Sophomore year of high school until my sophomore year of college I was obsessed with spiritual growth. More accountability groups. More prayer. More meetings. It peaked my freshman year of college as I attended a Christian university. Chapel twice a week. Church twice a week. My friends and I led an on-campus ministry group. I read my bible and prayed every day. We fasted every Friday right before we hung out with the homeless all night. We drove them to work; we added them on Facebook. I didn’t look at porn. I didn’t date anyone. I didn’t anything, but I still I didn’t feel good.

I transferred schools and stopped all of it. Felt depressed for a year. Watched my dad die. Then spent the rest of my time in college obsessed with more typical growth. Books on habits. Books on discipline. Books on investing. Books on grit. Lots and lots and lots of books—fifty of them in a year and a half, actually. I worked out. I looked for work. I hustled. I did the “hustle.” I didn’t feel good.

I left college a semester early and moved to New York. I started looking inward. Myers-Briggs. The Enneagram. Strength Finders. A life-coach. A weekend seminar. A lot more Enneagram. Realized I was a three. Then realized I wasn’t a three, I was a four. Realized I was a self-preservation four. Realized I still didn’t feel any better.

I moved to a sunny city, started therapy, and read The Artist’s Way. Journaled every day. More inward-looking shit, but less intense and more feelsy. Got a room with sunshine streaming in each morning. Worked on my diet. Worked on my art. Tried to chill out. Tried to become a feeler. Still not a feeler, but still controlled by my emotions.

After all this, I’ve grown and grown and I’ve also stayed exactly the same. High school Davy would be shocked at how different I am and how profoundly not different I am. I’ve been trying to fix me for just under a decade, now. Perpetually looking for my own blindspots. Self-doubting. Self-parenting. Convinced that my only hope is to make sure I stay on the right path, make sure I keep growing, make sure I get better, make sure I turn out okay—otherwise I’ll never find love, work, fulfillment.

And so today, almost a year into therapy and a couple weeks from my 24th birthday, my therapist told me it’s time to stop looking for my blind spots. Time to stop self-parenting. Time to stop trying to figure it out. And, well, she won’t get any resistance from me. I give up. This isn’t a post about negativity, actually. It’s a post about being tired.