(Because apparently, we’re still not okay)

Sigh. Again.

Four years ago, I wrote about “languishing,” that dull ache in the middle of mental health, not depressed, not thriving, just suspended somewhere in between. At the time, we were all climbing out of lockdowns, trying to rebuild routines, and pretending to be fine.

I remember my own wake-up call clearly. My son, normally an overachiever, stopped getting out of bed for school. The same kid who used to wake up early to log into class was suddenly rolling from one side of the bed to the other, Zoom on one screen, sleep on the other. I thought he was being lazy. He wasn’t. He was burnt out.

As a caregiver and counsellor, I should have seen it sooner. But when you live in constant crisis mode, juggling clients, family, and your own responsibilities, you forget to check your own batteries. Survival becomes your normal.

We have adapted, but we have not recovered

During the pandemic, we all learned how to survive. We took walks, tried mindfulness, downloaded meditation apps, and convinced ourselves that productivity meant healing. “Fine” became the new “good.”

Now the world is open again, but the fatigue hasn’t lifted. What’s wearing people down is not lockdown anymore, it is disconnection.

Students, professionals, and caregivers are functioning, but emotionally flat. They show up, perform, scroll, laugh, and still feel… meh.

I hear it in sessions constantly. “I’m not sad, I’m just tired.” “I’m not anxious, I just don’t care anymore.” Or the most honest one, “I’m bored, but I don’t want to do anything.”

That is not laziness. That is a nervous system running on fumes.

The group chat generation of meh

My younger clients call it that. “Meh.” The energy is flat, motivation half-charged, and self-awareness that once sparked during the pandemic has dulled into detachment.

They can name every attachment style, recognize trauma responses, and still feel nothing but static. One teenager told me, “It’s like life’s on grayscale. It works, but it’s kind of boring.”

That is not a lack of ambition. It is emotional depletion disguised as indifference.

We have also started confusing detachment for peace. “Protecting your energy” often means “I’m too tired to engage.”

The caregiver version of languishing

Caregivers are experts at “fine.” We keep going because we have to. We are the ones people lean on, not the ones who fall apart. We get used to postponing our emotions until the crisis is over, until everyone else is settled, until later. But later never really comes.

After my mother’s Alzheimer’s journey, I thought I understood emotional exhaustion. I didn’t. What I learned later is that survival mode does not switch off by itself. It becomes your operating system.

Pair that with a world that has not emotionally recovered, and you get a generation of people who look capable but feel empty.

What it looks like now

You finally sit down to watch a show you were excited about. Snacks ready. Blanket on. Five minutes in, you are scrolling your phone. You are not bored, you are disconnected. Your body is there, but your mind is still running background tasks you never cleared.

That is the modern version of languishing. It is not loud, it is quiet. It is a slow drain of meaning.

We learned how to survive, but not how to rest. Our bodies stayed alert long after the danger passed. The result is an entire population still living as if something bad is about to happen.

So what now

We do not need another slogan about resilience. We need small moments that make us feel alive again.

Text the friend you keep meaning to reach out to.
Take a walk without your phone.
Listen to music that moves you.
Laugh without overthinking why you needed it.
Try something new and let yourself be bad at it.

And if you are a parent, teacher, or therapist, listen for the “meh.” It is not moodiness. It is often the first sign of emotional shutdown.

Languishing never really left. It just changed its outfit.

We are living in a world that looks busy but feels emotionally underfed. The fix is not doing more. It is remembering how to feel.

For caregivers, it means recognizing that the ability to keep going is not the same as being okay. For everyone else, it means admitting that survival mode has become a lifestyle, and it is time to step out of it.

2020, 2021 and 2022 were the years of languishing. 2026 might be the year we finally wake up, stretch, and remember what it feels like to care again. Because “meh” is not harmless anymore. It is the quiet sound of a generation running out of spark.