Can one who believes they know the path to righteousness guide another who is uncertain? At first glance, it seems plausible. If someone is experienced, wise, or knowledgeable, shouldn’t they naturally serve as a guide to those who are less so? But let us pause and examine this assumption carefully.

What does it mean to “know”? And is righteousness—like farming, cooking, or engineering—something that can be taught as a method or a technique?  The Farmer and the FieldAn experienced farmer can teach another how to improve their methods—how to till the soil, irrigate the land, or protect crops from pests. These are skills based on observable cause and effect, built upon experience and experiment. The teacher in this case has tangible knowledge, something that can be demonstrated, replicated, and tested.  But compassion, righteousness, or inner transformation—can these qualities be transferred in the same way? If I follow the actions of someone compassionate or righteous, does that inherently make me compassionate or righteous? Is imitation transformation, or is it something else entirely?   

Conformity vs. Transformation: When someone follows a prescribed path laid out by another, what often emerges is conformity. The follower adjusts their behavior to align with the teacher’s expectations, rules, or methods. Outwardly, there may appear to be a change: they may act more kindly, speak more gently, or adopt what seems like righteous conduct.  But is this true transformation? Or is it merely a mask shaped by external pressures—approval, reward, or fear of judgment?  Consider this:A person who conforms to a standard may remain deeply divided within themselves. Their outward behavior may comply, but their inner world could still be filled with conflict, desire, or ambition. Such conformity is fragile, easily broken by internal urges or external circumstances. True transformation, on the other hand, arises not from outward influence but from a profound shift within.   

The Fragility of Secondhand Righteousness: When righteousness is borrowed—when it comes from following another’s path—it rests on tenuous ground. What happens when the external guide is no longer present? Or when new pressures—social, emotional, or material—emerge? A person who has merely conformed may revert to their previous ways, because the change was never rooted in deep understanding.  Righteousness or compassion, if imposed, is not real. It is a façade. True transformation requires something entirely different: a direct perception, an awakening within oneself.   

Learning Together: If true transformation cannot come from another, then what is the role of a teacher? Can a teacher truly “teach” compassion, love, or righteousness? Or is the role of the teacher and the taught to learn together?  Imagine two people standing before a vast, unfamiliar landscape. Neither knows the way, but both are observing, questioning, and exploring together. The teacher is not one who declares, “I know, follow me,” but one who says, “Let us look together.” This shared inquiry creates an environment where both can discover—not through authority or obedience, but through direct perception and mutual exploration.   

The Awakening Within: Inner transformation is not something that can be given, taught, or imposed. It must arise from an individual’s own insight and understanding. For this to happen, there must be freedom—freedom to observe without judgment, to question deeply, and to discover without fear.  When you observe your own mind—its desires, fears, ambitions, and contradictions—you begin to see yourself as you are. This seeing is not the result of another’s instruction; it is a direct awakening. It is only in such observation that true transformation takes place.   

Compassion as a State of Being: Compassion is not a method, a practice, or a skill to be acquired. It is a state of being that arises naturally when there is clarity and understanding. When you see clearly the pain caused by selfishness, the futility of ambition, and the division created by comparison, compassion is the natural response. It does not need to be taught; it simply flowers when the mind is free of its own distortions.   

The Freedom to Discover: In the end, the idea that one who “knows” can guide another to righteousness is itself a limitation. It assumes that righteousness is a fixed destination and that the one who knows is somehow separate from the one who does not. But righteousness, like truth, is not fixed. It is alive, dynamic, and must be discovered anew in each moment. Both the teacher and the taught must approach the inquiry with humility, realizing that they are not separate but are part of the same movement of life. It is only in this shared exploration, free from authority and dogma, that there is the possibility of real transformation. 

So, can someone who “knows” guide another? Perhaps the more profound question is: Can we together discover what it means to live rightly, without the baggage of authority, imitation, or conformity? In such discovery, there is freedom, and in freedom, there is the flowering of a mind that is truly compassionate and righteous. 

The post Can One Who Knows Guide Another to Righteousness?  first appeared on Life is Relationship.

We often say, “God controls everything,” but do we live by that belief? While we profess that outcomes are in divine hands, our actions suggest otherwise. 

We strive relentlessly, fueled by desire, and suffer deeply when results don’t align with our expectations. Isn’t this a contradiction? 

Consider someone working tirelessly to land their dream job. They may claim to trust in divine will, yet their peace depends entirely on getting the offer. If the job doesn’t come through, they feel crushed, angry, or hopeless. 

This trust in a higher power becomes hollow when emotional well-being hinges on a specific outcome. 

This attachment is the root of psychological torment. When our desires drive us, they create a cycle of expectation, disappointment, and frustration. 

We might even find ourselves in emotional turmoil, lashing out or losing peace of mind. 

Imagine trying to hold water in your hands. The tighter you grip, the more it slips away. Desire works the same way—the stronger our attachment to results, the more unstable and reactive we become. 

The key isn’t in suppressing desire or blindly attributing outcomes to God. It lies in understanding the nature of our attachment. 

Can we observe our thoughts and feelings without judgment? Can we question why we place so much of our happiness on achieving specific goals? 

Only through such awareness can we move beyond contradiction and discover a sense of peace that isn’t tied to results. 

The post The Contradiction of Beliefs and Outcomes  first appeared on Life is Relationship.

I recently came across an article in which the author admired the incredible mechanism of the human body. They expressed deep gratitude for the seamless functioning of the body and offered prayers to God, thanking a higher power for this wondrous creation. It was a heartfelt acknowledgment of life’s marvels, filled with humility and awe. 

But this perspective invites a deeper question: does it fully capture the essence of what is being admired? Is there something we are overlooking when we view ourselves as separate from the body and see its operation as directed by an external entity? This perception creates multiple layers of separation—the experiencer observing the body, the body being observed, and the divine entity being thanked. But is this division real, or is it an illusion born of the mind’s activity? 

Questioning the Nature of Separation 

Consider this: when you stand before a tree, do you feel completely separate from it? Or is it the mind that introduces a division, saying, “I am here, and the tree is there”? Similarly, when we think of our body, the mind creates categories: 

“I” as the one experiencing. 

The body as a separate mechanism. 

A divine force managing it all. 

But is this fragmentation real? Or is it simply a construct of thought? 

When you look closely, the body operates with an intelligence so profound that no machine, no human invention, can replicate it. The heart beats without instruction, wounds heal without command, and the senses adapt fluidly to the environment. This intelligence is not mechanical; it is life itself, flowing without the need for external control. So, why do we reduce this wonder to something separate, something “other”? 

The Trap of Duality 

This belief in separation creates a duality: 

“Me” versus the body. 

“Me” versus God. 

“Me” versus the world. 

In nature, such duality does not exist. Does a river see itself as separate from its flow? Does a bird distinguish itself from the air it moves through? Only the human mind, with its endless comparisons and narratives, introduces this division. 

And what does this duality lead to? Conflict. 

We struggle to control the body, treating it as an object to manage. 

We pray to an external deity, feeling disconnected from the intelligence we marvel at. 

We live with a constant sense of separation, unable to grasp the unity of life. 

The Stillness That Reveals Unity 

Can we step beyond this illusion of separation? To do so, the mind must become quiet. A noisy mind, filled with thoughts of “me” and “mine,” perpetuates division. But when the mind is silent, the boundaries dissolve. In that stillness, there is no experiencer and no experienced—only experience. 

For instance, when you are fully absorbed in music, do you feel separate from it? In that moment, the listener and the music merge. There is no “you” and “the sound”—there is only the act of listening. Similarly, when the mind is quiet, the false sense of division between “me,” the body, and life vanishes. What remains is a deep sense of unity. 

Beyond Machines and Mechanisms 

The intelligence of the body surpasses anything that human thought can conceive. Even the most advanced machines, including artificial intelligence, are limited by the confines of programmed logic. In contrast, the body functions with an organic intelligence—adaptive, creative, and boundless. This intelligence is not external; it is life itself, unfolding moment by moment. 

Gratitude, then, need not be directed outward to an entity separate from us. True gratitude arises from simply being present to the wonder of existence, free from the artificial boundaries of “me” and “the other.” 

Living Without Division 

So, can we approach life differently? Can we look at the body—not as an object we own or something governed by an external force—but as an inseparable part of the whole? When the mind quiets and we see beyond duality, gratitude becomes effortless. It is no longer tied to rituals or prayers. It becomes a silent acknowledgment of the beauty and intelligence of existence. 

In this state of unity, we realize that the body, life, and the divine are not separate. They are one and the same—an undivided, timeless whole. 

The post Beyond the Self: Dissolving the Boundaries of Separation  first appeared on Life is Relationship.

Have you ever questioned the endless advice streaming from social media posts and self-help books?  

From suggestions to “stay positive” to instructions on cultivating kindness, we are persistently nudged toward self-improvement.  

But what is really happening here?  

Are these efforts addressing something fundamental within us, or are they perpetuating a cycle of striving and dissatisfaction? 

At the core of these messages is the assumption that we are somehow incomplete, flawed, or insufficient—and that by following specific steps, we can become better, happier, or more fulfilled.  

This idea of improvement feels intuitive, even necessary, but let us inquire more deeply: Who or what is it that needs improvement? 

The Illusion of Division 

If we examine this closely, we see that the self these strategies target is not a singular entity. 

 It is an image—a construct of thoughts, memories, fears, desires, and ambitions.  

Thought creates the illusion of separation: “I am anxious,” “I need to be kinder,” or “I must become more confident.” These statements assume there is an “I” apart from the emotions or behaviors it experiences. But is this true? 

This division between the one who observes (the thinker) and what is observed (thoughts and feelings) is a creation of thought itself.  

Thought fragments our perception, leading us to believe there is a separate “self” that must act upon its emotions, reshape its behavior, or achieve a particular ideal. 

This division creates conflict—a perpetual battle between what we are and what we think we should be. 

 And so, the advice we encounter becomes a tool for managing these fragments, suppressing unwanted feelings, or amplifying desirable ones. 

 But does this process resolve the underlying division, or does it reinforce the illusion that one part of us must control another? 

The Trap of Self-Help 

Consider a common example: advice urging you to “stay positive.” On the surface, this sounds harmless, even helpful. But what happens when you try to apply it? You may suppress your negative thoughts, replacing them with affirmations. This might work temporarily, but soon the negativity resurfaces. Why? Because the effort to “stay positive” emerges from conflict—one part of you trying to dominate another. 

Similarly, advice to “be kind” often stems from the belief that kindness can be cultivated through effort. But true kindness is not the result of following advice. Genuine kindness arises naturally when we understand what prevents it—such as fear, self-centeredness, or the need to assert dominance. Without seeing these barriers, any attempt at kindness becomes an act of imitation or pretense, not authenticity. 

Transformation Through Observation without Motive 

So, how does genuine transformation occur? It begins with understanding the confusion created by thought. Thought divides, labels, and judges. It seeks solutions without questioning whether it itself is the root of the problem. 

For example, when faced with anxiety, we might turn to techniques to calm the mind or distract ourselves. But such methods only address symptoms, leaving the root untouched. What if, instead of trying to escape anxiety, we simply observed it? Not with the intent to eliminate it, but to understand it. 

Observation without judgment or motive is essential. If we observe anxiety and immediately seek to resolve it, we are caught in the same pattern of division: one part of us trying to act upon another. But when observation is free of judgment, we see anxiety for what it is—a movement of thought projecting fears and uncertainties. In that clarity, the energy fueling anxiety dissipates naturally, without effort. 

The Importance of Awareness 

This kind of observation requires a profound shift in how we approach ourselves. Instead of striving to become something, we inquire into what we are. Why is this important? Because any attempt to improve the self, as it is commonly understood, perpetuates the illusion of division. 

When we observe thought without interference, the fragmentation it creates becomes evident. We see how thought generates ideals—such as being positive or kind—without addressing the underlying fears, insecurities, or beliefs that prevent these qualities from arising naturally. 

In this way, transformation is not something we achieve. It occurs when the illusions of division and conflict dissolve in the light of awareness. Kindness, peace, and clarity are not products of effort; they are the natural state when the barriers created by thought are understood. 

An Invitation to Question 

The next time you encounter advice to improve yourself, pause and reflect: Who is being improved? Is this process addressing something fundamental, or is it merely rearranging the fragments of thought? 

Can you step away from the need to act upon yourself and simply observe—your thoughts, emotions, and conditioning—without judgment or effort? In that observation, you might discover something extraordinary: that the self we strive to improve is an illusion, and that true transformation lies not in becoming better, but in understanding what is. 

Only in such understanding can we live without conflict, in harmony with the reality of life. 

The post The Illusion of Self-Improvement: An Inquiry  first appeared on Life is Relationship.

The belief that sharing our pain with others lightens the burden is deeply ingrained in human culture. It is comforting to think that expressing our suffering to someone else can bring us relief. Yet, does it genuinely resolve the pain, or is it merely a temporary escape? This question is worth exploring more deeply.

The Cycle of Repetition

When we narrate our pain repeatedly, whether to ourselves or to others, are we not reinforcing the very suffering we wish to escape? Each time we recount our hardships, we relive the emotions, bringing them to life again and again. Far from diminishing our pain, this process embeds it more deeply in our minds.

For instance, consider someone who has faced betrayal in a close relationship. Recounting the experience repeatedly to friends may initially feel cathartic, but over time, does it not keep the betrayal fresh in the mind, intensifying the hurt? Does this habitual reliving heal us, or does it entrench the suffering further by solidifying our identification with the pain?

Seeking Sympathy or Validation

Often, the act of sharing stems from a need for sympathy, validation, or comfort. When we narrate our suffering, we might unconsciously seek others to affirm our feelings or to reassure us that our pain is justified. While this may provide a fleeting sense of relief, does it address the root cause of our suffering? Or does it merely perpetuate dependence on external sources for comfort?

Understanding the Root of Suffering

Perhaps the real challenge lies not in sharing but in understanding. Pain does not arise in isolation; it often stems from our deeply held ideas, identifications, expectations, and attachments. For example, the fear of failure in a career or relationship is often tied to an attachment to specific outcomes or the need to maintain a certain image of ourselves.

If we can observe these attachments inwardly, without judgment, we might begin to uncover the root causes of our suffering. What happens if we ask: Why am I attached to this particular outcome? Why do I expect life to conform to my desires? Such questions, explored with honesty and clarity, can reveal the mechanisms of the mind that perpetuate pain.

The Illusion of Relief

Sharing our pain often feels like unburdening, but it may only provide temporary relief. True freedom comes not from repeating our suffering but from directly observing it. Can we meet our pain without labeling it, justifying it, or escaping it? Can we simply observe its nature without identifying with it as “mine”?

When we approach suffering with awareness and curiosity, we create the possibility for insight. Through this clarity, the walls of conditioning—the attachments, fears, and identifications that sustain our pain—begin to dissolve naturally.

Meeting Life Afresh

Life, as it unfolds, is ever-present and dynamic. If we approach it through the lens of past pain, clinging to memories and re-telling our narratives, we lose touch with what is immediate and real. True healing requires meeting each moment without the burden of past conditioning.

By turning inward and observing the roots of our suffering, we can free ourselves from the cycle of reliving and sharing pain. In this clarity, we find a deeper strength—not dependent on others, but arising from understanding life as it is.

—

When we shift our focus from seeking external validation to inward inquiry, we open the door to genuine transformation. Sharing pain may seem like a solution, but lasting freedom lies in understanding its roots and meeting life with a fresh, unburdened mind.

The post Does Sharing Pain Truly Alleviate It? first appeared on Life is Relationship.

Intuition often feels like a whisper of truth—a sense of knowing that arises without conscious reasoning. For many, it feels natural, almost sacred, to trust this inner voice. It’s as though intuition connects us to a deeper wisdom beyond the chatter of the mind. But is this perception accurate? Can intuition reliably guide us, or should it be questioned? 

What Is Intuition? 

Intuition is often described as an immediate understanding or insight that seems to bypass rational thought. It may come as a gut feeling, a sudden clarity about a decision, or even a sense of danger. Unlike deliberate reasoning, intuition is fast and spontaneous, arising seemingly from nowhere. 

Neuroscientists suggest that intuition stems from the brain’s ability to recognize patterns unconsciously. Based on accumulated experiences and knowledge, conclusions are presented without the need for deliberate analysis. 

For example, a seasoned chess player might instantly recognize the best move in a complex situation without consciously analyzing every possibility. Similarly, someone walking down a dark alley might instinctively sense a threat based on subtle cues they don’t consciously register. 

Why Do We Trust Intuition? 

People often trust intuition because it feels deeply personal and unfiltered. There is an allure to the idea of tapping into something beyond the limitations of logic. Culturally, intuition is sometimes linked to concepts like wisdom, creativity, or even spirituality. 

In some cases, intuition appears to work remarkably well. The nurse who senses something wrong with a patient despite normal test results or the entrepreneur who invests in an unconventional idea that later proves successful are often celebrated as examples of intuition’s power. 

But this raises a critical question: Does intuition always guide us correctly, or are these examples exceptions rather than the rule? 

The Fragility of Intuition 

While intuition can feel compelling, it is not immune to error. It often reflects biases, fears, and incomplete knowledge. What we perceive as intuitive wisdom might simply be a projection of our past experiences or conditioning. 

For instance, imagine a person who instinctively distrusts others because of past betrayals. Their “intuition” about new people might be less a reflection of insight and more a residue of fear. Similarly, a business decision based on a strong gut feeling might fail if it ignores critical information or context. 

This calls for a pause: Is intuition a guide, or is it sometimes a distortion of reality? 

Intuition vs. Insight 

There’s an important distinction to explore between intuition and insight. Intuition often arises unconsciously, influenced by stored memories and emotions. Insight, on the other hand, emerges from clarity—a mind free from confusion or conflict. 

Consider the analogy of a pond. If the water is muddy, any reflection on its surface will be distorted. Intuition born from a “muddy” mind, clouded by bias or emotional turbulence, is likely unreliable. However, when the mind is clear and attentive, what arises might not be mere intuition but true insight—an understanding untainted by the past. 

Questioning Intuition 

Does questioning intuition weaken its value? Not necessarily. In fact, questioning might be the very act that refines it. When you pause to examine whether your gut feeling stems from fear, habit, or genuine understanding, you create space for clarity to emerge. 

For example, let’s say you have a strong feeling to avoid a particular situation. Instead of acting impulsively, you inquire: Is this feeling arising from past trauma or from an accurate perception of the present? This inquiry doesn’t dismiss intuition but allows for a deeper engagement with it. 

Balancing Intuition with Awareness 

Intuition can be a helpful guide, but it should not be the sole compass. Awareness—the ability to observe thoughts, emotions, and impulses without judgment—provides a broader perspective. With awareness, you can discern whether your intuition is leading you toward truth or away from it. 

For instance, a hiker navigating unfamiliar terrain might feel an intuitive urge to take a certain path. Awareness would prompt them to consider: Is this instinct based on a genuine sense of direction, or am I influenced by anxiety about getting lost? This balance between intuition and awareness helps avoid blind reliance on either. 

A Call to Inquiry 

Rather than asking, “Should I trust my intuition?” perhaps the more profound question is, What is the source of my intuition? Is it rooted in clarity, or is it entangled in the web of past experiences and biases? 

By holding this question in mind, you cultivate a state of openness and attentiveness. From this state, both intuition and reason can coexist, guiding you not as conflicting forces but as complementary aspects of a deeper understanding. 

In the end, the value of intuition lies not in blind trust but in its ability to act as a bridge—a bridge between the seen and the unseen, the known and the unknown. Whether it can be trusted depends not on intuition itself but on the clarity of the mind receiving it. 

The post Is Intuition Always to Be Trusted?  first appeared on Life is Relationship.

In the physical world, knowledge plays an undeniable role in guiding our actions. A teacher can explain mathematical principles, or a book can teach us how to fix a machine. This process of acquiring knowledge, applying it, and seeing tangible results is straightforward. It works because the physical and material world is stable and measurable. 

But can the same approach be applied to our inner world—to our thoughts, emotions, fears, and relationships? Can a book or an expert truly guide us to understand ourselves, or is this a fundamentally different kind of inquiry? 

Let’s Take Fear as an Example 

A teacher or a book might provide intellectual explanations of fear—its origins, its biochemical basis, or even strategies to overcome it. But does this intellectual understanding truly free us from fear? Or does it become another layer of avoidance, another way to evade actually facing the fact of fear as it arises within us? 

Fear often emerges from a web of conditioning, habits, and expectations. For example, we might fear failure because we’ve been conditioned to associate our worth with achievement. Or, past experiences of rejection might project forward into an imagined future, leading us to fear similar pain. There’s also a deep discomfort with impermanence—the fleeting, uncertain nature of life—which can intensify our fears. If we don’t examine these factors, fear becomes a cycle, repeating itself under different guises. 

Avoiding the Inner World 

When we experience fear, there’s often a tendency to escape it—through distraction, rationalization, or clinging to comforting ideas like, “I shouldn’t feel this way.” Yet these responses don’t resolve fear; they merely suppress it. Similarly, our environment encourages idealizing concepts—“Be fearless,” “Think positively”—rather than inviting us to directly observe the fact of fear itself. 

The inner world is dynamic and ever-changing. It cannot be fixed or resolved by applying static knowledge. Unlike a machine that can be repaired with a manual, our inner conflicts cannot be understood through prescriptive formulas or ideals. They require something else entirely. 

Observation Without Judgment 

What happens when we stop avoiding and start observing? Can we look at fear—or anger, envy, or ambition—without naming it, judging it, or trying to change it? Ordinarily, we approach such emotions through the filter of past experiences and opinions: “I’ve felt this before,” “This is wrong,” “I need to fix this.” But these opinions are remnants of the past, and they prevent us from seeing the fact of what is happening right now. 

To observe fear without distortion means to put aside opinions, memories, and judgments. When we examine fear, we can begin to see its background: the habits, conditioning, and unresolved experiences that contribute to its presence. This kind of observation helps uncover the layers of thought and feeling that sustain fear. As we observe, fear begins to reveal itself—not as something to conquer, but as something to understand. 

The Importance of Self-Understanding 

This process of observation is inseparable from self-understanding. Without a deep awareness of our own mental and emotional patterns, we risk perpetuating the same conflicts and fears. Self-understanding is not about accumulating knowledge about ourselves but about directly seeing how our conditioning, desires, and ambitions shape our relationships and perceptions. 

When we do not examine our inner world, we remain trapped in cycles of reaction, shaped by past knowledge and fueled by the ego’s need for security. True intelligence arises not from clinging to these patterns but from understanding them—and, through that understanding, finding freedom. 

Why Books and Experts Fall Short 

Books and teachings can only offer conceptual knowledge, which is fixed and static. They cannot account for the fluidity of our emotions and thoughts, nor can they capture the deeply personal, moment-to-moment nature of self-inquiry. To understand ourselves, we must look inwardly with a fresh approach, unclouded by preconceived notions. 

When we simply adopt an idea—“I should not feel fear”—we create a division within ourselves. The fear remains, but now it is accompanied by resistance and frustration. This division only intensifies the conflict. True understanding comes not from intellectual ideals but from direct observation of what is. 

The Invitation to Look 

So, can we begin to observe our inner world without running from it, without trying to change it into what we think it should be? Can we question whether knowledge, so effective in the outer world, has any place in understanding our inner landscape? 

This inquiry requires an openness to see things as they are, free from the distorting filters of judgment, memory, and opinion. When we look at fear, or any other emotion, with such clarity, the fact itself becomes our teacher, revealing its nature and freeing us from its grip. 

The question, then, is not whether we can rely on knowledge to understand ourselves, but whether we are willing to step beyond it, into the unknown territory of self-awareness. Can we? 

The post Can We Truly Understand Ourselves Through Knowledge?  first appeared on Life is Relationship.

Human beings, through the activity of thought, create a sense of division and separation.  

Thought, rooted in memory and the ego’s identification with those memories, forms a fragmented perception of the world. In this fragmented view, we see ourselves as separate from others, from nature, and even from our own thinking. We say, “I am thinking,” as if the “I” stands apart from the act of thinking itself, not realizing this division is a creation of the mind. 

This perception of separateness breeds conflict—conflict within oneself, with others, and with the world. It fuels comparison, competition, and the constant struggle to assert the self over others. 

 It blinds us to the interconnected wholeness of life.  

The birds, the trees, the stars, and the vast cosmos all move in an intricate natural order, a rhythm where birth and death are part of the same dance.  

Yet, humanity, caught in the web of its own thought, exists in disorder, disrupting this harmony. 

What is often overlooked is the mind’s unawareness of its own movement.  

This unawareness allows thought to perpetuate its illusions unchecked, keeping us trapped in a state of mental turmoil. 

 The challenge, then, is to observe this movement without judgment, to see thought for what it is—a limited tool that cannot grasp the totality of existence. 

 Only through such awareness can the illusion of separation dissolve and, with it, the conflict that tears at the fabric of our lives. 

The post The Illusion of Separation  first appeared on Life is Relationship.

A friend shared a social media post with the following quote: “When everyone is trying to be something, be nothing.”  I wanted to share something on this topic… 

Is “Nothing” the New Goal?  

Let us pause for a moment and ask: is “nothing” the new goal to aspire to? 

If it is, do we not immediately create an idea about it—a destination to reach, an ideal to attain? Doesn’t the pursuit of “nothing” become just another identification?  

We might picture ourselves sitting in stillness, striving to “be nothing,” or join meditation camps practicing techniques to achieve this state.  

And isn’t there another danger here—that one might mistake mere laziness or irresponsibility for having “arrived” at nothingness? We see this in those who abandon their duties and relationships, claiming they’ve transcended worldly concerns, when they’ve merely escaped into another form of psychological comfort.  

But if this “nothing” becomes a target, are we not merely replacing one form of becoming with another? 

This raises a deeper question: what is this drive to become?  

What does it mean to move from “what I am” to “what I want to be”? Can we observe this movement within ourselves without judgment or personal motive? 

Look at our daily lives. A student struggles to become top of their class, an executive visualizes the next promotion, a spiritual seeker imagines a state of enlightenment. What happens in this space between what is and what should be? Isn’t there constant comparison, struggle, anxiety? 

From childhood, we are conditioned to become—be it a better student, a successful professional, a leader, or even “nothing.” It’s not merely about acquiring skills or knowledge; it’s about identifying with an ideal image of what we should be.  

Consider the teenager scrolling through social media, measuring themselves against carefully curated images, or the beauty queen who deeply ties her sense of self to public recognition. If that recognition doesn’t come, doesn’t anguish follow? 

And what of those who “succeed” in their becoming? What happens to the doctor who achieved the dream, the champion who won gold, the artist who gained fame? Often, along with recognition comes isolation—the burden of maintaining that image.  

For those who fail, there might be bitterness or feelings of inadequacy. And for those still striving, isn’t there endless comparison between who they are and who they want to be? 

Can we observe without judgment how this psychological structure operates? See how it fragments us, creates conflict, breeds isolation? What happens when we look deeply at how this movement shapes our thoughts, relationships, and even society itself? 

What if someone realized that their relentless pursuit of achievement wasn’t driven by genuine interest but by the lure of societal recognition? What if a doctor practiced medicine without attaching any psychological identification or ego to it? 

The real question isn’t “How do I become nothing?” but rather, “What is this whole affair of becoming—and can it end?” Isn’t “becoming” itself an illusion crafted by our own thoughts and mental projections?  

Could it be that the very idea of “nothingness” is yet another product of our imagination, another pursuit of the mind? 

And in this very observation, without trying to change or achieve anything, without making it into another goal—what happens? What do we discover about the nature of who we are? 

The post Is “Nothing” the New Goal?   first appeared on Life is Relationship.

Let us inquire together: what does it mean to truly develop as a human being? Have we paused to observe the patterns of our lives and reflect on what we are pursuing? 

In our world today, success is often measured by achievement. A person is deemed successful when they climb the ladder of professional success, accumulate wealth, or garner social validation. This is the mode of psychological becoming—a constant pursuit of self-gain and external validation. But have we ever asked: what does this way of living do to us, to our relationships, and to the world we are creating? 

Take an example: a young woman works tirelessly to rise in her career. She achieves one goal, but immediately sets her eyes on the next. Her sense of self-worth hinges on applause, promotions, and recognition. Yet, the more she achieves, the more isolated she feels. Why? If we observe closely, we can see that her inner world is filled with the noise of ambition and fear—the fear of losing, of failing, of not being enough. In the pursuit of external goals, she neglects her relationships, barely noticing the growing distance with her family, friends, or even herself. 

When such achievements are challenged—when failure comes or recognition fades—what happens? Does she reflect on her way of living, or does she set off on the same cycle of striving, chasing, and fearing? Is this development? Or is it a kind of fragmentation, where the individual becomes divided—pursuing outward success while their inner world remains confused, lonely, and unexamined? 

Now, let us consider another way. Take the example of a biologist investigating the well-being of a system. They do not only study the visible effects, such as a plant’s growth, but examine the roots, the soil, the ecosystem. True development, like such investigation, requires attending to the whole—not just the outer achievements but the inner understanding, the unseen foundation of growth. This includes the ability to inquire, to observe our own thought patterns, and to see how our actions shape the whole of our lives. 

When we focus solely on achievement, the “I”—the self-image—becomes the center of all activity. It craves validation, thrives on comparison, and views others as competitors or stepping stones. This creates division within ourselves and in society. Our relationships suffer because they are no longer based on genuine connection but on utility: “What can you do for me?”

 Have you observed how this extends beyond individuals to nations and societies? Countries boast of their advancements—greater economies, superior technologies—but fail to address the fragmentation within. Without inner awareness, achievements become hollow, driven by conflict, competition, and loneliness. Moreover, when we create a mind that accumulates vast knowledge and becomes highly specialized, we may produce efficiency, but it often lacks sensitivity. Sensitivity to the needs of others, to the subtleties of relationships, and to the interconnectedness of life itself. A mind without sensitivity is a mind that operates mechanically, unable to address the deeper crises of existence. 

So, we must ask ourselves: what is the purpose of development? Is it merely to become something—to acquire, to achieve—or is it to understand the wholeness of life? True development is not about becoming; it is about attentiveness to the entire process of becoming and seeing its fallacy. When this process is deeply examined, it drops away, dissolving the ego that drives fragmentation. 

It is about being. It is about attentiveness to our thoughts and emotions, observing how our desires and ambitions shape our actions and relationships, and nurturing the quality of our connections with others and the world. 

When we neglect this inner awareness, we create a world of division and isolation—a world where the pursuit of self-gain comes at the cost of harmony and relationship. But if we begin to nurture the roots of our being, if we question and observe the workings of the self—our egos, desires, and opinions—might we create something entirely different? A world where development is not fragmentation but wholeness, where intelligence works with sensitivity, and where being takes precedence over the illusions of becoming. 

What kind of world are we creating today? And what kind of world could we create if we moved beyond mere achievement to embrace true holistic development? Let us reflect on this, not in haste, but with care and attention. 

The post Holistic Development or Achievement: What Are We Pursuing?  first appeared on Life is Relationship.