Editor’s Note: Every Tuesday, James Parker tackles a reader’s existential worry. He wants to hear about what’s ailing, torturing, or nagging you. Submit your lifelong or in-the-moment problems to dearjames@theatlantic.com.

Don’t want to miss a single column? Sign up to get “Dear James” in your inbox.

Dear James,

What are we, modern humans, to make of work? How can I do it without so much anxiety, but still sufficient productivity? The daily grind is mostly fine but also highly stressful, with manic bouts of propulsion toward deadlines, little clarity around what I should do or should have done, and the constant drumbeat of fear that I’m not adding much value. I find myself regularly reviewing awkward and painful moments of my day at night, when I should be sleeping, or when I would probably derive much more life satisfaction from attuning to my kids.

I’ve never been able to settle on an overarching mission for my working life because nothing seems reliable or worthy enough of sacrificing the other major factors that impact my happiness—mostly the amount of time I can spend with my family, the location where we live, and the security of a decent salary. So in a way I see myself as infinitely flexible; I don’t have a great, deep reason for doing what I do now, but it would probably take a lot for me to tack to something else. I have no grand plan. Am I going to regret this when I reach retirement age?

Is it this job, or is this just what work is? Is it me? What can the average person expect from a lifetime of work? What should we be aiming for?

Dear Reader,

In my 20s, I worked at an office in West London analyzing transport statistics: how many cars are on the rotary at one time and which direction they’re coming from, how many passengers climb on the train at a particular station, etc. I made projections, I stared at graphs. And before I was driven from the place by a detonation sequence of mind-wrecking panic attacks, I was strangely happy there. The boringness of the work seemed to have its own value. A feeling of muffled industry. Engrossing, in a gently overcast way. No mistaking it for something that might ignite my spirit: it was work, nothing but. I sat at my desk, peacefully working. Had I not turned into the figure from Munch’s The Scream—flipper hands grasping my skull, bands of distortion in the sky—I’d be there still.

Not every job has to blaze with vocational intensity, and not everybody needs to have a fulfilling career. In fact I applaud you for not having a “great deep reason” for doing the job you’re doing. We’ve got enough great deep reasons floating around these days. And I can assure you that you are adding ineffable value to your workplace just by being there: An office (it sounds like an office) is a mystical body like any other, and one person’s presence or absence changes everything. So do your work. And then go home.

Unprofessionally,
James

Dear James,

Sometimes when I’m in the grocery store, I see someone I sort of know but don’t really know well, and I find myself wondering what to do. Should I say hi and start a conversation, or just nod politely and walk on by? It feels awkward, because I’m never sure if they’re thinking the same thing or hoping to avoid an interaction altogether. How do you handle these situations?

Dear Reader,

Small talk can be beautiful, and there’s always the possibility of being irradiated with joy by a chance encounter in the grocery aisle, but then again … people. There are so many of them. They are so tiring. And now and again, for reasons to do with cerebral electricity, affective response, and what’s in your shopping basket, there really is nothing—literally nothing—to say.

Me, I tend to go for it: the big hello, and the conversational follow-through. But there have also been occasions when I have ducked into the baking section and waited for someone to go away. So I dunno. I like the old Jesuit maxim agere contra: “act against.” Or, more idiomatically: Get over yourself, If you’re feeling muted and introverted, in other words, reach out. And if you’re all swollen with ebullience—be gentle. Does that help at all?

Twitching by the carrots,
James

By submitting a letter, you are agreeing to let The Atlantic use it in part or in full, and we may edit it for length and/or clarity.