I just—I don't even know what I'm feeling right now, and that's the part that really pisses me off because I usually have a pretty good handle on my internal states, but this is just... a raw nerve. I'm sitting here, staring at this stupid landscape painting in my office, some generic corporate art with a fake waterfall and pristine trees, and all I can think about is my dad, and how he used to take me to the national parks when I was a kid, and how he’d point out every single tree and bird and tell me its Latin name, and I loved it, I absolutely loved it, and I wanted to be like him, some kind of park ranger or something, just out there, protecting things, making a real difference, and then I went to law school, and then I got this job, and now it's just billable hours and spreadsheets and arguments over contract clauses and I hate it, I really, truly hate it, and I think I'm supposed to feel grateful or proud or something because I make a lot of money and I have a fancy title and I contribute to my daughter's college fund and I make sure my elderly mother has round-the-clock care, and I manage all the logistics for my husband's chronic illness, and I do all the things, I literally do all the things, and I'm good at them, but there's just this hollow ache, this persistent existential dread that never goes away, and I don't understand it, and I can't put a label on it, and it makes me want to scream. And then I look at my daughter, and she's so bright and curious and she asks me about the trees outside our window, and I can tell her their names, and I can tell her about photosynthesis and the ecosystem, but it's not the same, it's not like my dad, it's not a life lived out there, it's just knowledge recalled from a forgotten passion, and she deserves more than that, and I deserve more than that, and I keep thinking about how my dad would just pack a lunch and we'd spend all day hiking, and he was so present, so there, and I'm just always thinking about the next deadline and the next meeting and the next crisis I have to avert, and it's exhausting, and it's soul-crushing, and I feel like I'm losing myself entirely to the constant demands of everyone else’s needs, and my own desires are just… gone, completely eclipsed by responsibility, and I don't even know if I remember what my own desires even ARE anymore. And I know this sounds pathetic, like some first-world problem whining, and I should just be thankful for what I have, and I AM, I am thankful for my family and their health and my job, but there's this deep, almost clinical sense of detachment from my own life, like I'm watching myself from a distance, performing the role of "successful corporate lawyer and primary caregiver," and it's a convincing performance, I think, but inside I'm just screaming, just a quiet, internal scream that no one hears, and I wonder if anyone else feels this way, if anyone else just looks at their life and thinks, "How did I get here? And how do I get out?" because I'm 38, and I feel like I've made all my choices, and now this is just... it, and the thought of that just makes me want to curl up and disappear.