I remember once, in the clinic, someone from some Evangelical group, a “caretaker of souls,” came to give us a seminar. To increase our engagement, he suggested an activity. He laid out a long orange rope on the floor and told us to stand on it according to how we felt. The beginning of the rope, to me, represented almost utter despair, while the end symbolized happiness already found. At that time, the middle part of the rope wasn’t even visible on my mental horizon. So, I stood just slightly away from the beginning.
A fellow patient stood beside me. We glanced at each other and burst into heartfelt laughter. I think the only thing left in that state of mind was genuine laughter…
When the “caretaker of souls” asked why we stood there, I wanted to laugh even harder, but that would have been considered disrespectful. So, I held back and started explaining my mental state at the time.
“I’m here because I don’t know if life is worth it or what people even live for. Sure, something made me decide to keep living, but now what?” I muttered.
I don’t know if the “caretaker of souls” was ready for that question, but he just said, “Those are big questions,” and moved on to another patient.
Disappointed, I nearly moved even closer to the end of the rope.
Since then, I haven’t stopped. I haven’t stopped searching for the meaning of life. Searching for people who I thought might tell me, might guide me on how to reach that place—while also wondering, what is that place anyway? But no-one knows where it is or what it is. You search, you listen to different teachings, thinking you’ll find some kind of recipe for how to continue living without going in circles and ending up right back where you once decided to turn away from.
Some people talk about preordained missions, saying that once you find yours, you achieve self-realization. So I chase this mission, searching inside and outside, but it’s nowhere to be found. And I keep wondering—who even assigns these missions and tasks?
Others say it’s foolish to talk about missions, that they don’t exist. They say the sense of life is what you have to find. But everyone has to create their own meaning. That idea gave me a little more hope. But how interesting, right? Hope? Hope for what?
In truth, it didn’t give me hope but rather relief. It meant I wasn’t doing anything wrong by not finding a mission. It meant I wasn’t disappointing anyone. It meant no-one would punish me with weeping and gnashing of teeth. I exhaled deeply. Hmm… Hope. Hope for what? For the future, or for avoiding failure? Is either one even real?
On my way to therapy, looking out from the bus, I see grass, birds, wolfs, and then the whole animal kingdom. And I realize that this world appears in my perception for just a moment and asks me a question – do they need to do something to be happy? What mission or meaning do they have in this world? They just exist. They exist selflessly, in the here and now. Deer have grass – they eat. They don’t have it – they go hungry. That’s it. That’s their existence as I see it from the outside, and yet I can still love them, admire them, pause for a moment in the present while looking at them. Their mere existence shares a piece of their happiness with me.
So why must I struggle to obtain happiness? And what even is happiness? Earned recognition in society? Acquired and worked-for wealth?
When they told me Santa Claus didn’t exist, I would have preferred they told me life’s meaning didn’t exist. In their attempt to show me “reality,” they put an even bigger illusion in front of me – the illusion of life’s purpose. Go, work hard, and find the meaning of your existence, and only then will you be acknowledged… As if I wasn’t already born with inherent worth, as if that worth had to be earned through great achievements.
I’ve spent all these years searching for the meaning of life that doesn’t exist. Yet, as a child, I already had one—those fleeting moments of happiness, free from thoughts of diplomas and earned recognition. I was simply a child, playing. But that only lasted three years…
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