Feeling empty inside: When things look okay but you don’t feel alive (high-functioning depression)

Have you ever felt like an observer of your own life? Not the protagonist in it, but a second-cast character who gets very little screen time? Even though, on paper, things seem to be going well, your career is stable, your home is comfortable, maybe you’ve recently had a pay rise or bought something you’d wanted for a long time, there’s still a quiet sense that something is missing. You might wake up, go through the motions, tick all the boxes, and yet feel a subtle emptiness underneath it all. A heaviness. A sense of deadness.

Feeling empty inside - high-functioning depression

This is something I see often, what could be called a form of high-functioning depression. It’s not the kind that necessarily stops you from getting out of bed or going to work, but the kind that quietly drains colour from your days. You might not be visibly struggling, yet you feel disconnected from others, from yourself, from life itself, which often leaves you feeling empty inside.

We live in a world that tells us to strive, consume, and achieve. When we feel low or restless, we’re encouraged to buy, to scroll, to plan the next goal or upgrade. Our attention has become the most valuable commodity, and we spend it constantly, often without noticing what we’re losing in return. Social media, online shopping, career ladders, even self-improvement can become ways of numbing or distracting ourselves. They give us short bursts of dopamine, small illusions of control or connection, but rarely bring the lasting sense of being alive.

What we truly crave, often beneath the surface, is connection. Not the quick exchange of likes or messages, but something deeper: to be seen, understood, listened to, cared for. To feel that our presence matters. But this kind of connection requires vulnerability, patience, and courage, qualities that modern life rarely rewards. So we fall into easier patterns, seeking comfort in consumption, productivity, or constant stimulation. For a while, it works. Until it doesn’t. And then the sense of emptiness grows louder.

Avoidance, loneliness, and the fear of slowing down

When we slow down enough to feel, the emptiness we’ve been keeping at bay often begins to surface. So we keep ourselves busy, constantly doing, producing, planning, achieving. This busyness isn’t just about efficiency; it’s often a quiet form of avoidance. We fear what might rise up if we stopped. The thoughts that whisper beneath the noise. The loneliness that we haven’t fully allowed ourselves to feel. The truth that, despite all our doing, we still don’t feel fulfilled.

Many people describe this kind of loneliness not as the absence of others, but as a disconnection from themselves. When every moment is filled - with work, screens, or striving - there’s little to no space left to hear our inner voice. We become strangers to our own needs and emotions.

The discomfort of doing nothing

And yet, the idea of slowing down, of not having plans or a clear direction, can feel terrifying. What would it even look like to have a day without structure, without productivity, without goals?

Imagine a Saturday where you leave your phone at home and simply go for a walk in the park. No music, no podcasts, no destination in mind. Just you, your thoughts, your senses, the rhythm of your breath and the world around you.

You might notice the tension in your shoulders, the colours of the leaves, or the impulse to check your phone. You might meet restlessness, even boredom. But you might also begin to feel something else: a quiet aliveness that doesn’t depend on anything external. Perhaps you’ll see a mother pushing her baby in a pram, children playing in the playground, the formation of clouds drifting overhead, or the breeze moving softly across your skin. You are simply present, in your body, in your surroundings, in this moment.

When our identity is tied to productivity

Many of us have come to equate our worth with our usefulness, with what we produce, achieve, or contribute professionally. Our identities become entangled with our work: “I’m a manager,” “I’m a designer,” “I’m a therapist.” These roles give us structure, validation, even meaning, but they can also become a kind of armour. What would happen if that armour were to fall away? Who would you be if you were no longer “Tony the therapist,” but simply Tony, the person underneath, with no title to defend you or define you?

This question can feel deeply unsettling, because it touches on the core fear many people share: Who am I, if I’m not doing? We’ve been taught to measure ourselves by our output, to feel valuable only when we’re achieving or improving. Rest feels lazy. Stillness feels unsafe. But often, it’s in the quiet spaces, in the moments where nothing is being produced or performed, that something real begins to stir.

How therapy can help us reconnect

In a world that prizes certainty, speed, and constant progress, therapy can feel like stepping into a different rhythm, one that moves more slowly, listens more deeply, and welcomes all that we usually try to hide.

In a relational, psychodynamic space, there is no agenda, no performance. It’s a space where you don’t need to do anything or be anyone in particular. Instead, it’s an invitation to notice what’s happening inside you, with the help of another mind that’s genuinely curious about your experience. The therapist listens not just to what is said, but also to what is felt; to the pauses, the patterns, the subtle ways you protect yourself from pain or closeness.

This kind of listening is rare in our world. It’s not about fixing, advising, or analysing from a distance. It’s about attunement, a kind of deep empathy that meets you exactly where you are, without judgement. Through that connection, things long buried often begin to surface: grief, longing, anger, fear, tenderness. Emotions that were once overwhelming start to feel bearable, because they are now shared, understood, and contained within the safety of the therapeutic relationship.

Becoming alive again

Over time, something begins to shift. The parts of you that felt unseen start to feel recognised. The defences that once kept you safe begin to soften. Slowly, you start to experience connection, not the fleeting kind that comes from achievement or external validation, but a quieter, more enduring sense of being alive and real in the presence of another.

This is the paradox at the heart of therapy: we begin to feel more alive not by doing more, but by allowing ourselves to be more; more honest, more curious, more present. From that place, genuine change becomes possible. Not because we’ve forced ourselves to improve or indulge in superficiality, but because we’ve begun to reconnect with our emotions, our needs, and with others in a deeper, more human way.

Author: Tony Georgiadis - Psychodynamic Therapist and Counsellor

Book a free phone consultation