Someone asked me recently how I was doing. And I opened my mouth to answer and just… nothing came out.
Not because I was fine. Not because I was falling apart. But because I genuinely didn’t know. I couldn’t locate myself. It was like being asked for directions to somewhere I’d never been.
“I don’t know,” I finally said. “I think I need something, but I can’t figure out what.”
They nodded like they got it. And maybe you do too.
There’s this particular kind of lost that doesn’t look like a crisis. You’re not unraveling. You’re functioning. Getting through your days. But underneath everything there’s this low hum of something’s off and I can’t put my finger on it.
You feel like you need something, but when you try to name it, the words just dissolve. Rest? Maybe. Space? Possibly. Connection? That doesn’t quite fit either.
It’s disorienting. And weirdly isolating. Because how do you ask for help when you can’t even identify what help would look like?
First, I want to say something that might sound obvious but probably needs saying anyway:
Not knowing what you need doesn’t mean something is wrong with you.
It means you’re human. And probably a human who’s been running on empty for a while. Or pushing through something hard. Or disconnected from yourself in ways that happened so gradually you didn’t even notice it happening.
We’re not always taught to check in with ourselves. A lot of us grew up learning to monitor everyone else’s needs while ignoring our own. Or we learned that our needs were inconvenient, so we just stopped paying attention. Or life got so busy and loud that the signal from inside got drowned out completely.
So when someone asks what do you need and your brain goes blank? That’s not a failure. That’s a very normal response to a very common kind of disconnection.
The good news is you can find your way back. Slowly. Gently. Without having to figure everything out first.
There’s this pressure to have answers. To know what’s wrong so you can fix it. To identify the problem so you can solve it.
But what if you just… didn’t? At least not right away?
What if the first step wasn’t figuring anything out, but simply acknowledging where you are?
I’m lost right now. I don’t know what I need. And that’s okay for the moment.
I remember a few years ago being in this exact fog. I kept trying to think my way out of it. Made lists. Did research. Asked myself a hundred questions and got frustrated when I couldn’t answer any of them.
What finally helped wasn’t finding the answer. It was giving myself permission to not have one yet.
Sometimes the most honest thing you can say is: I don’t know. And sometimes that honesty is the doorway to everything else.
If you’re in the fog, try this. Just once. Just gently:
Put your hand on your chest. Take one slow breath. And say to yourself, out loud or silently: I don’t have to know right now.
That’s it. You’re not solving anything. You’re just creating a small moment of pause. A little space between the confusion and the pressure to fix it.
Here’s something I’ve learned about those moments when you can’t identify what you need:
Sometimes you can’t name it, but you can describe it.
You might not be able to say “I need rest” or “I need connection” or “I need to feel safe.” But you might be able to describe the texture of what you’re feeling.
Like: there’s a tightness in my chest that won’t go away.
Or: I feel like I’m waiting for something but I don’t know what.
Or: everything feels gray and flat and I can’t get interested in anything.
These descriptions aren’t answers. But they’re breadcrumbs. Little clues that can help you find your way back to yourself.
So instead of asking what do I need, try asking:
What does this feel like in my body?
What’s the quality of this feeling? Heavy? Restless? Hollow? Buzzing?
When did I last feel like myself?
You’re not looking for solutions. You’re just gathering information. Noticing. Getting curious about your own experience without demanding that it make sense yet.
One thing I’ve noticed about this fog: what I think I need and what I actually need are often completely different things.
I’ll think I need to be more productive, but what I actually need is permission to rest.
I’ll think I need advice, but what I actually need is someone to listen without trying to fix anything.
I’ll think I need to be alone, but what I actually need is to be around someone safe who doesn’t require me to perform.
The surface need is often a decoy. Not wrong, exactly. Just not the whole story.
So if you’ve been trying to meet a need and it’s not working, it might be worth asking: is there something underneath this? Something I’m not letting myself want?
Sometimes we hide our real needs from ourselves because they feel too vulnerable. Too childish. Too much.
But those needs don’t go away. They just get buried. And they keep creating that fog until we finally let ourselves look at them.
I’m not going to give you a five-step plan because honestly, that’s not what this kind of lost calls for. But here are some things that have helped me when I’m in the fog, offered gently and without any pressure:
Move your body, even a little. Not to exercise. Not to be productive. Just to feel yourself existing in physical space. A short walk. Some stretching. Standing outside for a few minutes. Sometimes the body knows things the mind can’t access yet.
Lower the bar dramatically. When you’re lost, even basic self-care can feel impossible. So make it smaller. You don’t have to take a shower. Just wash your face. You don’t have to cook a meal. Just eat something. Tiny acts of care are still care.
Be around something living. A plant. A pet. A person who feels safe. Even sitting in a park watching birds. There’s something about being near other life that can help you feel less alone in your own.
Let yourself be bad at things. Doodle without trying to make it good. Write without making sense. Play a song badly. The fog often comes tangled up with perfectionism, and doing things badly is a quiet rebellion against that.
Tell someone you’re lost. You don’t have to explain it. You don’t have to have a point. Just saying “I’m going through something and I don’t really understand it” can release some of the pressure of carrying it alone.
I wish I could tell you exactly when or how. But it does lift.
Not all at once. Not dramatically. Usually it’s more like slowly noticing that the world has a little more color than it did yesterday. That something made you laugh and you actually felt it. That you woke up one morning and had a small, clear sense of what you wanted, even if it was just a cup of tea and some quiet.
The fog lifts in increments. And often you don’t realize it’s lifted until you look back and notice you can see further than you could before.
What helps is not rushing it. Not shaming yourself for being in it. Just tending to yourself the best you can while you’re there, trusting that clarity will come even if you can’t imagine how right now.
If you need one, here it is:
You are allowed to not know what you need.
You are allowed to feel lost without understanding why.
You are allowed to take up space and ask for support even when you can’t articulate what kind.
You are allowed to move slowly, to figure it out as you go, to change your mind, to need different things on different days.
You don’t have to earn care by having everything figured out first.
You don’t have to solve the fog today. You don’t have to know the answer to what do I need before you’re allowed to start feeling better.
Sometimes the only thing to do when you’re lost is to stop. To sit down right in the middle of not knowing. To let yourself be there without fighting it.
And then, when you’re ready, to take one small step in any direction that feels even slightly like kindness toward yourself.
That’s enough.
That’s more than enough.
You’ll find your way. Not by forcing it, but by being patient with yourself while the path slowly becomes visible.
And until then? You’re not failing. You’re just in the fog.
And the fog is a place, not a verdict.
