I am NOT in the mood

And what exactly am I supposed to do about that?

I’m Not in the Mood Is a Feeling, Not a Decision

This morning I caught myself saying something in my own head. I wasn’t talking to anybody, wasn’t making some grand declaration about my life — I was just scrolling past videos and articles that ordinarily might have caught my attention, and I realized what I was thinking.

I’m just not in the mood.

Not to watch anything. Not to listen to anybody. Not, if I’m telling the complete truth, to give a shit about much of anything.

Then curiosity kicks in: What exactly do we mean when we say that? Because we say it like the matter’s been settled. I’m not in the mood to go out. To work. To paint. To talk. And that little sentence can become a closed door.

This morning there were reasonable explanations for mine. I hadn’t slept well. We’re having a heat wave, and my air conditioner is losing the argument — I have it set at 68, and my thermostat is cheerfully informing me the apartment is 75. So the blinds are staying closed. No heroic sunbeams, no performance of cheerfulness at the expense of turning my living room into a greenhouse. I’m tired, and being tired changes things. Rested, curiosity comes easily — I want to read something, paint something, wander down some rabbit hole and come back three hours later wondering how I got there. Exhausted, even somebody talking enthusiastically in a video feels like an unreasonable demand. Please stop talking. I don’t care what your five tips are.

Following the trail of breadcrumbs curiosity left, I began thinking about encouragement, which is the word I’ve been sitting with lately. What does it mean to encourage yourself on a day you don’t feel like participating in your own life?

I don’t think the answer is barking orders at yourself. Get up. Get moving. Be productive. Don’t waste the day. Come on. That’s not encouragement — that’s an unpleasant supervisor living inside your head.

But I’m also not sure “I’m not in the mood” deserves the authority we hand it.

A mood is a state. It’s information about what’s happening inside me right now — it doesn’t automatically get to decide what happens next. “I’m not in the mood this morning” isn’t the same sentence as “I’m disengaging from the entire day,” even though I notice how easily one turns into the other. Not in the mood, so I don’t do anything. Then I decide the day is shot. Then I’m irritated with myself for doing nothing, and the irritation becomes evidence something is wrong with me — all because at 7:30 I happened to be tired. That’s an awful lot of authority to give a mood.

Maybe the better question isn’t how do I make myself be productive when I don’t feel like it. Maybe it’s just: what am I willing to do anyway? Not what I should do, or what would make this an impressive day, or what would justify my existence. Just what I’m willing to do. Write one paragraph. Stand in front of the canvas for fifteen minutes. Make breakfast and sit quietly. Leave the blinds closed, accept the apartment is hot, admit I’m tired, and stop demanding this morning feel like other mornings.

Because moods change. The way I feel at 7:30 isn’t necessarily the way I’ll feel at noon. And maybe that’s where self-encouragement starts — not forcing myself, not indulging myself, but staying in relationship with myself.

That idea’s been on my mind since a note I wrote yesterday about self-abandonment — the quiet kind, not the dramatic kind. Saying “I’m fine” because it’s easier for everyone else, even when we know we’re not. I think there’s a version of that in “I don’t feel like it” too, when it’s not a state I’m noticing but a door I’m using to walk away from myself.

Encouragement might live somewhere between those two extremes. Something like: I hear you, you’re tired, you don’t feel interested, you don’t have to pretend otherwise — but I’m not leaving you here. Let’s see what’s still possible today.

That’s different from productivity. I’m increasingly suspicious of our obsession with it, especially in retirement — I don’t have to prove a Wednesday was worthwhile because I got twelve things done before lunch. That’s not the life I’m building.

But I also don’t want to sleepwalk through these years just because nothing requires me to get up and participate anymore.

There’s a difference between resting and withdrawing. Between honoring a mood and surrendering to it. Between “I need less from myself today” and “nothing matters today.”

Maybe that’s one of the things we have to figure out once our lives finally belong to us. Nobody’s organizing the day. Nobody’s handing us a syllabus. Nobody’s waiting on a report by five o’clock.

We have to build a different relationship with ourselves — one based less on obligation and more on attention.

What am I feeling, what do I need, what could I do today that keeps me connected to myself? Some mornings the answer’s ambitious. Other mornings it’s small. But small isn’t the same as nothing.

So this morning, I’m not particularly in the mood.

Fine. I can start there.

I just don’t have to end there.

What about you — where’s the line, for you, between honoring a mood and just disappearing into it?

Anyway, if you like the idea of caring about your own life

And you don’t want to sleepwalk through the years you still have

You might want to become a paid subscriber. I’m here to encourage you to keep choosing yourself.