Where Are We So Desperately Trying to Get To?

Sometimes I wonder:

Where exactly are we all rushing off to?

What is this finish line we’re breaking ourselves against, day after day?

We strive to have more, be more, do more. We build businesses, chase promotions, burn the candle at both ends. And for what? For the hope that someday—someday—we’ll arrive at that mythical place where we can finally exhale. Finally be happy. Finally feel like enough.

But if we’re honest, that “someday” keeps moving.

We tell ourselves we’re doing it so we can enjoy the things that really matter—our families, rest, freedom, creativity. But those things are shoved to the margins of our lives, squished into the exhausted hours leftover after we’ve given the best of ourselves—our minds, our bodies, our souls—to “making it.”

And what is “it,” anyway?

Somehow, we’ve accepted a definition of success and happiness that feels… off. Toxic, even. Misaligned with the truth of what it means to be alive.

And it’s not just personal. It’s global.

We take this brittle vision of happiness—the big house, the endless consumption, the polished image—and export it like it’s gospel. We call it progress when foreign investors come in and build luxury hotels where family-run warungs once stood. We pave over nature and call it development. We build homes so expensive the people whose ancestors lived on that land can no longer afford to stay.

And we wonder why nothing feels quite right.

We tell people in countries around the world that this—this constant striving—is the dream. But is it? Or is it a dream that slowly becomes a nightmare? One where we’re always measuring ourselves and always coming up short. One where we carry a secret shame, because no matter how hard we try, there’s always more we’re told we should be.

Worse, we’re not even allowed to be honest about how we feel.

We’re not supposed to admit we’re burnt out. That we’re angry. That we’re disillusioned. That this relentless push for more has left us hollow, disconnected, and aching for something real. Something true. We hide our pain behind tight smiles and filtered photos. We mask our fatigue with productivity hacks and double espressos.

Because vulnerability? That’s weakness.

Because speaking truth? That’s dangerous.

So we keep going. Quietly miserable. Secretly longing.

But what if we paused?

What if, just for a moment, we stopped and asked:

What is my life in service of?

Not what should it be.

Not what do people expect it to be.

But what is it really in service of right now?

And how do I really feel about that?

This isn’t about blame. It’s not about making anyone wrong—not ourselves, not our parents, not the people who taught us this was the way. This is about being radically honest. Gentle and brave. It’s about waking up.

Because maybe, just maybe, the life we’re so desperate to build isn’t the life we really want.

And maybe the real dream—the one buried under all the noise—is waiting patiently for us to remember it.