Why Bother?

How curiosity is the antidote to apathy

If you’re new to The Rebel MFA Way, welcome! This is a bit of a cross-genre essay around writing and life.

Every year for the past decade, I’ve reviewed, reflected and written an end of year summary for myself and readers. It’s usually something I quite enjoy doing as it reminds me of where I’ve been, how far I’ve come, and in what ways I still have left to grow.

This year, I wasn’t having any of it.

My resistance to pretty much all of my “usual” activities and projects was stronger than it’s ever been before and honestly, rounding everything out at the end of the year was a strong sense of apathy.

There were several days in December where I sat staring at the blinking cursor and wondered: Why bother? What’s the point?

Sadly, I wasn’t thinking about the writing, really. I was thinking about “it all.” Life, career, health, self-improvement, education…

I mean, really, why bother?

Look, I know all the surface level reasons to “bother” and I have a nicely constructed list of reasons why I continue to get up every day and survive, but sometimes, those aren’t enough to pull you out of the depths of despair when you’re questioning everything about life and your role in it.

If you think that this essay is going to pivot here and tell you how or why I found the strength to “bother,” well, you will be disappointed.

But I have learned that perhaps the antidote to the apathy is less about finding a solution or a “fix” and more about getting curious and asking questions.

I started small.

Not with sweeping, life-changing questions like, What is my purpose? or What does it all mean… those only fed the spiral of despair, but with simpler, quieter questions. What does this moment feel like? What am I noticing right now? Why does this particular question haunt me?

Curiosity, I’ve found, is not a roaring fire. It’s a flickering candle. It doesn’t immediately banish the dark, but it creates just enough light to see the next step, the next thought, the next feeling. And sometimes, that’s all you need.

One afternoon in December, I was slumped on the couch, scrolling aimlessly through the glowing light of my phone. The screen was a blur—doomscrolling headlines, muted updates from friends, ads for things I didn’t need. My chest felt heavy, my brain foggy, the familiar refrain of Why bother? humming in the background.

And then, without any conscious effort, another thought appeared: What would happen if I put the phone down?

It was a small, almost laughable question, but it was enough. I set the phone aside and looked out the window. The sky was a soft, bruised purple. Bare tree branches scratched at the horizon. A bird—a tiny finch—pecked at the birdseed on the ground. It wasn’t a particularly profound moment, but it was real. I felt it.

That’s the thing about curiosity: it doesn’t demand that you solve anything. It only asks you to look, to notice, to wonder.

I started wondering about the nature of apathy itself. Why does it come on so strong sometimes, so sudden and suffocating? It feels like a great, gray cloud, heavy and shapeless, but I think there’s more to it. Maybe apathy is a shield—a way of protecting ourselves from questions we’re afraid to answer, from truths that feel too big to bear.

If that’s true, then maybe the key isn’t to fight the apathy or push it away, but to sit with it. To approach it like a traveler meeting a stranger on the road: curious, cautious, and willing to listen.

I don’t have the answers. I don’t know how long this season of apathy will last or when the spark will return. But I do know that the questions—the small, curious ones—are enough to keep me going for now.

Maybe the blinking cursor isn’t a symbol of failure, after all. Maybe it’s just a pause, a breath, a quiet invitation to ask, What’s next?

And for now, that’s enough.