To want is to lack

At first glance, this phrase might sound harsh—almost nihilistic. But look again, and you'll find a quiet wisdom embedded within it, pointing us toward a deeper peace that modern life rarely encourages us to seek.

We live in a culture that worships desire. We're told to dream bigger, want more, strive harder. And while there's beauty in aspiration, unchecked desire often leads to a kind of chronic restlessness—a gnawing sense that we are always missing something. That we are perpetually incomplete. That we must constantly achieve, acquire, and assert in order to be fulfilled.

But what if fulfillment doesn’t lie in more?
What if it lies in the simple act of enough?

There’s a quote worth holding close:

“The graceful acceptance of your minuscule position in the great cosmos is the gateway to calm and harmony.”

This isn’t about diminishing yourself. It’s about locating yourself properly in the grand web of existence. It's about releasing the illusion that you are the central character in a universe designed for your personal success story.

Spend a quiet afternoon with a dog. Or sit beside a cat as it naps in a sunbeam. Watch a bird hop along a branch, utterly indifferent to your accomplishments or anxieties. That animal doesn't care if you're rich or broke, admired or unknown. To them, your resume and your reputation mean precisely nothing.

And yet, in that animal’s presence, you can find something you rarely find in boardrooms or newsfeeds: peace.

Why? Because animals, in their quiet, nonverbal way, teach us to just be. They don’t obsess about tomorrow. They don’t scroll through worries. They don’t measure worth in trophies or titles. They accept the moment. And in their company, we can too.

This is not escapism. It’s recalibration.

The truth is, wanting can often be a mask for emptiness. When we say, “I want this,” we’re also admitting, “I do not have it.” Desire, in this way, is the language of lack. And while there’s nothing wrong with wanting—a natural part of life—it’s worth questioning the volume of that wanting, and whether it's leading us toward contentment, or pulling us further from it.

In contrast, grace comes when we loosen our grip on the self, when we acknowledge that our individual lives are just specks in a vast, mysterious cosmos. And that’s okay. More than okay—it’s liberating.

You don’t have to be significant to be serene. You just have to be present.

So the next time your mind races with desire—more success, more validation, more something—try this instead: Sit down beside an animal who loves you without conditions. Let their stillness become your own. Let go of the climb, just for a moment. And remember:

To want is to lack.
But to accept? That’s the beginning of peace.

Tonight, turn off your screens, silence the noise, and spend 10 uninterrupted minutes with your pet—no agenda, no phone, no words. Let them teach you what presence feels like. You might just remember what it means to simply be enough.

We Are All Flawed — And That’s Where Connection Begins

Everybody is flawed.
It’s not just a comforting thought — it’s a liberating truth.

Whether you come from a religious tradition, follow a spiritual path, or identify as secular, there's a common thread woven through all frameworks of self-understanding: we are imperfect beings. Faith traditions remind us we are fallen, broken, limited. Psychology tells us we carry wounds, traumas, biases. Even modern science acknowledges the deeply human nature of error, emotion, and irrationality.

This shared brokenness — far from being a weakness — can actually be our starting point for growth, compassion, and connection.

In a world that constantly pushes us toward performance and perfection, admitting our flaws feels counterintuitive. But in truth, it’s only when we accept our imperfection that we can begin to understand ourselves and genuinely connect with others. Vulnerability is not the soft underbelly of weakness — it’s the fertile soil from which empathy, authenticity, and real intimacy grow.

A Shift in Identity

Over the centuries, how we define ourselves — and each other — has changed dramatically. If you met someone 500 years ago, your first question would likely be:
“Where are you from?”
That question spoke to belonging. It referenced family, tribe, community, land — a kind of shared identity that was inherited, rooted, and relational.

Today, more often than not, we ask:
“What do you do?”
The answer is no longer about where we belong, but what we produce. We’ve shifted from a communal sense of self to a performative one. Worth is now tied to output, status, and perceived success — rather than character, context, or connection.

This is not just a linguistic change. It reveals a deeper cultural shift:
We’ve come to measure ourselves and others by value metrics — job title, income, social capital — as though a person’s true worth can be distilled to a LinkedIn headline or a 10-second elevator pitch.

The Problem with Perceived Worth

When identity is tied too tightly to performance, two things happen:

1. We hide our flaws — terrified they’ll disqualify us from love, opportunity, or respect.

2. We judge others by narrow standards — reducing rich, complex human beings to roles, reputations, or resumes.

This is why the idea that “everyone is broken” is so deeply helpful. It levels the playing field. It reminds us that no one has it all together, even if they look like they do. It invites grace — for ourselves, and for others.

Vulnerability as a Gateway

Healing doesn’t happen in isolation. It happens in relationships — and relationships thrive on vulnerability, not perfection.

When we let others see the cracks in our armor — our doubts, mistakes, regrets, and fears — something sacred happens. Not pity, not shame, but recognition. “Ah,” they might say, “you too?” And in that moment, a bond forms. A bridge is built. Not over-polished resumes or curated Instagram lives, but over the shared reality of what it means to be human.

So, instead of striving to appear flawless, perhaps the better goal is to become more real. To embrace the messy, to show up imperfectly, and to seek others not for their status, but for their story.

You may find that, when you move beyond surface-level identity, you unlock a deeper connection — one that begins, as all true connections do, with a shared sense of being human, flawed, and still worthy of love and friendship.