The drive to work this morning felt less like a commute and more like an altar call. I had shuffled my playlist to prep for the drive, but as the first notes of NF’s “Fear” hit the speakers, the sanctuary moved into my car. I’ve been caught in a relentless cycle of questioning lately—circling the drain of my career as a middle school teacher. I’m currently pursuing my Master’s to become a counselor, yet the mere thought of transitioning to a high school campus makes me “buzz out.” It’s an inexplicable internal static. I found myself searching for why this change feels so monumental, and every lyric of that song crashed into my heart, opening up wounds I didn’t realize were still festering.
As I drove, NF’s voice echoed the very question I’ve been dodging: “Is this what you wanted?” I had to stop and really look at the reflection in the rearview mirror. When I first set out to be a teacher, was this the goal? Did I want to be stuck, perpetually stressed, exhausted, and isolated? The song starts with a surrender to the dark: “Hello, darkness, my old friend… now usually I’d be strong enough to lock the doors and keep him shut, but not today.” I realized that I, too, have been letting the fear in. I’ve let the darkness of uncertainty pull up a chair because I am too tired to keep the door bolted anymore.
The most jarring moment came with the realization of the “Mansion.” NF describes standing back, watching his mansion burn to ash while holding a gas can, all while asking God if He started the fire. That hit me like a physical weight. I’ve been questioning God, questioning my path, and pointing fingers at the change and the stress—trying to find someone else to blame for the fire in my life. But when you look closer, you realize he isn’t talking to God; he’s talking to himself.
I had to admit that I am the one holding the gas can. My mansion, the life and identity I built as a middle school teacher, is burning because I am the one who lit the match. We have free will; we are here to grow and prosper, but the decisions we make can either hinder or help that evolution. I realized I was being loyal to a version of myself that no longer exists, out of a fear of the unknown at a new campus. I was asking why the fire was happening, while simultaneously being the architect of the transition. I know the answer. I know the choice. But acknowledging that I am the one burning down my own “comfort zone” to build something new is the hardest part of the analysis.
As I sat in the driver’s seat, the academic theories from my counseling courses began to bleed into the lyrics, turning my car into a classroom. We recently studied Existential Theory, which defines the goal of therapy as “helping clients experience their existence in an authentic, meaningful, and responsive way.” This quote from my textbook hit me with the force of a revelation. Am I living authentically? Is my current existence in the classroom responsive to who I am becoming, or am I just reacting to the friction of a life I’ve outgrown? The theory posits that the ultimate concerns of humans are death, freedom, isolation, and meaninglessness. Looking at my life through that lens, the “buzzing out” I feel about moving to a high school makes perfect sense. I am currently drowning in isolation and meaninglessness. Despite being surrounded by people who show me love and attention, I come home with a physical and emotional ache—my knee hurts, my spirit is tired, and my passion has been replaced by a routine of survival.
A few months ago, I was even spiraling into thoughts about death and the “Matrix,” wondering if any of this was real. I realize now those weren’t just random dark thoughts; they were symptoms of a soul that feels unsupported and disconnected from its purpose. This is where my own philosophy (WHYLD Syntax) clashes with my reality. I wrote down this morning that “we have the power to choose, decide, and define ourselves with our actions.” It’s a sentiment that echoes Person-Centered Theory, the belief that the answers we are desperately seeking are already stored deep within us. I don’t need a sign from the heavens to tell me to move; the “meaninglessness” I feel in my current role is the sign. It is the internal data telling me that my current system is no longer producing the “code” of a fulfilled life.
NF captures this spiraling perfectly when he describes being “on the verge, on the edge, petrified, scared to death… hanging on by a thread.” That has been my internal landscape for the past two weeks. I’ve been scared of the political climate in Texas education, scared of the security of my job, and petrified of a single parent complaint landing me in HR. But if I am to be authentic—if I am to live out the theories I am learning to teach others—I have to acknowledge that the “spark” shouldn’t be a rare occurrence. If I am living in my truth, that fire should be a daily pilot light, not a flickering candle I’m struggling to keep lit. I’ve been begging God to decide for me, but the Existential reality is that He has already given me the freedom to choose. The fear isn’t coming from the change; it’s coming from the weight of the responsibility to finally define myself.
Standing back and watching the mansion go up in flames, NF asks the haunting question: “Is this what you wanted?” There’s a deeper layer here that I’m only just beginning to peel back. Is he asking God if this fire was part of a pre-existing agreement? Is this the path he was put here to follow? I’ve felt that same conflict—asking if this career transition was something God planted in me, a divine ignition I’m now forced to walk through. But then, I see the gas can in my own hand. I am the one who ignited this change because I couldn’t survive another year in the “structure” I had built.
In this moment, I realize that having faith in the process means accepting that change is inevitable. You cannot escape it by standing still. If you stay in a burning building, you still lose everything—your identity, your drive, your passion—but you lose it to the smoke of stagnation. If you move forward, you still lose what doesn’t fit, but you gain the freedom to build a new foundation. The “mansion” was my protection, the structure that kept me safe at night for years as a middle school teacher. Now, that foundation is ash, and while it’s terrifying to be unsheltered, I realize I’m not just a victim of the fire; I am the architect of the clearing.
This feeling of a broken foundation followed me into the classroom today. While monitoring my eighth graders during a Star SIM test, I was struck by the inherent tragedy of the system. Here are these kids, naturally playful and full of life, and I am required to shut that spirit down for over two hours just to collect data for a bureaucratic machine. I see the cracks in the foundation of education every single day, and it makes me feel meaningless to be a part of it. I’m just a gear in a structure that asks me to suppress the very “spark” these children carry.
It reminds me of my analysis of Little Red Riding Hood. In the story, she eventually succeeds because she received—and finally understood—the instructions from her mother. She learned to stay on the path and ignore the wolf’s distractions. But looking at my students, it feels like they are being sent into the woods with no instructions at all. They are winging it, trying to figure out who they are in a world that feels increasingly isolated. While they are still pure vessels, closest to God because they are blank canvases, I can see the “spark” in them being dimmed by a lack of familial and community support.
We are all out here in the woods, picking flowers with the wolf because it’s easier than heading to Grandmother’s house. We think someone else is going to show up to handle the fight, but as my textbook and NF both suggest, we are the ones holding the gas can. We can’t just “pray for change” for these kids; we have to be the ones brave enough to burn down the systems that don’t serve them and build a path that actually leads somewhere meaningful.
This song forced me to confront a hard truth: I’ve been ignoring the signs of my own metamorphosis. I called it “peace,” but in reality, I was just ignoring the slow leak in my own tank. NF talks about an empty heart with nothing left, and I realized I reached that state because I kept giving, and giving, and giving, even when the data showed I was running on fumes. I was so focused on being “loyal” to my current role that I didn’t notice I had become half-empty long before I became desperate. I thought I had found a peace I could live with “until death,” but according to Existential Theory, that kind of static peace is just a different name for meaninglessness. By refusing to acknowledge the signs of my exhaustion, I wasn’t being dedicated; I was being delusional. I was already taking the steps to leave; I’m literally in school right now to become a counselor. So why am I “buzzing out” over taking the actual step? Why am I petrified of the high school campus when I’ve already committed to the change? It’s the paradox of the gas can: I lit the fire, but I’m still afraid of the heat.
In the spirit of WHYLD Syntax, I have to stop and run a diagnostic on these feelings. If the goal is to build deliberately, then the questioning must be brutal and honest. NF asks, “Is this what you wanted?” but I find myself adding my own queries to the script:
Why has this happened now? Why did I choose to ignore the internal sirens for so long? Why am I delaying the inevitable transition when the foundation has already turned to ash?
I realized that my fear isn’t of the high school or the new job; it’s a fear of the “metamorphosis” itself—the terrifying reality that I am no longer the person who fits in a middle school classroom. I’ve been holding onto a version of myself that has already expired. Delaying the move won’t bring back the peace; it will only keep me standing in the smoke.
