I'm 38 and in a midlife crisis
Finally facing the emptiness
I feel that my life is withering.
Part of it’s my decision to move to Tucson. Whenever I step outside of my house, I fall in love with this place all over again, but it took me years to appreciate that—at least when it comes to tech—I’m a big fish in a small pond here. I’ve tried for years to create big things in this town, and time and again I’ve been frustrated and disappointed, and I’m reminded: the people who leave are the ones who try to make a place fit to their dreams, and the people who stay are the ones who fit their dreams to the place.
Part of it’s age. I’m slower and heavier. I own a house. My testosterone levels are dropping. I have trouble finding the right buttons on the Instagram app. I live a comfortable petit bourgeois life that I never expected and that my younger self would have been ashamed of. I’m just not that hungry anymore.
But the real issue that’s plagued me for 12 years since I left grad school—and with it, my deep faith in my work—is what I call the Ecclesiastes problem:
“Emptiness, emptiness, says the Speaker, emptiness, all is empty…all things are wearisome; no man can speak of them all…I applied my mind to study and explore all that is done under heaven…I have seen all the deeds that are done here under the sun; they are all emptiness and chasing the wind.” —Ecclesiastes 1:2-14 NEB
In Ecclesiastes, wisdom is empty. Foolishness is empty. Even gifts from God are empty. To understand the message, you have to take in its texture as a whole: the breathless pace of a narrator searching hither and thither for answers, only to find that every answer is empty.
That’s because the world is empty.
Our culture associates emptiness with cynicism, nihilism, and depression. For me, accepting emptiness means freedom. I feel more liberated from the illusions of this world that keep us from true perception. As Zen tells us, just because something’s empty doesn’t mean it’s fake. The love and pain I feel for and from everyone, myself included, is very real. But to hold my feelings—or my dreams and ambitions—is like scooping up waves from the sea. As soon as they’re in my hand, they’re gone.
The plan since I left grad school has been to get rich in tech so that I could start my real life, which for years I imagined meant becoming an independent scholar. But I could never fully commit to tech culture’s empty narratives. Here’s a sampling that I’ve tried on, awkwardly, throughout my career:
Technology is Progress, and Progress is Good
Build what people want
People don’t know what they want until you build it
Make yourself useful and others will recognize your value
Capitalism, with all its warts, is the best vehicle we have for making change
Stay foolish
Do it for the community
You’ll find the truth along the way
It’s all empty, yes, but what other game is there in town? This is how the world works, and if you don’t believe in something and push yourself forward, then you won’t feed yourself, and the world can’t feed itself, and we would be stuck dying from dysentery in caves, and surely you don’t think that’s better, do you? Someone has to do this work, so why not you, and why not try to enjoy it while you’re at it? Have fun with it. It’s fun!
None of these stories are wrong. To call them wrong is to become invested in them, which is the same mistake as judging them right. You could deconstruct and reconstruct the history of each word in each phrase a thousand times, coming up with millions of interpretations. You could find infinite examples to prove or disprove every maxim. But you won’t ever be able to pin the truth down, because there’s no “truth” there.
I always knew that if I was going to make it big, I had to have a deep faith in these stories, yet I could never muster that conviction. I still believe in the things that I build, but never for long. I consider that a blessing, because I feel freer from the illusions that so many tech people seem caught up in. But having my third eye open doesn’t help me achieve great things.
Nor do I feel at peace sitting still. I can’t seem to accept that I would spend this one precious life I have not shining as bright as I possibly can, not for the money or the status, but just to feel what Teddy Roosevelt called the “strenuous life,” to enjoy it juice, pulp, and pith.
I don’t know if there’s a career for me beyond tech’s golden handcuffs. It’s funny, no one ever went out of their way to compliment me on my engineering prowess, but I’ve had many people tell me that I have a gift for words and for teaching. I feel called to write, but the things that well up in my chest sometimes feel too controversial and vulnerable. I’m afraid of being hurt.
Whatever this liminal space I’m in might be, one thing gives me comfort. I refuse to ignore the emptiness any longer.