I just came from watching The Thunderbolts.

As far as Marvel movies go, it’s definitely not the best, but when you pair it with the new Captain America movie, it might be a signal that they’re starting to find their way again.

It was solidly entertaining, and we get to see Lewis Pullman take on another “Bob” persona (though this one isn’t quite as lighthearted as his role in Top Gun: Maverick). We also get to see Florence Pugh knock it out of the park as Yelena, and, as always, David Harbour is awesome in any role you put him in.

All in all, it was a fun movie. I won’t spoil any details, but there’s a theme they draw upon that drives the entire plot. And it’s that theme I want to talk about in this post.

The movie opens with Yelena spiraling into what can only be described as depression. A lack of purpose. An emptiness. A feeling she shares with the film’s main villain (and another huge part of the plot that I won’t spoil).

It’s a feeling I know all too well.

In early 2017, I was hit with one of the darkest depressions of my life. I lay in bed and felt my emotional state shift dramatically. Suddenly, I was fighting for my life. Fighting feelings of suicide and hopelessness. Walking around in a haze for months. It got so bad I even started going to church again, just for something familiar—some potential anchor to help me overcome the emptiness I was carrying.

That was the beginning of several of the most difficult years of my life. My mom died the next year. Then I quit my teaching career just before the COVID pandemic hit (which was the icing on the cake).

When I say “quit my teaching career,” it’s important to know that becoming a teacher was the start of some of the best years of my life—and the culmination of several personal breakthroughs.

I had spent my entire 20s stuck in an engineering job, believing I’d made a huge mistake and wishing I’d chosen education instead. Teaching was a calling, something I tried to ignore in my youth but ultimately couldn’t.

Still, I felt trapped. I had two children (and child support to pay) and felt like I couldn’t meet that obligation while selfishly pursuing a new career.

Eventually, I couldn’t take the engineering job any longer. I courageously quit, went back to school, and lived on ramen noodles (and my retirement money) for a year while getting my Master’s in Teaching. It was extremely difficult but exhilarating. I was breaking through personal limitations and growing rapidly.

After graduation, I was offered a job at a local high school, where I taught for seven years before being forcibly transferred to a middle school (the high school lost a math position, and I drew the short straw). But I was already near my breaking point. It was fall 2019. I’d had my mental breakdown in 2017 and lost my mother in 2018.

So when I was sent to what I now call “the school from hell,” I began having panic attacks and chest pains from the stress. On top of that, my son was dealing with food allergies that year. It was the hardest year of my life. And in January 2020, I cracked. I quit in the middle of the school year.

And, of course, life being what it is, COVID hit just two months later.

I’d never felt so lost. I started drinking heavily—almost daily at one point—and retreated into myself. It felt like a giant hole had opened inside me. My sense of purpose was just gone. Like I said, teaching felt like a calling. Everything I had done had pointed toward that purpose.

When it was taken away, I felt like I had nothing. I still had my kids and a great relationship with them, but they were becoming adults and starting their own lives. They didn’t need me the way they once had. That, added to everything else—losing my mom, my career, and my sense of direction—was another nail in the coffin.

To say I’ve dealt with loneliness and emptiness would be an understatement. I spent years in a drunken stupor, trying to numb the pain while keeping it together just enough so my kids wouldn’t worry about me. But inside, I was broken. I didn’t think life had any meaning anymore. I couldn’t see beyond my own pain. I wallowed in it.

But numbing the pain only works for so long before it brings its own consequences. Alcohol wears you down. It leaves you feeling depressed, hungover, unhealthy. At my worst, I weighed 270 pounds and could barely walk to my car without losing my breath.

Then one day, I got sick of myself. I remember the moment clearly.

I had moved back to my hometown to return to my old engineering job and was staying with my father until I found a place of my own (which I eventually did). I was helping move my couch into his house. It was a heavy motherfucker, and when we got it into place, I was so out of breath I thought I was going to pass out.

Sitting on that couch, overweight and hungover, gasping for air, I decided I didn’t want to feel like that anymore. After three years of pain, I wanted to lose weight. I wanted to feel strong again.

So that’s what I did. One step at a time.

It still took a couple of years to get past the drinking, but I lost 50 pounds. I started walking, going to the gym, slowly rebuilding myself. And mentally, I began to feel better too.

I’m still a work in progress, but last year was the first in many where I had more sober days than not. And in 2025, I haven’t had a single drink. I’m four months sober.

What I’ve learned is this: numbing the pain doesn’t make it go away. Turning from the emptiness doesn’t make it less empty. Distracting ourselves from the darkness within does nothing but prolong the suffering. When you numb pain, you numb joy too.

But when you face the pain, you can begin to heal. It’s not quick. It’s not easy. It’s taken me years to even begin recovering, and I’m still searching for a new purpose to replace what I lost. But writing helps.

So the point of this post is simple: your pain isn’t going anywhere until you deal with it. The emptiness can be filled, but it requires facing hard truths. You can’t avoid it forever. Not if you want to feel joy again.

Consider this your wake-up call from the universe.

Take the first step out of the darkness. Move toward the pain, the anxiety, the depression. Shine a light down into those hidden places, and feel the discomfort of adjusting to the brightness after living in the dark for so long.

This is your life, and it’s ending one minute at a time.

Aren’t you tired of being numb?