Dancing with Chaos
The Everyday Battle Between Creation and Destruction
"One must still have chaos in oneself to be able to give birth to a dancing star." — Friedrich Nietzsche
The other night, I stayed up until late watching Netflix. Not even a good documentary—just one of those shows you put on for background noise, only to accidentally binge until the credits roll and you're left questioning your life choices. I wasn’t searching for anything. Just feeding that urge to check out, even though I knew I'd pay for it in the morning. And I did. My alarm clock felt like an act of violence.
It's not the first time I knowingly sabotaged myself. Sometimes, I give in to dessert when trying to stick to a healthy diet. Sometimes, I skip a workout because "tomorrow" sounds better. Other times, I snap at my twins over something small—like them leaving their shoes in the middle of the hallway—only to regret it two seconds later because I know the mess isn't worth the moment of frustration.
It seems that when I’m not burning things down, I’m building. I’m striving for connection, growth, and creativity. I’m making plans and setting goals, dreaming about the future. It's like two versions of me living in the same body—one wanting to build a beautiful life. Another secretly intends to toss a match over his shoulder and watch it all burn to see what happens.
Why do we do this? Why do we sometimes destroy the very things we care about the most? Why does chaos feel so good when we know it’ll hurt later?
It turns out that Freud had a theory about this. And whether or not you’re into psychoanalysis, it's hard to deny that his ideas still linger, poking at the back of our minds when we wonder why we make the choices we do. He called it the battle between Eros and Thanatos—the life and death drives.
It sounds dramatic, and it may be. But it feels uncomfortably relatable when you think about the little ways we build and destroy daily.
We all know that feeling of wanting to create something good. It’s that spark when planning a future trip, the satisfaction of watching a project take shape, or the simple pleasure of having dinner with people you love. Eros is the force behind all that—the drive to grow, connect, and keep things alive and thriving.
Freud described Eros as the life instinct, the energy that pulls us towards love, creativity, and survival. It’s the part of us that wants to build a home, nurture relationships, or write the novel we’ve been dreaming about for years. (Or at least, write a to-do list about writing that novel. Baby steps.)
Eros shows up in all kinds of ways. It’s behind the rush of optimism when we start a new habit or chase a goal. It’s why we invest in self-improvement, fill our Pinterest boards with dream furniture, or try to eat kale because it's healthier. (Even though it's never as satisfying as fries.)
But Eros isn’t just about big gestures. It's also the quiet drive to keep things together—checking in with a friend, sticking to routines, choosing love over indifference. It's the part of us that wants to believe in better futures, even when the world feels messy.
And when Eros is in charge, life feels like it’s moving forward. Things are clicking, there’s progress, and the future feels like a place worth reaching for.
But Eros doesn't have the stage to itself.
Enter Thanatos—the part of us that craves destruction. Not necessarily in a dramatic "burn it all down" way (although sometimes, yes), but in those smaller, sneakier moments. Like eating that dessert when you're trying to be "good." Skipping that workout. Saying something mean when you're tired and frustrated, even though you know it'll hurt.
Freud believed Thanatos had an unconscious drive toward chaos, aggression, and death. Sure, that sounds a little extreme, but think about it: there’s a reason we sometimes act against our own best interests. There's a reason we stay in toxic relationships, procrastinate on projects we care about, or push people away just when we need them most.
It’s not logical. Thanatos whispers, Why bother? It’s the voice that tells you to give up, to give in, to choose the easy, destructive path because building takes too much effort. It's why, even when life is going well, there's sometimes a restless itch to shake things up—even if that means breaking something that didn't need to be broken.
Destruction can be thrilling. There’s a strange freedom in throwing out the rulebook, walking away, and choosing chaos. It’s that dangerous rush that comes right before regret.
But, of course, regret comes. It always does.
And so, we find ourselves stuck between these two forces—one that wants to build, one that wants to destroy. And the challenge? Figuring out which voice to listen to.
Eros and Thanatos aren't enemies. They're more like sparring partners—constantly pushing and pulling, shaping who we are. And sometimes, they even work together in ways that surprise us.
Destruction can lead to creation. Quitting a job that no longer fits might feel like setting fire to your security, but it can also make space for something better. Walking away from a relationship can feel like tearing down a home. But it might also clear the path to rediscovering yourself.
Even creativity has a little destruction baked in. Writers talk about killing their darlings—letting go of favorite lines for a stronger story. Builders tear things down before they put up something better.
Sometimes, Thanatos isn’t whispering, "Destroy everything," but nudging us to release what no longer serves. Destruction isn't always bad. It can be the mess that clears the way for something new. The hard part is knowing when it’s productive and when it's just self-sabotage.
Because sometimes we’re not breaking things to grow—we’re just breaking. Out of fear. Out of boredom. Out of that restless itch that says, what happens if I just let it all fall apart?
This tension is everywhere. It's why we sign up for gym memberships and avoid them for months, invest in relationships, and then pull away, start creative projects, and abandon them halfway through.
Social media perfectly mirrors this. We build curated profiles (Eros at work) and scroll through the chaos we can't control (hello, Thanatos). We seek connection but fuel disconnection by comparing our lives to highlight reels.
Even reality TV is built on this. People come together to form alliances, but the real drama—the ratings—comes when things fall apart.
The more we notice this tension, the more we can choose how we move through it.
It may start with noticing and catching ourselves when Thanatos whispers too sweetly—asking, What am I trying to destroy here? And why?
Sometimes, things need to fall apart. But other times, we can catch ourselves mid-sabotage and choose differently. We can pause. We can build instead.
It's not about silencing the voice of destruction. It's about knowing when it's a genuine call for change and when it's fear in disguise.
And when we get it wrong (because we will), it's about trusting that Eros is always there, ready to rebuild.
So the next time I find myself staying up too late or reaching for chaos instead of calm, maybe I’ll ask: Is this the part of me that wants to burn it all down, or the part that’s afraid to build something real?
Asking that question probably won't change the outcome. Maybe I'll stay up too late, eat the cake, and snap when I should soften. But maybe, slowly, I’ll start listening better. And perhaps that’s how we learn to let Eros and Thanatos dance without stepping on the other's toes.
In the end, it's not about choosing one over the other. It's about learning to live with both and letting that tension shape us into something better.
A great book to recommend would be "The War of Art" by Steven Pressfield. It dives into the internal battles we face when trying to create, particularly the concept of "Resistance," which parallels the idea of Thanatos in your essay. It's accessible, punchy, and resonates with anyone who's struggled with self-sabotage.
If this resonated with you,
I highly recommend The War of Art by Steven Pressfield. It's a sharp, no-nonsense take on why we resist what we care about most—whether writing a book, starting a business, or just showing up for ourselves. It doesn’t sugarcoat the battle but reminds you that you're not fighting it alone.