Both myth and history abound with stories of people questing for sacred and potentially magical objects—the Holy Grail, the Fountain of Youth, the Golden Fleece (which was this golden, winged ram; not sure what you would do with it once you found it, but whatev). While there aren’t a lot of contemporary examples of people mounting expeditions in search of mythical treasures, humanity as a whole hasn’t given up its hunt for what I call “the magic pill”—that elusive cure-all that will solve all our problems in just one swallow. Because no pharmacy yet makes this available, we’ve devised proximate substitutes to lift our spirits—ranging from shopping sprees, creative pursuits, and spa days to food binges, alcohol, and drugs.

What’s nefarious about the multiple and varied ways we work to fill the void is that they often work—temporarily. While we’re dancing up a storm, baking a 12-layer cake, or getting a bit tipsy, we feel good. We have a focus. We have a goal. We’re feeling no pain. We’re happy-go-lucky. Until the music ends, the cake is baked, the wine is gone, and we find ourselves right back to where we started.

Apparently, there’s a physiological reason for this. In the early 2000s, brain researchers started accumulating data showing that certain areas of our brain get particularly active when we are “at rest”. They called this the default mode network, because it’s the state our brain defaults to when we’re not doing much at all. What’s fascinating is that people with particularly active default mode networks tend to experience a higher incidence of depression, anxiety, and bipolarity. So, ya, I’m extrapolating here, but what these results seem to indicate to me is that doing too much of nothing may trigger our feelings of emptiness.

Is she still talking?

My mom, may she rest in peace, couldn’t shut up. Honestly, she was entirely uncomfortable with silence. This made car rides, in particular, a unique kind of torture. Have you ever gone on a four-hour driving trip with someone who simply can’t stop talking?

In retrospect, and in light of my recent reading, I realize she probably had a really active default mode network. Too much rest made her sad, so she needed to create noise and turmoil. I guess it’s kind of the same thing for people who can’t engage in slow or quiet pursuits. Someone I know once told me she couldn’t practice yoga because it made her nervous. I think this is another example of being afraid of slowing down and allowing the feelings of anxiety or disquiet to arise.

And don’t get me wrong. I get it. When I’m experiencing feelings of disconnection or disquietude or discomfort, my thoughts often stray to how I can “fix” it. Should I listen to music? Exercise? Have a drink? Get high? I’ve probably glommed onto each of those “solutions” and dozens more over the years in a bid to make myself feel better. But jeez, Louise, you gotta figure: if we were meant to feel good all the time, wouldn’t we?? How the hell did we conflate sorrow with being broken?

Nothing’s permanent

One of my tattoos says, in Sanskrit, “nothing’s permanent”. And people who ask me about it often see the first layer and start laughing, “Ya, nothing’s permanent, except that tattoo!” And my inevitable answer is, “Except not.”

Because, ultimately, nothing is permanent—not even me.

So, I guess, here’s what I’ve been leading up to saying: there is no magic pill. Maybe we should stop looking for one. I’m not suggesting that we refrain from pursuing glorious, life-altering, and life-affirming experiences. You want to shift your reality and reconnect to the universe by climbing Kilimanjaro, bungee jumping, dropping acid, or getting lost on the streets of Madrid? I say: do it! Wring every last drop out of this world that you can. But don’t expect these experiences to “cure” you. They’ll unquestionably override your default mode network. They’ll make you feel emotions you may never have accessed. They may even give you an entirely new outlook on life. But they won’t protect you from occasionally feeling sad, or lost, or lonely. Those magnificent states are no more permanent than the uncomfortable lows—and, to me, that’s one of the greatest gifts of being human.