Nothing, Then Everything

A salesperson who’s busy is a salesperson who’s making money.

And as someone who very much likes money, I naturally prefer to be busy. Busy is good, bored is bad. Simple.

Actually, bored is worse than bad — an empty calendar for a salesperson is equal parts Pathetic and Terrifying. These two adjectives battle each other week over week, the winner earning the right to abuse you from the moment you wake up. Some weeks are won by Pathetic when you feel useless. Other weeks are won by Terrifying when you’re convinced you’re about to get fired. Their punches carry similar weight, and in the long run, they have an even record. It’s impossible to predict which one will win in any given week; just ask Siri to flip a coin for you and place your bets.

And when you lose a deal, one of the few you have in your barren wasteland of a pipeline, these two adjectives join forces to mercilessly beat the fuck out of you.

This was my reality for years.

Facing them at work was brutal enough. But fending them off in the gym, where every streak of progress ended in pain, or when producing music where I would oscillate between triumph and inadequacy, made it feel like I was in the ring with someone twice my size and three times my skill.

Once in a while, I’d land a jab good enough to keep them off me for a bit. Sometimes they would even give me a nod of respect. But it never lasted long. As soon as I gained traction in one part of life, another would collapse. Momentum didn’t exist — I’d constantly find myself back on the ropes again wondering why everything was so much harder than it needed to be.

Things are different now. I’m finally winning the battle, in every aspect of life, against Pathetic and Terrifying after years of letting them kick my ass.

It all started last year when I got a new job. Then I moved to New York. Then my company got acquired. I picked up one win, then another. My momentum surged.

Suddenly I found myself living the life I always begged for.

I now wake up week over week to a full calendar and a consistent stream of emails from DocuSign saying my customer signed their order form. I have a social life where I can’t go more than a few days without making a new friend. My body is almost fixed after a decade of writhing in pain every time I took a step or picked up a weight. I might open for internationally touring DJs at the Brooklyn Mirage this summer.

I used to fantasize about every aspect of life clicking all at once.

Well, here I am. It happened.

And yet, something feels off, like the universe is subtly smirking at me and I can’t figure out why.

Do I need more of something? Possibly, but what’s missing?

I don’t know. Maybe I’m just addicted to wanting more, despite not knowing what more I want. Maybe I’ll never be satisfied. I’ve disavowed stoicism, but maybe I should go pick up another copy of Meditations.

Please don’t interpret this as if I’m saying I’m not happy. I’ve truly never been happier. This period of my life, of myself, is by far my favorite one, and I wake up every morning grateful for what I have. I want nothing more than to hold onto this forever.

Wait. I just said it. The problem is clear now: I’m clinging.

The weight of knowing that it won’t last — that it can’t last — is what’s causing this tension. One day I’ll look back on these days, desperate to relive them just one more time. They say nostalgia isn’t just about what happened; rather, it’s about who you used to be. I’m nostalgic for my present self.

The last time I experienced anything even remotely close to this, it got ripped away from me and plunged me into the worst period of my life. I wallowed in misery as Pathetic and Terrifying fucked me up, leaving me bloody and battered, clinging to the memory of how much better things were just a few months earlier. I never want to go through that again. That’s what I’m really afraid of.

So I do two things:

First, I obsessively try to maximize every minute, as if the harder I try the more present I’ll be.

Second, I keep pushing. Instead of enjoying where I am, I brace for my supposedly inevitable fall. Being busy isn’t about making money anymore. It’s about building armor. It’s existential.

Maybe it’s also because I spent so long fighting to get here and never learned how to simply exist. It was never an option to just chill and enjoy life — how could I relax when I was so far away from the life I wanted?

But now that I’m here, I don’t know how to sit still and take in the view. The weather is perfect and I keep worrying about when it’ll rain. I imagine my future self grieving the loss of what I’m experiencing right now. I tell myself to enjoy the moment which only takes me out of it.

The clock keeps ticking. I keep looking down.

I don’t have a lesson to teach. There’s no bow to tie. No quartet playing a feel-good anthem as the credits roll in.

All I know is I got everything I wanted. It just didn’t come with an instruction manual.

Now what?

I guess I have to go write the instructions myself.