Futility is that cold little voice that shows up after the third try, the fifth setback, the tenth slammed door, whispering that nothing matters and you’re better off calling it. It’s the ghost that moves in when effort feels pointless, when the world shrugs at your work, when progress drips like molasses and hope feels like an overdraft fee you can’t keep paying. Futility doesn’t yell; it seeps. It’s quiet, patient, and incredibly convincing, because it doesn’t attack your skills or your dreams—it goes straight for your will to keep going.
Sometimes I have this little demon that sits on my shoulder and whispers: What’s the point? Forget it. No one’s gonna get what you’re doing. Why are you writing this book? Give it up. Crumple it up like a ball of paper, and move on to the next thing. And what is the next thing? Just another thing that is good for nothing.
The real danger with futility is how rational it sounds. Futility kinda wears a mask of logic: “Why bother? Why spend time? Why pour energy into something that refuses to move?” It sounds like a friend giving practical advice. But beneath that polite tone is a slow suffocation. Futility is the moment you mistake a rough chapter for the whole book. It’s the temptation to declare defeat while the ink is still wet, to interpret a pause as a full stop, to believe the universe has already decided your limits and your role. It thrives when you stop checking the pulse of your own momentum.
Screw it. It’s just a pause.
Here’s the trick: futility is rarely telling the truth. The thing you’re wrestling with might not be broken—it might just need more time than your nerves are willing to give it. Futility wants you to quit five minutes before the turn, right before the first crack of daylight hits the problem you’ve been digging through. The world isn’t handing out easy victories, but it’s full of late ones, crooked ones, ugly ones that arrive after you’ve already cursed the sky and said you were done. Futility wants you gone before that moment shows up.
Everybody with a heartbeat and a goal runs headfirst into futility sooner or later. It’s part of the landscape, like potholes on the grind. But here’s where my WordGrit kicks in: you don’t have to treat futility like a prophecy.
Futility is just fatigue dressed up as finality.
Sometimes it’s your ego bruised and trying to bail. Sometimes it’s just the weather inside your head, not the truth about your path. Futility wins when you confuse emotion for evidence.
But I know I’ve got to push once more. Nudge the moment. Test the wall. FAFO. That’s the deal: You might not demolish it today, but you might find the crack that keeps you going tomorrow. Because most of the time, the process isn’t futile—you just hit the part where things get real, where the pretenders exit, and where the ones who stay find out what they’re actually made of.
Note to fucking self: Futility isn’t the end. It’s the invitation to see if you’re serious.
