It starts as tightness in the upper solar plexus. Then it starts to droop like the top of an ice cream cone on a hundred-degree day, eventually melting over everything to form a vague coating of ambivalence. Sometimes it matures into hopelessness and, for some, even depression. The "it" is the yearning for meaning. And it can swallow you whole.

I started to feel it in my twenties as I struggled to cling to my dream of being a Broadway star while entering what would be my seventh year of waiting tables in New York City. I had given myself five years to make it, but by the seventh, I still needed to work "day jobs" to get by. It was at that point that, I remember, I first strained to hear some guidance about what I was meant to do with my life. The straining hurt, and the answers did not come quickly. Two years went by, my depression deepening into complete darkness, and then suddenly, meaning came for me in the form of painting floors and stuffing envelopes for the Manhattan Center for Living -- a short-lived nonprofit organization that was a haven for people dealing with life-threatening illnesses. Doing menial work for a worthy cause gave more meaning to my life in a handful of Wednesday afternoons than all the years of slogging my way through college and a professional acting career did. It made more sense than the previous four years of therapy had, too.

One day, as I painted the floor with white high-gloss paint, the rocking motion of rolling the roller and the sound of the paint separating from the roll and smacking on the floor, I was brought into a peaceful place. I felt comfort in the task itself. I was fully aware of my actions and fully focused on them. All anxiety about the future or pain about the past began to disappear.

When I finished painting that day, I was alone in a large space that was white of wall, ceiling, and floor. It was there that I settled down at a folding table and chair to the next task that had been left for me. As I stuffed hundreds of envelopes, I developed a rhythmic pattern to my task: flip open the envelope, slip in the paper, run the sponge over the lip, seal -- over and over again. The task was menial, but as I scanned the room with my eyes and saw the offices that would become the private treatment rooms, massage rooms, and meeting rooms, I knew that the people who would be walking through these doors to find comfort and help had it much worse than me. They would be dealing with HIV/AIDS, lupus, and cancer. As this registered, I began to feel the shedding of my own desperation. I recognized that my disease was merely a lack of perspective -- and although it was snuffing out my spirit and weakening my body, my perspective was definitely something I had the power to change.

Today, I can tell you that the pain I was experiencing and the day in the big, white space were all for a reason. Without that pain, I would not have discovered that I had a calling to help other people and I would not have gone on to spend close to twenty years coaching and counseling others. All of the pain I had experienced had invited growth -- and more pain and more growth. And while it's not over yet, the cycle has become less intense over the years. And now, just as the growth is welcomed, the pain can be welcomed too.

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