What’s the point?

Last night, on the eve of going back to school after the autumn school holiday, my son and I were cuddled up in bed when he said, “What’s the point? You just go to school, have a holiday, go to school again, have another holiday, and then at some point you die.”

For a second, I just stared at him, wondering if this was a normal thing for a ten-year-old to say or if I should quietly Google “child existential crisis” after he fell asleep. As a parent, there’s no handbook for these moments. You’re just lying there in the dark, trying to think of something hopeful to say while a small philosopher in gaudy green Minecraft pyjamas sums up the human condition in one sentence.

Maybe you’ve felt it too though? That flat feeling when you realise you’re just ticking boxes. Work, eat, sleep, repeat. And somewhere in the middle of it all, you forgot why you’re doing any of it.

I told him I got it. That I’ve had the same kind of thought, usually while emptying the dishwasher for the third time that day or replying to yet another “quick email.” It’s not just school. Adults can feel the same hamster wheel: work, weekend, work. Shopping, washing, Netflix, repeat. Then one day, we die.

He laughed when I said that (thankfully), and then we talked about what might actually make life worth doing on repeat. The small stuff, mostly.

For him, it’s macaroni cheese for dinner.
Getting an extra ten minutes before bedtime.
Building something in Minecraft that he tries to explain to me while I nod and say “wow” in the wrong places, and he rolls his eyes because I clearly don’t get it.

For me, it’s laughing until my stomach hurts and I can’t breathe.
Listening to a song I love so much I play it on loop until my brain tingles.
Nanook, our dog, doing his stupid zoomies around the garden for absolutely no reason.
The smell of bread baking, or walking through autumn leaves that crunch like crisps.

And for both of us, it’s the car singalongs that start silly and end up loud and obnoxious. It’s family hugs where we all pile on each other, including the dog. It’s cracking up at the same stupid joke.

I told him maybe the point isn’t one big thing. Maybe it’s a lot of little things stitched together.
Like how good a proper cup of coffee tastes after you’ve been up too early.
Or when a friend messages you just to say they thought of you.
Or when you make something that didn’t exist until you made it: a meal, a sentence, a tiny decision that shifts the day by one degree.

He nodded, in that half-asleep, half-I’m-humouring-you way, and I kissed him goodnight.
He’s probably already forgotten the whole conversation by now.
But I haven’t.

Because that question, what’s the point?, never really goes away.
It just changes shape.

And maybe the point isn’t to find a grand, impressive answer, but to keep noticing the small ones as we go.
The tiny moments of connection that make the rinse-and-repeat worth it.

I’m curious. what are your tiny pockets of meaning? The little joys, odd comforts, tiny things that keep you going. The things you’d miss if they were gone, even though they seem too ordinary to count? I’d honestly love to hear them.

Because they absolutely count.

PS: Before the year wraps up, I’ve got space for one or two more 1:1 clients. If you’ve been thinking about working with me and want some support figuring out your next steps in life or work, you can book an introductory call here.