.
Maybe you’d keep going. Maybe you’d soften. Maybe you’d stop demanding that your life make sense right now and just let it be what it is: a series of ordinary days held together by a person who keeps showing up.
That person is you. And you’re still here. That’s not nothing. That’s everything.
A Soft Reminder
The meals you cook that get eaten and forgotten? They nourished someone.
The work you do that feels invisible? It’s holding something together.
The love you give that doesn’t get returned the way you hoped? It’s still love. Still real. Still counts.
You don’t have to see the meaning for it to be there.
Sometimes meaning is just… trust. Trust that the bricks are becoming something. Trust that the walking is the path. Trust that the ordinary days are not wasted—they’re the actual fabric of a life.
And you’re weaving it. Even now. Even on the days it feels like nothing.
What I Want You to Take With You
If today feels pointless, that’s okay.
You don’t have to fix it. You don’t have to find the meaning. You don’t have to feel better by bedtime.
You just have to stay. Just for today. Just for this hour. Just for the next five minutes if that’s all you’ve got.
Staying is enough. Staying is everything.
The point will show up later. Or it won’t. But you’ll be here either way. And being here—ordinary, tired, uncertain, still going—that’s the whole thing.
That’s the whole thing.
P.S. What’s one ordinary thing you did today that maybe mattered more than you know? Not to perform—just to notice. I’d genuinely love to hear.
