This week I pulled Les Misérables off the shelf again, trying to find Jean Valjean’s last words, only to realize I had no idea which page they were on. So I opened it randomly in the middle and found myself reading about him carrying Marius through the sewer. That suffocating feeling was all too familiar—not in a literary sense, but the literal inability to breathe. Last month, I had a bad cold and couldn’t sleep, so I picked up the book in the middle of the night. When I got to that passage, my nose was completely blocked, forcing me to breathe through my mouth until I actually made myself lightheaded from lack of oxygen. In that moment, I felt a kinship with Jean Valjean—both of us stuck in some filthy, stinking tunnel, carrying something of questionable worth, searching for an exit.

But I don’t have his resolve. I’ve carried plenty of things: the sense of achievement from collecting a hundred stars with the Pomodoro Technique, the delusional pride of thinking I could rebuild my worldview after finishing Critique of Pure Reason. The heaviest burden was Nietzsche. For a while, I read Thus Spoke Zarathustra every morning, and during the day at work, the word “Übermensch” flashed through my mind whenever I argued with colleagues. I felt like I was starring in some apocalyptic hero movie. Then my boss called me into a meeting and said my PowerPoint logic was flawed. I deflated on the spot. The Übermensch couldn’t even handle a slide deck.

Kant was an earlier debt. At twenty-eight, I resolved to “live with clarity,” so I devoured his three Critiques on the subway, on the toilet, and during sleepless nights. I thought that if I could just grasp the “Transcendental Aesthetic,” I could install a firewall around my emotions. Eventually, I found Kant’s daily schedule more useful than his philosophy—he took a walk every afternoon at 3:30, rain or shine. That wasn’t discipline; it was fear. The fear that if he ever stopped, the whole system would collapse. I tried it too: after work every day, I had to walk three laps around my neighborhood, counting my steps. On day three hundred, I forgot to count and just went home. That night, I felt an overwhelming relief, as if I had finally graduated from Kant.

Psychology is a trap. Positive psychology had me writing a gratitude journal. I made it to day forty, wrote “I don’t feel like thanking anyone today,” and stopped. Existential psychology was even harsher—it told me that suffering is ontological, part of the factory settings. After hearing that, I lay flat for three days, not because I had figured anything out, but because I had no energy left. If no matter what I do, it’s all suffering, then I might as well just sleep. When you’re asleep, there are no emotions. And without emotions, you’re freer than anything.

The body is a snitch. For a while, I was obsessed with mind-body dualism, convinced that the soul must rise above the flesh. Then one day, with a fever of 39°C (102°F), I lay in bed and realized: existentialism is just telling you, don’t overthink it—first, drink some water. Since then, I’ve been running three times a week. Not for health, but just to prove I can still control my legs. When I run, my mind goes blank. There’s only breathing. For two hours after each run, my tolerance for the outside world noticeably increases. When the body is in good shape, the mind is willing to cooperate.

I see emotions now like I see the weather forecast. I’m someone whose factory settings lean toward gloom—my baseline hovers perpetually between “okay” and “not great.” I used to fight it, force myself to be pumped up, and every time I crashed harder. Eventually, I learned: when I dip below baseline, I admit I’m useless, do nothing, and lie flat. Wait for it to come back up on its own. There’s no trick, no method, no philosophy—only waiting. Like waiting for a pot of water to boil. Stare at it, and it never does.

A few days ago, I picked up Les Misérables again. I still didn’t find Jean Valjean’s last words. But I found another line: Valjean says to Cosette, “People must have love, otherwise the world is a prison.” I was reading this with a fever of 38.5°C (101.3°F). I thought, forget it—love or no love, I need to get this fever down first. But a moment later, I felt the line was true. Not because it is true, but because I needed it to be. I need to believe in something, even if it’s just a fever-induced hallucination.

Emotional self-sufficiency, as I understand it now, is this: you have to produce your own illusions, digest them yourself, disbelieve them yourself, and still keep using them. It’s not about keeping yourself fully charged forever—it’s about accepting that you’re often out of battery, and learning to barely function in that depleted state. No asking for help, no crying out, no pretending you’re fully powered. Just lying there, waiting for the power to come back naturally. Or simply admitting, today is what it is.

The rain outside is loud. I haven’t turned on the lights. The glow of my phone screen on my face feels like another rain. I’m writing this down, but the sound of the rain makes me doubt whether I’ve actually written anything at all. But it doesn’t matter. Tomorrow will probably be different. Whether better or worse, I don’t know—but at least it’ll be mine. I suppose this is what self-sufficiency means: produce it yourself, doubt it yourself, and keep using it anyway.