Existential Fatiguing

The quiet resilience of showing up, tired but still human

As you probably know by now, if I am sharing my writing with you it is because I have been ruminating with the thoughts, the feelings, and the ideas long enough for them to be shared.

In my past life, I would see hundreds of people every week in my classes, or on a screen. I would share some of my thoughts in a more natural face to face way. But different times call for different measures. And these days, it is through my writing that I feel at most ease sharing about life and how to find meaning.

Sometimes these thoughts keep me up at night. As if I am racing against time to discover what it means to be human?

Then I remind myself that I am human. And I can't be any other thing than what I already am.

I have to remember to indulge enough in existential and philosophical questions, yet not so much that I end up navel gazing.

But what does it mean to be human when simply existing feels exhausting?

What happens when the very act of being aware, of questioning reality, of trying to make meaning from chaos, the same thing that makes you unique and human, is what makes you feel your chest tight every morning or every night before bed?

I call this existential fatiguing, and I believe it is becoming the defining experience of our times. We are watching old paradigms disintegrate while new ones are still in their infancy. We sense the shaky ground beneath our feet, but there is no solid ground around us.

Existential fatiguing is not depression, though they are polite to each other.

It is not only anxiety, though they know each other’s dirty laundry.

It is the tiredness that comes from constantly having to construct, reconstruct and deconstruct who you are in a world that seems fragmented, unstable and spinning out of control.

The pandemic was it for me. That was the beginning of my existential fatigue.

The passion I once felt for the things that kept me awake with excitement and joy dimmed. I began to retract into a more restrained person.

In a way, I became the shadow of who I once was.

And I went into the darkness knowing there was no other way.

This is the paradox of existential fatiguing. We are tired from the very awareness that makes us human, yet we cannot turn off this awareness. Or perhaps we are stubborn about it.

We cannot escape being conscious, being compelled to care, being driven to make meaning even when meaning-making itself becomes exhausting.

I think the times we are living are sad. Dark for some. Hell for many. And if we care about others and the world, it is impossible not to feel an internal fracture. The tension around your chest or throat when you look and see what we are capable of.

We live in what is often called the information age, but it might be more accurate to call it the age of cognitive decline. Our brains, designed for the immediate and tangible, are bombarded with global crises, infinite scroll feeds, and the suffering of billions of strangers. We are not genetically designed to absorb the multitude of events happening in front of us. And yet we genuinely try.

We are experiencing collective existential fatiguing aka mass suffering, where entire populations are exhausted by too much or too little awareness, too much or too little choice, too much responsibility for problems we deem ourselves incapable of solving.

It is okay to be sad, to cry, to shut down, to be angry, or numb. It would be an even worse problem if we felt nothing instead.

This is where I find myself, and where I suspect many of us find ourselves. We know we must keep moving forward, but some days the act of showing up feels monumental.

I have seen more tender days than joyful ones in recent years. My heart has remained open, but I have questioned if this existential fatiguing through life is worth it.

I have questioned my existence, my role, my capacity to contribute.

I have prayed for miracles. And even in suffering, I have found refuge in something inside myself that some might call light, god, determination, nature, soul, or stubbornness.

At my lowest point, a doctor told me, you are lucky, because this treatment you are receiving is only offered under two specific circumstances. One, if you have treatment resistant depression. Two, if you had recent suicidal ideation. And the doctor followed by saying, you are lucky, you have both.

“You are lucky, Adrian.” I said to myself, and laughed, while crying inside.

The feeling of overwhelm some days is heavier than what you see me posting or writing about. Still, I make a determination to try every day to do something that pushes me outside of the box. Anything that removes me from a label.

The French philosopher Simone de Beauvoir wrote that we become who we are through our choices and actions, not through a predetermined essence.

This gives me hope.

Even when I do not know who I am, even when I am tired of the constant becoming, I can still choose. Small choices. Daily choices. Choices that rebuild not just who I am, but why being who I am might matter.

The other day I looked at Facebook, a foreign place for me now, to see what was going on with people I had lost track of. I was bewildered that lives continue through the difficulties. People still move into new houses, get engaged, run marathons, save turtles, lose loved ones, chase drugs, preach salvation through yoga. And I inevitably compared myself to others. Have they not felt the fracture? Do they also look back with nostalgia for the times that were not better but at least familiar?

I realized that my personal experiences ruptured my timeline.

This is perhaps the most insidious aspect of existential fatiguing: the way it isolates us. We assume we are the only ones carrying this tiredness, questioning whether it is worth it.

I suspect existential fatiguing is far more common than we admit. Some of you may be nodding no, thinking it is not that common. But my gut tells me otherwise.

Many of us are carrying this heaviness, even if we rarely put it into words.

Is it bad to feel existentially fatigued?

If it becomes chronic, you might need an infusion of nature, a ride on a bike, a call with a friend, whatever reminds you of the small things that still hold meaning. There are so many. I promise. Even when it feels like a needle in a haystack.

In the same way that we stock our shelves with food for hurricane season here in Florida, we should fill our hearts with the things that carry us through fatigue and sadness season. We all need the simple things that witnessed civilizations flourishing and making it against all odds.

Not more information. Not more wellness scams. Ancestrally effective simple things.

I tell you what is in my cup these days. Do not judge me. I am taking better care of my skin. I am doing facial ice baths. I am riding my bike almost every day along the beach. I am reading and listening to more books than ever before. I am paying attention to what I eat, what I consume. I am enjoying the simple moments with my dog, Buddha. I am trying psychedelic therapy. I am swimming. I am meditating in the shower. I am reminding myself that every day is a compound of small acts.

These might seem small, but I have come to believe that existential fatiguing requires acute existential gentleness.

We cannot think our way out of it.

We cannot dissociate our way out of it.

We cannot hack or optimize it.

We can only tend to ourselves with the care we would give a friend carrying the heaviest burden.

I feel overwhelmed often. But I am also convinced that a collective night of the soul might be necessary for many of us to wake up to something we have not yet seen so we can’t imagine it. Only dream of it.

Maybe existential fatiguing is not only personal but collective. Maybe the exhaustion we feel is not a glitch but a signal that something fundamental must and will change, not just in our lives but in how we perceive ourselves as a society.

I do not have all the answers, but I hold onto this: we keep going by acknowledging the weight we are carrying and finding ways to carry it together. We keep going by honoring both our exhaustion and our refusal to give up. By helping every tired soul along the path.

We have enough broken hearts already. Let’s begin to whisper a song of hope.

Begin to sing so then others can sing.

Even if our voices crack from exhaustion. Because the alternative to not trusting that there must be a better way equals silence. And silence serves no one.

Adrian Molina is a trauma-informed coach, crisis counselor, and peer recovery support specialist based in Miami Beach. He has dedicated over two decades to working with survivors of sexual abuse and trafficking in hospitals, homeless shelters, prisons, and crisis centers. Adrian has trained with RAINN (Rape, Abuse & Incest National Network), AFSP (American Foundation for Suicide Prevention) and has worked as a volunteer crisis specialist with the 988 Suicide & Crisis Lifeline. Originally from Buenos Aires, Argentina, he moved to the United States in the early 2000s and began his career teaching yoga before transitioning into trauma recovery work. Adrian's private practice is grounded in the understanding that healing requires both professional knowledge and lived experience. Through his writing and client work, he helps survivors integrate their experiences and reclaim their power.

Photo by Louis Maniquet