What’s the Point?

Some days, there’s no answer. Other days, the answer is the act itself. A reflection on writing, fading friendships, silence, and stubborn hope.

On swinging at nothing, writing into silence, and why we sometimes keep going anyway.

Author’s note: This piece came from a rough morning—a place of questioning, frustration, and fatigue. I almost didn’t write it. But the act of writing it became the answer I didn’t expect.

I. When the Point Disappears

There are days when the question isn’t philosophical—it’s visceral: What’s the point?

Not rhetorically. Not as a prompt for reflection. But as a real, raw inquiry from the edge of exhaustion.

What’s the point of helping people who misuse your help, or disappear when you’re the one in need?

What’s the point of writing with depth when no one seems to read it?

What’s the point of being emotionally honest when others respond with platitudes, or worse, silence?

What’s the point of showing up, day after day, for people who have long stopped showing up for you?

These aren’t theoretical questions. They come from lived experience. They emerge on mornings when every effort feels like an echo chamber and every gesture of generosity feels like a setup for disappointment.

They also emerge when you look at someone you love—fading day by day—and see yourself reflected there. You wonder if any of it mattered. If the people you reached for will ever reach back. If the words you wrote will survive in anyone’s memory. If the seeds you planted will ever grow.

And this is where even the oldest wisdom can feel like a hollow echo. You’ve heard the saying:

“A society grows great when old men plant trees whose shade they know they shall never sit in.”

But what if the seed never sprouts?

What if no one even walks by the place where it was planted?

What if the whole damn forest stays underground?

That’s the voice of despair.

And on some days, it speaks with authority.

II. When the Point Returns (If Only for a Moment)

And still… there’s another voice. Quieter. Less persuasive maybe. But consistent.

It says: “You’re asking the wrong question.”

The point isn’t in return.

It’s in the act.

You planted the tree not because you needed the shade, but because someone might.

You wrote the words not because you needed applause, but because they were true.

You showed up not because others deserved it, but because you chose to.

Maybe the shade doesn’t come for decades.

Maybe no one says thank you.

Maybe the soil is silent for years before anything breaks the surface.

But that silence doesn’t mean nothing is happening.

Sometimes the silence is the point—

The quiet that comes after a seed is buried, but before it breaks open.

That’s the kind of optimism I can live with—not the saccharine kind that says, “It will all work out,”

but the kind that says, “I’ll plant anyway.”

“I’ll write anyway.”

“I’ll love anyway.”

Because the point isn’t always visibility or validation

Sometimes, the point is integrity.

Sometimes, the point is that you did your part, regardless of what happens next.

III. What’s the Point?

Some days, the answer is: There isn’t one.

Or at least, not one that will reward you today.

And that’s okay.

Because other days, the point is simply this:

• To keep swinging, even when no one is pitching.

• To plant the tree, even if you’ll never sit beneath it.

• To tell the truth, even if it echoes unheard.

• To leave behind something—a word, a gesture, a witness—that might take root long after you’re gone.

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Today, I don’t know what the point is.

But I’m still here. I wrote this.

And maybe—for now—that’s enough.