On Chronic Existential Restlessness (And Why It’s Not a Flaw)
Understanding the difference between creative burnout and the need for expansion
A while back, in the middle of an otherwise normal conversation about job interviews of all things, my GPT assistant decided to go off and tell me I have “chronic existential restlessness.” Which, first of all, sounds like something a Victorian doctor would do before adjusting his spectacles and recommending more seaside air.
“Chronic existential restlessness. Very common in women who read too much and refuse to embroider quietly.”
At first, I was sort of taken aback, because who expects that? Then I laughed. Finally, I did that thing writers do where we pretend we’re still laughing while also mentally underlining the phrase for later use.
Because the more I sat with it, the more I realized that was actually a pretty spot-on “diagnosis” for me. Some of what I’d been casually writing off as burnout for years maybe wasn’t really burnout at all. It was good, old-fashioned stagnation in disguise.
We Go Right Ahead and Call Everything Burnout Now
I love a sabbatical fantasy as much as the next person. But two decades as a full-time freelancer have taught me that exhaustion isn’t always the culprit when we find ourselves wanting to throw our laptops straight off a cliff. Sometimes we’re just chronically under-stimulated, especially if we’re also smart, curious, or otherwise consider ourselves to be intellectuals on any level.
Because burnout feels like depletion, as I well remember. You drag yourself through your daily tasks while fantasizing about naps, long weekends, and maybe unnecessary snacks. Sometimes your brain refuses to cooperate at all.
Existential restlessness is different. That’s similar to pacing around like a caged tiger inside your own life. You’re pretty sure you have the raw energy to spend. You just can’t seem to aim it at anything that feels worthy of the effort.
That distinction matters more than we admit.
What existential restlessness actually feels like
The last time I thought I was burned out (which honestly wasn’t all that long ago, because I feel like this often), I told myself I needed to scale back. You know — fewer clients, fewer commitments. Definitely a lot less pressure.
Then something interesting would happen.
The second a genuinely intriguing new opportunity showed up in my inbox, my energy magically snapped back into place like I’d just plugged myself straight into a wall socket. Suddenly, I’d feel alert again. I’d definitely feel more creative, motivated, and even excited.
That’s when it dawned on me that I might actually just be bored at my current altitude. Because burned-out people don’t perk up at the promise of new possibilities. That’s something only restless people do.
The Five-Year Test: A Clarifying Diagnostic
Still not sure how to tell the difference between chronic existential restlessness and yet another round of standard freelancer burnout? Try asking yourself a question:
If nothing in your life changed over the course of the next five years — no disasters, dramatic upgrades, or new developments — would you actually be cool with that?
Because when I tried to answer that same question — whether I could really handle five more years of “fine,” even if nothing explicitly bad happened — I didn’t really like the sound of that.
That reaction told me everything I needed to know.
I’m not someone who craves chaos, and I certainly don’t need constant drama to feel like I’m living. But I do need to feel like life is moving me along toward a place I’d actually like to be. No one who freelances actually chose this path because we adore instability.
We chose it because we can’t tolerate stagnation and boredom.
Modern advice leans toward shrinking
I’ve noticed that the internet really loves to prescribe slowdown. If you’re uncomfortable, simplify; and if you’re overwhelmed, scale back. Always. And all of that advice makes sense within the correct context.
But when your real problem is the fact that you’ve hit a plateau and are slowly dying of boredom as a result, scaling back really only makes everything worse. You’re getting rid of the very thing you might actually be craving — the right type of movement.
Restlessness often shows up for me when I’ve outgrown something about my current ceiling:
Rates that once felt thrilling might now feel small.
Projects that once encouraged me to grow now feel automatic (and probably also boring).
Audiences that once felt huge now feel contained and way too small.
Because the human mind generally registers that ceiling long before the ego does, so you categorize the discomfort as burnout and try shrinking your way back into a place of comfort.
And I’ve tried that approach. If it was really burnout I was dealing with, it helped. But if it wasn’t, it felt like wearing shoes two sizes too small and trying to tell myself my feet would eventually adapt.
They did not. Feet don’t work like that, and neither do the people they’re attached to.
The aging layer we really don’t like to talk about
Another factor that’s really clarified my perception of all this is the evolving time awareness that’s become increasingly noticeable as I age.
At some point, I crossed an invisible line. My body shifted from building upward and becoming more efficient to conserving in some ways and regressing in others. That realization sneaks in quietly, but sooner or later, it changes how you calculate progress.
When you understand that time is finite, a plateau feels a lot heavier should you find yourself stuck in one. Five static years feels a lot different at 25 than five static years at 45 or 50. The math hits differently, and the old optimism that somehow got you through year after year of sameness starts to atrophy.
For freelancers and creatives, that awareness can turn low-grade stagnation into something that feels a lot more desperate, especially if you’re already under stress in other areas of your life. You start asking harder questions and become increasingly frustrated when effort doesn’t compound the way it should.
You want the work you put in to start counting for more. (That’s certainly been very true for me!)
Restlessness as Design, Not Disease
After some thought the other day, I low-key realized that chronic existential restlessness isn’t really a character defect. It’s more like voltage without proper direction.
When I channel that voltage into raising my rates for certain services, expanding my distribution, testing new income streams, and pursuing work that challenges me in the right ways, the irritation I find myself feeling transforms into energy.
I guess at the end of the day, some personalities settle into equilibrium and stay there, while others lean forward. I have a real tendency to lean forward, even as I get older and naturally slow down in other ways.
If absolutely nothing about my life changed for five years, especially professionally and creatively, I’d feel it. That really clarifies my decisions. So, if you also freelance and that five-year question I mentioned makes you sweat a little, consider this your unofficial faux-Victorian diagnosis.
Chronic existential restlessness. Treatment plan — engineered expansion. Now, hit it.
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