I do not know, and that’s okay

I stood amid an unexpected calm in the stationery aisle at WHSmith, the soft rustle of pages and the vibrant colors of journals drawing me into a quiet dialogue with myself. In that moment, I questioned the familiar labels—"Goals," "Vision," "To-Do Lists"—and felt an unexpected pang. Once, that might have triggered anxiety and self-criticism. But today, I embraced the pause, allowing space for stillness and the possibility of uncertainty. And so, the story begins…

I have always been a keen observer of myself. As a researcher with a background in law, I've learned that observation is key. Every detail, no matter how small or seemingly insignificant, can hold importance. Even a flower wrapped in newspaper might conceal something crucial in the text printed upon it—something useful later. Similarly, every brief conversation holds potential insights about the people we meet. With this perspective, I've become an observer of my own life, approaching it with the curiosity and rigor of an investigator. It’s a matter of profound self-interest and constant analysis—continuously learning from my experiences and the world around me.

Yet, amidst all this observation and analysis, sometimes I wonder...

How much of the world can I truly understand by simply gazing outward from my huge, floor-length window, which offers a picturesque view of the countryside and pine trees? And then I ask myself—how much have I genuinely understood so far? Not necessarily just from this exact moment of contemplation, but from all the time I’ve spent with myself, each experience leading me to this precise destination, the vantage point from which I now observe.

Do you ever find yourself reflecting on all the moments you've shared with others—friends, acquaintances, even strangers who passed through your life? However brief or lasting, those encounters now feel as fleeting as a passing year. And now, with their absence echoing around you, do you ever wonder if it all meant anything at all? Perhaps it wasn't painful—perhaps, more often than not, it was beautiful. But now, the memories feel distant, almost untouchable, like a chapter of your life that quietly closed without you noticing. I wonder if this lost part is just another stretch in the larger journey. Maybe all the moments spent alone—each thought, each reflection—have meaning beyond immediate usefulness. Maybe they form an intangible tapestry, something subtle that influences me without always being directly applicable in everyday situations.

Sometimes, I feel confusion, even loss. I wonder—what if I hadn't been part of those moments? Surely, I would have experienced something different, another version of reality. But perhaps, each of those experiences, whether remembered vividly or faded, was necessary—another small piece making the journey whole.

As I pondered this, I momentarily drifted away while watching TV with my husband. My eyes became fixated on the blank white wall of our drawing room. My husband noticed my distraction and asked, "What's wrong?"

"Nothing," I replied.

"No," he insisted gently, "you can't just suddenly stare at the wall while we're watching TV. Tell me, what's the matter?"

And so, I shared my thoughts. "I feel I've known life up close, truly felt its depths—the suffering, loss, hope, and longing. Yet I'm uncertain about how I actually feel about it all. Clearly, I'm not gloomy, but I find myself questioning this constant chasing. Do we really need a bigger house? And once we have it, we think about a child—but we can't raise a child in a tall apartment, so we think about schools, and then there's always something else. We were taught for years that life would be good if we excelled in school, then university, then secured a job, marriage, a home, and children. It becomes overwhelming, this relentless pursuit layered with life's unpredictability. Yet we keep moving forward, always hoping, always wishing. Does it ever end?”

He responded thoughtfully, "If it ended, the economy would collapse. That's just how the economy works."

He then mentioned Gen Z and their approach to life. "Many in Gen Z aren't fixated on owning a house," he explained conversationally. "With rising property costs, student debts, and a desire for flexibility and financial freedom, they're content living in cozy, comfortable apartments. It's a noticeable trend—they value experiences over possessions, and they're happy spending their lives that way."

"Is that a good thing?" I asked.

"Yes," he replied gently. "They've stopped chasing."

"So, does that mean they're content?" I wondered aloud. "Life without aspiration seems peaceful."

He paused thoughtfully. "Not necessarily. There's another layer to it."

Then I questioned, "Does having clear aspirations lead to genuine contentment? Or does a lack of aspiration offer a simpler, quieter form of happiness?"

"Maybe both are partially true, yet incomplete," he replied. "Perhaps lacking aspiration grants an immediate sense of contentment, but it isn't necessarily beneficial—especially towards others. Consider, for instance, a man whose aspirations are simple: a steady job, a spouse, a home, and children. Once he achieves these goals, he might feel satisfied and content. But what if, in achieving his aspiration of having a child, he loses sight of nurturing and caring for that child because the aspiration itself was already fulfilled? Could contentment without continued aspiration unintentionally lead to neglect?"

Perhaps aspiration should not be treated merely as a checklist but as an evolving, living process—one that demands constant engagement, reflection, and renewal.

And now, as I sit here, putting these thoughts into words, I find myself embracing the uncertainty. Maybe the true art of living lies neither in relentless pursuit nor complete surrender, but in finding balance—allowing ourselves to pause, reflect, and appreciate the journey itself, wherever it may lead.