How do I recapture the joyful energy of my 20s?
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Dear Hera,
For the last four years or so I have been feeling like I am “out of beans”. Most of my life, I have been one of those people who can do many things at once; as an undergraduate student, I was taking on extra classes on top of what was required so I could study things I was particularly interested in, whilst also co-hosting a radio programme, writing a blog, going to live drawing sessions, and hosting weekly dinner parties. During my masters I directed (and acted in) a play, while also volunteering as a welfare officer for my student association, and working behind a bar; then as a PhD student, I hosted and produced my own podcast, was involved in student activism, and continued to have a rich social life. I have always written poetry, and in my 20s I was becoming increasingly confident performing poetry as well.
I am painfully aware of how much this all sounds like a humble brag, but I really don’t intend it that way. I cannot emphasise how much joy and energy I felt pursuing these passions; this was always my main and simple motivation. As soon as I did not feel enriched by something anymore, I bid it an affectionate farewell and moved on.
But, since the end of the Covid-19 lockdowns (which in the UK, where I was living until recently, were pretty intense) I have gradually felt things shifting. Having more than one social commitment each day suddenly became too overwhelming, my career ambitions feel pointless and too onerous to even attempt reaching them, I don’t really have any hobbies now, and slowly even poetry has disappeared from my daily life, making a lovely but short-lived comeback at the beginning of my current relationship.
I still want to do all the things I am passionate about – most of all, I would like to at least be able to write poetry again. But everything “extra” feels like such an effort. I feel like I am doing the bare minimum at work, I go home and just have enough battery left to make a meal with my partner and watch TV before falling asleep, and repeating it all the next day.
I am in my early 30s and healthy, have a perfectly comfortable life, have no children, not even a pet that I am responsible for, so I don’t feel like I have an excuse for this sudden lack of energy (or is it laziness?). Sometimes I wonder if the general state of the world has something to do with, but that seems like a lame reason. How can I find my spark again and feel more like my old self? Or should I embrace this new me and try to make the most I that can with what I have?
Yours,
Bean-less
Dear Beanless,
As I get older, it gets harder to meaningfully disentangle the difference between the normal psychological and physiological effects of ageing, and the increasingly dystopian state of the world.
Do I not feel motivated to finish my symphony/novel/large hole I’m digging in the back yard because I’m getting lazy and complacent, or is it because of the creeping realisation that any artistic endeavours and their potential for enduring cultural relevance will soon be rendered futile by the water wars of 2050, is a valid question many people are grappling with.
I do think it gets harder to remain optimistic about the importance of art, as our collective sense of existential dread grows. It’s easy to feel demoralised about building a creative life, when racist AI bands are topping the Spotify charts, and every Netflix series appears to be written for someone with a concussion, who is is simultaneously playing Candy Crush on their phone.
However. I think what you’re experiencing is also a natural part of getting older and working a full time job.
As children, it is our jobs to walk around with a sense of wonder, to put various soaps and rocks in our mouths, and to jump off barn roofs because it seems like an interesting and funny thing to do.
As teenagers it’s our job to walk deeper into the labyrinth, stare into the mirror for hours and develop fierce allegiances to books and music that will haunt us for the rest of our lives.
In our 20s, it’s our job to write and act in 57 plays, start an anarchist food bank, fall in love and run away to Venezuela only to break up a month later, buy a loom, take up beekeeping and spread ourselves thin and wide across the surface of the planet.
I don’t know what happens in your 40s as I haven’t gotten that far yet. But I do think that what you’re describing is a natural transition. As you get more comfortable and complacent, it’s natural to feel little gassed, and want to sit down for a few years and fan yourself with a wide-brimmed hat.
There are lots of wonderful things about getting older. Being able to afford the dentist. Caring less about the opinions of others. But it does mean that sometimes you have to work a little harder to recapture some of the joie de vivre which once came naturally. Sometimes, this means having to make a few strategic decisions about what you want to devote your limited time and energy to.
Rather than trying to turn back the clock and become the person you were in your 20s, I’d encourage you to pick one or two things that are important to you, and think creatively about how to reprioritise them. This can feel hard at first, when you didn’t used to have to rely on inner reserves of self-discipline to get things done. But that joy and enthusiasm is still there. You just have to be more intentional about making time for it.
What I’m not suggesting you do is come home after a gruelling day of work, and force yourself to churn out poetry, like you’re both inquisition torturer and the person being tortured. I don’t always think that a white-knuckle approach is helpful, especially when it comes to poetry, which can’t be forced out, like paste from the bottom of of a tube.
The way you get yourself out of any slump, or build a new routine, is by making a decision about what you want to prioritise, turning those decisions into habits, and making those habits feel like a joy.
Creating new habits takes effort and repetition, but it will make your life easier in the long run because you won’t have to devote so much mental energy to worrying about your problem. Taking concrete action always feels better than languishing in indecision. My advice is to start small. Can you carve out an hour or two for yourself every week? Do you have the sort of job where you could negotiate starting later one day? Or perhaps you work better at night? Pick a time where you feel motivated and energised, and make that your starting point.
In my experience, the way to make any habit stick is to make it as enjoyable as possible, whatever that means to you. Go to the pub for an hour after work each Monday and take a notebook with you. Go to the park and pack a thermos, if you’d rather chill with the local birdlife. Try and make it a treat rather than a chore. If you’re feeling a little rusty, you don’t have to jump in straight away. Use that time to reacquaint yourself with the work of writers you admire. Remind yourself what it’s all for.
Forgive yourself for the years you’ve been treading water. Sometimes we need long fallow periods of watching Ally McBeal and eating corn chips in numb disbelief before we’re ready to take up arms and march towards a France of our own making.
Start small. Get your blood work done, in case you have any major vitamin deficiencies. Choose something you love, and give it back to yourself as a gift, rather than an obligation.