“To exist without reaching a destination is to master the art of presence.” ~attributed to the Buddha
I always believed that achieving a destination was the aim. Like many others, I thought that growing up would provide a distinct identity, stability, and a feeling of community. I was convinced that genuine intention and dedication to principles would naturally lead to that moment.
Now, it appears possible that such a moment might never come.
I’m not the only one experiencing this sensation, although we seldom bring it up. Many of us anticipate that our efforts will eventually result in consistency and acknowledgment. When this fails to transpire, we start questioning ourselves, wondering if perhaps we misinterpreted the guidelines.
Staying, as I have learned, signifies being engaged without having reached the destination. It’s about living a life that does not meet our hopes. This essay contemplates what staying feels like and why recognizing it matters.
I carry a fear that is difficult to confess. It’s not merely the anxiety of failing, growing older, or financial stress, but of becoming a source of shame—not in public, but in a subtle, unnoticed way, yet deeply felt within my family.
I worry that my children view me as someone who believed everything would eventually fall into place. That I would ultimately discover my rightful position. I imagined demonstrating that with something concrete.
Nevertheless, I feel as if I have never genuinely found my role here.
My adult life largely unfolded in different places—both geographically and culturally. Although I worked, instructed, contributed, and felt purposeful, it often existed outside systems that grant legitimacy. Upon returning, I painfully realized my lack of belonging and that the culture did not fully embrace me.
This realization arrived gradually. It slinked in through unsuccessful job submissions, polite refusals, and the uncomfortable sensation during discussions about my work that I lacked a clear response.
What troubles me isn’t the outcome of life but the anxiety it evokes for my children—that they may feel the need to justify or distance themselves from me or question the credibility of my convictions.
My conviction—that honesty and meaningful endeavors lead to safety and acknowledgment—wasn’t something I created. I received it and continued the cycle, believing it to be true.
Now I’m beginning to doubt if it ever was true.
Growing older sharpens these uncertainties. When you are younger, disappointment feels fleeting. Yet as time passes, potentials diminish, revealing not only what you have become but also what you haven’t achieved.
And still—I’m here.
Continuing to reflect, striving to live authentically. Continuously waking up to a life that has not offered clarity but has imparted depth, accountability, and care. Many quietly arrive at this juncture, lacking the vocabulary for it, questioning if they are the only ones undergoing this realization.
I don’t view myself as tragic. I see myself as someone who didn’t conform to the anticipated narrative. Someone who mistook integrity for a form of currency. Someone who thought that meaningful work would inherently lead to acceptance.
Sometimes I awaken with a humbling realization: What if I misinterpreted the world—not in a dramatic sense, but in recognizing that the values I upheld don’t always correspond to security or prominence.
This anxiety stems not from deceit but from dissonance—from the gap between what is said to matter and what is rewarded, and pondering how loved ones will perceive this divide.
There exists a particular loneliness in feeling like an outsider within one’s own culture. Not quite exile—just a persistent sense that the dialect of ambition, certainty, self-promotion never belonged to me. I’ve devoted much time to listening rather than asserting, aiming for alignment over ascent.
This perspective has infused my life with purpose but has rendered me susceptible.
What compels me to write this?