Between Nihilism & Spirituality

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For the longest time, I scoffed at anything that smelled remotely spiritual. The idea of praying, meditating, or seeking a “higher self” felt like escapism to me; a crutch for people afraid to face the blunt, chaotic, meaningless void that life often throws at us. As an agnostic, I don’t believe in God in the traditional sense, but I do believe in Karma - a quiet force that balances our actions with unseen consequences. I find comfort in the idea that a higher power, not defined by religion, watches over us with silent wisdom. For me, being agnostic means choosing faith in energy, cause and effect, and the mystery of the universe rather than doctrine. I’ve leaned toward Nihilism most of my adult life, not in a destructive way, but more in the “nothing really matters” sense. It was oddly comforting, even liberating. If life has no intrinsic meaning, I’m free to create my own, or none at all. That gave me peace. Until, slowly, it didn’t.

Something shifted, something I didn't see coming. I wouldn’t call it an awakening, those feel too dramatic for someone like me, but more like a gentle, persistent tap on the shoulder. Maybe it was the fact that I turn forty next year, a growing sense of weariness, or just the exhaustion that comes from endlessly drifting in a meaning-neutral world. I started asking questions I’d mocked before: What is my purpose? Is there something beyond this endless loop of working, consuming, distracting, sleeping? These questions didn’t hit like lightning, but they arrived, quietly, and refused to leave.

That’s when I stumbled, almost by accident but fueled by curiosity, into the world of the Vedas, the Upanishads, and Sadhguru’s Inner Engineering. I didn’t go looking for enlightenment. I just wanted to feel connected again - something, anything. Surprisingly, instead of fluffy spiritual jargon, I found structure. The Vedas didn’t tell me what to believe; they showed me how to observe. The Upanishads didn’t promise salvation; they whispered uncomfortable truths about impermanence, ego, and the dance of opposites. And Inner Engineering? It gave me tools, not commandments, ways to explore without having to surrender my skepticism.

Somewhere along the way, my mindset on the yoga mat changed too. Looking not just for the physical benefits, but as a space to listen inward. I’d always seen yoga as a workout, a way to stretch and sweat and feel productive. As my perspective shifted, yoga began to feel like something more sacred. In the silence between poses, in the rhythm of my breath, I started noticing myself; not the self made up of roles or worries, but something deeper and quieter. Yoga didn’t give me answers, but it created space. And sometimes, space is all we need to meet ourselves.

Balancing Nihilism with spirituality is like walking a tightrope between detachment and devotion. One part of me still believes that nothing has any ultimate meaning, that the universe is indifferent, random, and beautiful in its absurdity. Another part, the one I’ve only recently begun nurturing, believes that this very absurdity may carry a deeper resonance, even if I can’t fully grasp it yet. It’s not about choosing one over the other - it’s about learning to let them co-exist. It’s a strange paradox: I can believe life has no preordained meaning and still seek to live meaningfully. The best way I can.

Honestly, this balance is messy. There are days when the old me rolls my eyes at my own meditation chants. There are days I feel like a hypocrite for reading the Bhagavad Gita after binge-watching some meaningless shows on TV. Then there are days I feel a quiet alignment - when I sit with my breath, feel my heartbeat, and sense that perhaps there is something more. Not a man in the sky, not a grand design, but a kind of sacred presence within. I don’t always understand it, but I respect it now.

I’m not trying to become a monk or a mystic. I’m not abandoning reason, logic, or my existential humor. But I’ve realized that spirituality doesn’t have to mean blind faith. It can be curiosity. It can be practice. It can be showing up every day with the willingness to listen, both to ancient wisdom and to the silent hum of your own inner world. Maybe that’s where the real purpose lies: not in answers, but in the quality of the questions we ask.

So here I am - still a Nihilist, still uncertain, but no longer closed. I’ve opened a small door within myself, and I’m peeking through it with caution, wonder, and just enough courage to keep exploring. Maybe the truth lies somewhere in between. Or maybe the truth is the between - that thin, trembling space where meaninglessness and meaning try, awkwardly, to dance.