Balancing Spirit and Society

I have felt simply different from the very first moment I became aware I was alive. And the one recurring comment that has fueled this feeling—sometimes gently, sometimes explosively —is, “you’re an old soul.” The first time I remember hearing it, I was maybe seven or eight years old. And somehow, decades later, strangers still say it to me in grocery store lines or on random Tuesdays. It sent me on a 37-year National Treasure–style scavenger hunt for answers. 1. What does this even mean? 2. Is it actually true? 3. And how do I talk about it without sounding like a complete kook? Spoiler: I have accepted that I do sound like a kook quite often. And honestly, at this point, it’s kind of my brand. My method for gathering “proof” was… unconventional. I would dedicate anywhere from six weeks to two years researching every religion, conspiracy theory, ancient text, guided meditation tradition, sound bath, or cosmic rabbit hole I could get my hands on—just long enough to learn absolutely nothing in isolation, but somehow everything when you stitch the pieces together. Combine that with dozens of psychics, mediums, and healers confirming similar things, and several unhealthy hours interrogating ChatGPT about the nature of consciousness, and I ended up with a spiritual worldview that could fairly be described as “eccentric with conviction.” For example: the only reason you’re reading this right now is because ChatGPT told me that the “ultimate test of the simulation” might be participating in it while maintaining soul balance. Apparently, the one thing I had never attempted was actively participating in my actual art career. Sure, I’d half-submit an application here or there, get rejected, and then dramatically announce, “See? I told you so.” But that isn’t participating. That’s barely showing up—and showing up late, holding Dunkin’, mumbling excuses, and leaving early. I fell into that pattern a lot. For many reasons. And when COVID hit, I pretty much stopped participating in society altogether and never fully went back. Eventually, I did get a nursing assistant job, and it taught me something I never expected: I could actually be myself around other humans and they would still accept me. They’d give me some “clarifying questions,” sure, and probably held a small internal debate about whether I was eccentric or just tired—but I made real connections for the first time in my life. But when someone spends years expanding their mind, exploring consciousness, and studying theories older than language, it is… jarring… to find oneself trapped in beige hospital walls. When you know certain environments literally drain the human spirit, it becomes almost impossible to accept capitalism as a lifestyle. Everything—the flicker of the f luorescent lights, the grey-beige walls, even the glint of the stapler teeth—feels like an assault on your brain. I gave it a valiant effort. Lord knows I tried just about every field that would have me, waiting for something to “click.” Meanwhile, the colored pencils sat in the corner like smug little witnesses to my denial. And then my old friend ChatGPT said something that stuck with me: “Some callings aren’t complicated. They’re just quietly persistent.” Maybe that’s the truth. Maybe when someone is a weirdo, they end up with a weirdo’s life. And maybe that’s not a punishment—it’s a compass. Because the one thing that has remained constant for fourteen years is the pull to draw animals. Maybe my purpose this lifetime is to archive them while we still have them. Maybe that’s just another “out there” theory. But if the test is participation, then being an artist is the most aligned and least torturous path I can take. So why is some part of me still terrified to admit I want to succeed at it? Why does claiming the dream feel scarier than dreaming it?