I just bowed to a standing ovation. For a solo performance, like, the big one. Everyone was clapping, yelling, some people even teared up. My professor was practically beaming in the front row. And you know what I felt? Nothing. Absolutely nothing. It was like my brain just went, "Okay, task complete. Can we go home now?" Like I was a robot or something. We spend so much of our lives chasing these big moments, right? The ones where everything clicks, where you feel that rush, that connection. And I spent years practicing, sacrificing, all for this. My parents were so proud, talking about how I was finally "finding myself" and "living my dream." And I truly thought I was. I told myself I was. I mean, who wouldn't want to be a concert violinist? It sounds so cool, so impressive. My whole identity has been wrapped up in this since I was tiny. But then the music stopped, and everyone stood up, and I just… stood there. My hand went up for the bow, my face put on the "gracious performer" smile, all on autopilot. Inside, I was just thinking about how long it would take to pack up my violin, get out of the theater, and crawl into bed. My kid probably had a rough night with my mom, they always do when I'm out late. And that's where my mind went. Not to the thunderous applause, not to the years of hard work, but to the laundry I still haven't folded and whether I remembered to defrost dinner for tomorrow. It's weird because I love my kid more than anything. They're my whole world, truly. Being a stay-at-home parent, especially at my age, it’s… a lot. My friends are out there doing their college thing, figuring stuff out, and I'm here, covered in spit-up, trying to remember what day it is. And I wouldn't trade it, really. But then I get these chances, these glimpses of the "old me" or the "future me" that everyone expects, and it's just… hollow. Like I’m pretending for an audience, even when the audience is just me. I guess what I’m trying to say is, sometimes you achieve the thing, the big, shiny, perfect thing, and it doesn't give you the feeling you thought it would. And then you feel guilty for not feeling it. For not being grateful enough, or passionate enough, or whatever "enough" is. We’re supposed to be these complex, emotional beings, but sometimes I feel like I’m just going through the motions, waiting for someone to call cut. And I’m exhausted. Maybe that’s all it is. Just really, really tired.