Stop Filling the Void — Start Listening to It

By Curtis Pelletier

You know that feeling when everything’s kinda fine, but not really?
Like you're successful enough, loved enough, busy enough… but somewhere under all that, there's a hum. A low, persistent thrum in your chest that says, “Something’s missing.” That’s the void. And for most of my life, I thought it was a fucking problem.

I used to try and fill it. With booze. With work. With validation, women, money, food, ego lifts, loud music, harder workouts. And when none of those worked, I’d get creative. Ever tried filling a spiritual emptiness with a new iPhone or a half-baked side hustle? Yeah. That’s the desperation talking.

But here’s the plot twist: maybe the void isn’t asking to be filled.

Maybe it’s asking to be heard.

Why We Fear the Void

Because it’s quiet.
And we hate quiet.
In quiet, we hear the thoughts we’ve been dodging.
We feel the grief we’ve shelved.
We remember who we were before the masks.

The void strips us naked. And nobody likes to be emotionally naked without knowing where the nearest towel is.

So we label it a "problem." We treat it like a hole to plug with achievements or entertainment. And social media? It's built on selling spackle for the soul. “Don’t feel empty — buy this, drink that, post more, scroll longer.”

But here’s what I’ve come to learn on the floor of my own soul:
The void is sacred.

Maybe It’s Not a Hole — It’s a Door

I had to lose some things to learn this.
I had to get sober. Not just from alcohol — but from the bullshit I told myself.
I had to stop pretending my noise was progress.
I had to sit still. Be with it. And man, it was awful at first.

But something wild happens when you stop seeing the void as something wrong with you.

You start hearing it whisper:
"This space is yours."
"This silence is where you meet yourself."
"Not the performer. Not the addict. Not the coach. Just… you."

And when I finally shut up long enough to listen, I realized the void wasn’t pain — it was potential.

Zen and the Art of Not Freaking Out

In Zen, there’s a saying:

“The silence between notes makes the music.”

Read that again.

Without space, without pause, life is just noise. Noise can be impressive, but it rarely moves you. The void — the stillness — that’s where clarity lives.

In Buddhist thought, emptiness isn’t a lack — it’s freedom.
It’s what allows form to exist in the first place. The cup is useful because it is empty. That blew my mind when I first read it. It still does.

Lately, I’ve been getting into acupuncture — traditional Chinese medicine, energy flow, the whole bit. And it's not just needles and incense. It’s art.
They’re not fixing me. They’re listening to the body. Unblocking the qi.
And what’s wild is, that quiet space I used to be afraid of?
It lives in the exact same places the needles go.

You lie there, still, and suddenly all the chaos you’ve been carrying shows up… and then leaves. No resistance. No fight. Just… breath and balance.

It’s not Western. It’s not linear. It’s not loud.
And that’s exactly why it works.

Stop Trying to “Fix” Yourself

I get it. You want to be better. Happier. Healthier. Enlightened or at least less pissed off on Mondays.
But peace doesn’t come from attacking your own soul with to-do lists.

The journey to happiness isn’t linear, and it’s not quick.
It’s messy. It’s slow. And sometimes, it feels like walking in circles until you realize you’ve been standing on holy ground the whole damn time.

So here’s your permission slip:
Stop being so hard on yourself.
You’re not broken. You’re becoming.

And maybe — just maybe — that void isn’t there to be fixed.
It’s there to be felt.
To be honored.
To be kept a little empty, so the light has room to come in.

My Way Through

These days, I don’t fill the void.
I sit with it.
I listen.

I take long walks without podcasts.
I lift weights in silence.
I talk to God in traffic.
I write when I don’t want to, and I rest when I need to.
I breathe. I fuck up. I apologize. I breathe again.

This is the way. Not because I read it in some book, but because I’ve lived both sides — the numbing and the knowing.

And I’ll tell you: knowing is better.

So if you feel the void — good.
That means you're still alive.
Still in it.
Still searching.

Let it be sacred.
Let it be slow.
Let it be yours.

And don’t rush the journey.
You’ll get there.
But the truth is, “there” was never the point anyway.

The point is here.
The void.
The quiet.
The you underneath it all.

And damn… he’s worth meeting.