The Ache of Being Alive

There’s a quiet ache that so many people carry. It's not always loud, and not always easy to name. It’s not quite sadness, and not quite anxiety. It’s the weight of existence itself. The ache of being alive.

Sometimes it shows up as a restlessness. Sometimes as a hollow place that nothing quite fills. It can come when life is going well, which makes it all the more confusing. There’s no crisis. Just… something. A yearning. A grief we don’t understand.

Therapy doesn’t try to get rid of this ache. It listens to it. Because often, it’s pointing to something real. Perhaps it's an awareness of time passing, of loss, of love, of choice. Or a hunger for meaning in a world that doesn’t hand it to us.

It's not a problem to fix. It’s part of being human. It’s the tension between wanting to feel safe and wanting to feel fully alive. Between needing others and fearing how deeply we might need them. Between being here, and knowing that one day, we won’t be.

We can’t escape that ache. But we can meet it. Gently. Honestly. Together.