Finding Meaning in Life Through Artistic Endeavors.

Justin Gregg 03/18/2026

I’ve always struggled with the idea of meaning.

Not in the abstract, philosophical sense, though that comes into play - but in the everyday, pressing question: Why do we keep going? Life is messy, unpredictable, often overwhelming, and it’s easy to feel like we’re just drifting from one obligation to the next. In those moments, it’s tempting to look for answers in productivity, in optimizing every aspect of ourselves, or in achieving milestones that society tells us will make us “fulfilled.”

But I’ve learned - slowly, painfully, and sometimes joyfully - that the most lasting sense of purpose doesn’t come from checking boxes. It comes from creating. From making art. From leaving a piece of yourself behind in something tangible, something that outlives the fleeting anxieties of a day or a week or even a year.

For me, this started with music. Not the polished, “look at me” version I would sometimes imagine on stage or in a recording studio, but the quiet kind that happens in the middle of a late night when the world is asleep. Sitting at a piano or strumming a guitar, trying to find the exact note that matches a feeling you can’t quite put into words - it’s frustrating, yes, but it’s also extremely grounding. There’s an immediacy to it that forces you to confront what’s in your head and heart. You’re translating abstract emotion into something concrete. And in that translation, you begin to understand yourself a little better. The act of creating simply becomes a mirror, reflecting back the fears, joys, doubts, and revelations that might otherwise go unnoticed.

Writing has been similar for me, though in a slightly different way. A blank page is terrifying in the sense that there’s no guardrails, no shortcuts, no tricks. You’re alone with your thoughts, your experiences, and your words. But that same blank page you find yourself blankly staring at is also oddly liberating. I’ve written countless essays, journal entries, lyrics, and little snippets over my twenty seven years of life that never have left those old notebooks. All of them were attempts at understanding, at making sense of the world at that moment in time, and my small place in it.

Writing allows you to observe life without immediately acting on it, to dissect a feeling and examine it from multiple angles. It’s like holding a small fragment of existence up to the light, turning it around until you see something in it you didn’t before. And when you share those words - whether with friends, strangers online, or even through a public piece of writing - the meaning expands. What was once private becomes communal.

There’s a strange, quiet magic in that communal aspect of art. Music, writing, visual pieces - they all bridge the gap between people. Someone hears a lyric you wrote, and it resonates because they’ve felt the same thing but maybe never known how to put it into words. Someone reads an essay and nods, whispering to themselves, I’ve been there too. The meaning in art is often less about the creator and more about the dialogue it sparks about that strange human feeling. The songs and essays you produce carry echoes of your own experience, but they also meet listeners and readers halfway, transforming into something beyond just personal and into something that can be shared. It’s a reminder that we’re not as alone as we think, that the struggles, the doubts, and even the fleeting moments of clarity we experience are part of a wider human story.

Beyond the shared experience, I’ve found that art gives life structure in a way nothing else quite can. When you commit to creating something - an album, a series of essays, even a small painting - you’re investing in a future self. You’re saying, I am here now, and I want this to matter later. There’s a patience in that, a recognition that some things aren’t instantaneous. Meaning isn’t delivered in a neat, wrapped package with a ribbon or bow; it’s built slowly, piece by piece, often in ways you can’t predict. Sometimes it’s in the satisfaction of finally finishing a track after hours of tweaking to the point you are starting to pull your hair out, sometimes it’s in the quiet knowledge that a paragraph you wrote might resonate with someone who needs it months from now. These small victories - the ones that don’t come with likes, views, or applause - are often the most important.

And yet, creating isn’t just about structure or reflection. It’s also about the beauty in the chaos. Art doesn’t always flow smoothly, and that’s part of its intrinsic value. Some of my most meaningful moments have come from frustration, from staring at a lyric that refuses to land or a song that feels hollow until the very last note. It’s in those moments of tension that you confront yourself most honestly. You see what you’re holding onto, what you’re afraid of, what you’re ignoring. Art forces vulnerability in a way nothing else does. It’s a safe space to explore failure, imperfection, and the gray areas of life that rarely get documented elsewhere. And that documentation - those songs, essays, or sketches - can become a record of being alive, of trying, of existing in the messy, beautiful in-between.

Meaning, I’ve realized, isn’t something you find by following someone else’s formula or imitating what worked for someone else. It’s something you create for yourself, actively and intentionally. Artistic endeavors are a way of staking a claim on your life, of saying, I mattered here. I felt this, I thought this, I made this. Every track I write, every essay I craft, every idea I put on paper is a small act of asserting presence in a world that can otherwise feel cold and indifferent. But over time, these fragments accumulate, forming a mosaic of a life that’s honest, personal, and resonant. Even if no one ever hears or reads it, it carries value - because it carries meaning.

Ultimately, I think that’s why I keep coming back to creating, even when life feels heavy or uncertain. Because through music, writing, and other forms of art, I’ve discovered a way to live deliberately, to process experience, and to leave a trace of myself in the world. The meaning isn’t always clear, and it doesn’t have to be. It’s found in the act itself—the late nights, the rewrites, the rehearsals, the quiet satisfaction of something finally feeling right. Art transforms life from a series of moments to something more than that: a narrative, a journey, a reflection of being human. And that, in the end, is enough to keep going, to keep creating, and to keep seeking meaning in the messy, unfolding story of a life lived fully.