It has a name now. Philosophers and psychologists speak openly of a 'meaning crisis,' and you can feel it under the surface of a comfortable life: more options than any people in history, and a quiet, chronic sense that none of them add up to a reason to get out of bed. We solved scarcity and inherited emptiness. The old frameworks that told a person why they existed have thinned out, and nothing has replaced them that can bear the weight.
The instinct of the age is to build meaning yourself, curate it, optimize it, choose your own values and manufacture significance from within. It is an exhausting project, because a meaning you invented can be un-invented by your next mood, and deep down you know you are the author of it, which is precisely why it cannot finally reassure you. A story you wrote cannot surprise you with the news that you matter.
A meaning you manufactured yourself cannot rescue you, because you already know who made it up.
Christianity makes a stranger claim, one worth taking seriously even from the outside: that meaning was never a concept to be constructed but a Person to be known. That the universe is not a blank onto which we project significance, but an authored thing, and that its Author has a face. 'By him all things consist,' Paul writes of Christ, hold together, cohere. If that is true, then the ache of meaninglessness is not a defect to be managed. It is homesickness for a Person you were made for and have not yet met.