Life crisis and asceticism: when returning to the world fails

Life crisis: the ascetic who cannot find his place in the world

What happens when someone abandons years of spiritual retreat, returns to ordinary life and discovers that they no longer fit in anywhere? That is the question running through one of those conversations that circulate online and that, far from the noise, describes a real phenomenon: the uprootedness of someone who has lived on the margins and returns to a system they no longer recognize as their own. The story, told in the first person by a forum user, piles up concrete losses: two fights, a lost job and trouble with the landlord in just a few weeks.

The protagonist sums it up with a painful phrase: "I feel like an impostor and my conscience saves me by blaming the world." This is not an abstract crisis. It is the realization that the two worlds — that of retreat and that of material life — are, in his own words, "irreconcilable." And in between them, himself.

Asceticism as refuge and as trap

For years, asceticism worked. Order, discipline, detachment. But upon returning, the practice reveals itself as just another form of vanity: "My ascetic epic was just that. Vanity." Lucidity does not console; on the contrary, it deepens the isolation. Someone who discovers themselves to be an impostor cannot go back without feeling defeated, nor stay without feeling fake.

The conversation drifts toward disillusionment with contemporary society. "It is impossible to navigate it under its rules," it is stated. And the temptation of definitive escape appears, which other participants admit having planned without daring to carry out. The distress is not only personal: it is the realization that returning to the world demands a price many are not willing to pay.

The guitar put away and the antiestéticar of betraying oneself

One of the most revealing moments comes when he is asked about the guitar. The answer is a diagnosis: playing it again would be "like betraying myself. They win." Art, which was once a refuge, becomes a threat because it means surrendering to a system he despises. "The guitarist version of me would have laughed, but here I am the one I must be," he adds, with a mixture of nostalgia and defeat.

The conversation also addresses mental health without beating around the bush. Benzodiazepines, insomnia and hopelessness are mentioned. And there is the warning that suicidal ideation, when verbalized, must be taken seriously. Spain's 024 suicide helpline is cited as a resource, along with the advice to see one's family doctor. It is no small detail: in Spain, according to INE (the national statistics institute) data, suicide is the leading cause of unnatural death, with more than 4,000 cases a year. The conversation, without intending to, reflects it.

The comfort of faith and the suspicion of vanity

The spiritual dimension runs through the whole story. Psalm 23 is quoted — "The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want" — and there is talk of placing one's being "in the hands of the Lord." But faith does not close the wound; it opens it wider: "My Christian upbringing condemns me to lose myself in the insipidness of personalism." Religion, which should be a comfort, becomes another impossible demand.

The ending comes with a bitter realization: "We are all lost. So who is going to find us?" There is no answer. Only the certainty that the distress, far from being individual, is a collective symptom. And the final irony: the one who sought salvation in retreat now finds it in the certainty that no salvation is possible. At least, not in this world.