This way, probably. Past lost. Past broken.

Have you ever contemplated suicide? Not planned it, not obsessed over it, but contemplated it? Do you often label yourself as “lost,” or “broken?” How “lonely” are you? Sunday mornings, do they become dreaded signposts, informing you that anxiety will escalate before the day is done? These words circle our lives, infiltrating thoughts, expressed as memes, beautified and romanticized within songs and poetry. Yet they function like signs we walk past daily without reading. Stop for a moment, and the sign might read: Maybe there’s a cure for loneliness. Probably.

I’ve been lost, literally. The other recruits in my platoon didn’t want to trust me with the map after a thirsty foray into nothingness. I got saddled with carrying the LMG once they realized I was better suited to grunt work than spatial awareness. But that kind of lost is honest. It has coordinates. The modern versions don’t. People misuse words like lost, broken, lonely. They signal thresholds, not identity.

But being lost in the modern vernacular is different. You know exactly where you are. You didn’t just materialize at the gym, disoriented by some sci-fi alternate universe experience. No, you’re lost because you feel disconnected, not heard, unseen, unfulfilled.

Brokenness revolves around the same principle. Blanket terms are easy. C’mon, you’re not driving a car towards a cliff, pushing it over the edge because the door is scraped, or the nav system fizzled out. And yet, “the car is broken” becomes a standard lament when something is not functioning as expected.

You’re not broken when your life lights up with those pesky dashboard warning lights. Staring into the eyes of real brokenness is frightening. People out there think about suicide, and still do. It’s not necessarily a plan, but a horizon, something to acknowledge without crossing: a boundary line, visible, not viable. Acknowledging the horizon is not the same as seeking it. Acknowledging that horizon doesn’t pull you forward, it marks the edge of your current map, a place to recognize without stepping over. The words lost, lonely, and broken can revolve around the same hinges. These are also thresholds you see, because they are essential reminders you are still alive, still human. I’m often hesitant to push out that phrase “truly broken,” but it holds true. The wreck that is truly broken is often unrecognizable for what it originally was. All suffering is debilitating, frightening, and seemingly insurmountable within that moment where it knocks on your door.

What does real brokenness look like? Before I venture down that road, you might leverage valid pushback here, asking, “What is real brokenness?” And you would be correct to do so. After all, that’s also what this exercise is all about: digging into the clichés, words and phrases we live through without ever interrogating them. You can also choose to replace “brokenness” with “functional collapse.” Will it change the outcome, though? You can calibrate your glimpses and experiences of functional collapse when you compare yourself with others. Oh, but Matt, no, we can’t compare ourselves to others. LinkedIn says it’s not the way to success and prosperity. Comparison is inevitable. Nobody can drive on any road without comparing speed, velocity, and relative unpredictability of other drivers. There’s no reality, no universe where you won’t compare yourself to others. Survival hardwiring ensured we would always compare the “I” with the “us” and the “them.” I don’t care if you keep up with the Joneses, but saying you didn’t notice their new Corvette would be a lie.

Devon, who lost a child in a fire, walked around with detached numbness. That is collapse, not metaphor. Henry sat next to me when he said he can’t afford to stop working, because that means the horrible realities at home begin running around in his head. Work becomes a barricade, because stopping means the flood breaks through. Mitch returned to work after a life-changing stroke and heart attack. That proud man conducted brave efforts to resume a previous level of existence, but he failed. When he was offered a retirement deal, he took it. Even within the most gut-wrenching stories and observations, I’ve seen such nuanced expressions that defied the clichés so often rendered as truth. Conrad, who had lost his wife, said, I’m ok, really, I’m ok on some level when I lie alone on the big bed, because that’s where I can really confront my loss. I can give it a name. But when I go to work, I miss her the most, knowing she’s not at her workplace. It sounds so strange, because I never missed her in that way before she wasn’t there anymore. These are not stories. They are coordinates of collapse. Each marks a threshold where cliché fractures. “Lost,” “broken,” “lonely” dissolve when confronted with collapse that has weight, consequence, and direction. Functional collapse is not a mood. It is the moment when the chassis no longer resembles transport, when the wreck is unrecognizable as what it once was.

In the middle of despair, clarity doesn’t arrive wielding a megaphone, it slips in through the absurd corners of life. Once, when I felt I was at the end of my tether, I saw a sign: This way to the fun. Ok, it was a sign directing kids towards a play zone inside a mall. And it was also directing parents on how to part with a lot of cash. But in my cynicism I wanted to write, This way to the fun, probably. Because there is no certainty. No guarantee you will enjoy it. There might be a complete asshole in the bumper-car arena. Or a bully, bashing the arcade machine next to you.

There are no guarantees. This is the way, probably. Small directions for dealing with the big questions. And small moves for handling big answers. That’s where I am within this construct of going forward. Next time the dashboard lights flicker (that unmet deadline, the unanswered text from a corrosive family member), pause and name something ridiculous in the room, a coffee stain shaped like a monster. Say it out loud, listen to how it sounds out loud. Not to laugh it off, but to remind your brain: this mess has a boundary. It’s the bumper-car dodge, swerve into the silliness to unstick the spiral.

All of the above leaves a residue of sobering thoughts: If you are still able to read this, you have not yet crossed any thresholds. You might not see a clear way forward, and the mess might not be an easy one to resolve, but you are still carrying the LMG, even if you’re not trusted with leading the troops, or yourself anymore.

If you’re reading this, you haven’t crossed the threshold, you are questioning clichés. You are asking better questions. The map may be useless, or incomplete, but you’re still carrying the weight. That means you’re here.