I’m starting a new, yearlong project! All through 2024 I’ll be sharing stories, tips, and resources on mental health. I’d love for you to be part of it. 💚
How It Started, How It (Was) Going
I was somewhere in the midst of a long book tour when I realized something was wrong.
I’d done this many times before, and I had it down to a routine. I traveled fast: one city per day on average, usually at least five stops a week. Almost every day I woke up in a hotel room and traveled on to the next place.
Sometimes I’d have interviews with local radio or TV stations, and in the evening I’d give a talk. The whole process repeated the following day in a different city.
If it sounds like a grind, let me be clear: I loved it. I’ll never understand authors who complain about book tour. I got to meet readers who cared about what I had to say, and since I’d been doing this for a long time, many of them came back year after year as I published new books.
Still, even though I loved it—something began to feel different. I had started to dissociate, going through the motions of each night’s talk like an actor performing a role.
At some point I realized I’d become unsettled. I didn’t know where to focus. And as someone who prided myself on making bold decisions, I was now perpetually indecisive.
At night I'd go back to my hotel feeling edgy and discouraged. It didn’t matter if a lot of people had come to the event, or if I’d given a good talk.
All I could think about was what was left undone.
Whenever I had a moment to analyze, I began to wonder, What was going on? Why do I feel this way—and by the way, what exactly do I feel? The feeling itself was hard to pinpoint.1
In retrospect, it wasn’t like a fall where you break an arm. There wasn’t a moment where a bone snapped and I felt intense pain.
It was more like straining a muscle, where you move in the wrong way for a moment and your body doesn’t like it. Usually when that happens, you think, Well, that’s annoying, but it will be better in a few days.
Except it didn’t really get better. It didn’t end with book tour, and it didn’t stop after I took a vacation and tried to reset. It just kind of settled in, a recurring vibration that lurked under the surface.
My lack of improvement wasn’t for lack of effort. I got up earlier and exercised more. I tried out new habits. I talked with friends and colleagues to get their advice.
When all else proved ineffective, I simply started more projects. Maybe that was the answer, I thought: something was missing, so I had to keep adding things until I found it.
I’d spent a lot of time learning to be productive, but after a while I began to realize that such a quest could be endless. There was always something more to be done. My pursuit of optimal human behavior only accelerated the sense of discontent.