Psychology
Most of us don’t realize it, but we live under a spell. Not a spell of enchantment, but of anesthesia. The very miracle of being alive—the staggering improbability of existing at all—slowly gets muffled until it feels ordinary, even boring. Richard Dawkins called it “the anesthetic of soporific familiarity.” What a phrase. It captures that strange sleepwalking state where life itself becomes background noise.
Autopilot is efficient — but it is also deadly to the soul. Numbness can carry us through tasks, but it cannot help us savor existence. To live awake is to resist the drift. It is to say no to the anesthetic of familiarity, and yes to the shock of clarity.
Life is not designed to be easy. It is turbulent, uneven, unpredictable. Some days feel like victory laps, others like collapse. To demand that we “always savor life” or “always feel grateful” is to set ourselves up for disillusionment. The truth is, no one can carry a sunlit perspective 24/7. And that’s okay. Because perspective doesn’t lose its value just because it isn’t always active. Sometimes, it’s enough to know that a helpful way of seeing the world is tucked in your back pocket, ready when you need it.
There are few things more universal to the human story than music. Long before writing, long before the wheel, there were drums around a fire, voices lifting together in chant, rhythm echoing heartbeat. Music is older than history, yet it remains one of the most reliable medicines for the soul.
The same heart that swells with joy will eventually ache with grief. We can’t separate the two. To love is to open ourselves to loss, whether through distance, misunderstanding, or death itself. At first glance, sorrow seems like an intruder — an unwanted thief of joy. But in truth, sorrow is not a violation of life’s gift. It is part of what makes the gift so precious. If love gives us warmth, sorrow, at times, gives it depth.
In our culture, sentiment often gets dismissed. We praise toughness, stoicism, control. We admire the person who “never lets emotions get in the way,” the leader who never cries, the friend who always keeps their composure. Vulnerability is framed as fragility. Sentiment is mocked as softness. But here’s the truth: sentiment is courage. It is not weakness to feel deeply. It is strength — because it takes far more bravery to care than to wall yourself off.
We don’t live life on a straight, endless highway. We live it more like a long, winding trek — hills, valleys, storms, clearings. And no trek can be endured without stopping points along the way. That’s what a recuperation station is: a deliberate place or practice of renewal. It’s where we catch our breath, regain strength, and remind ourselves of why we’re moving forward at all.
On the surface, invulnerability sounds appealing. Who wouldn’t want to be untouchable by pain, safe from sorrow, immune to loss? If we could build walls high enough, armor thick enough, maybe we could glide through life without being hurt. But the dream of invulnerability carries hidden costs. Walls don’t just keep out pain. They also keep out joy.
Appreciation isn’t automatic. It depends on our inner condition. When our emotions are frazzled, our core unstable, every treasure of life blurs past unnoticed. Peace is not the same as pleasure. It’s not the absence of pain or the guarantee of comfort. Peace is a baseline — a steadying of the emotional core that lets us meet life with openness. Without it, the door to appreciation jams shut. With it, the door swings wide.
We live under constant pressure to appear polished: flawless resumes, curated photos, carefully edited stories. The message is subtle but relentless: Don’t let them see the cracks. But the cracks are part of being human. To live authentically requires courage not to disguise them all. Courage, in this sense, is not only about heroism on battlefields or podiums. It’s about the daily bravery of letting ourselves be fully human — imperfect, vulnerable, unfinished.
Most animals live by instinct. They hunt, nest, mate, and protect. Humans do these things too, but then we do something else: we seek to understand. And even further, we step back and ask, What does it mean? A wolf may defend its territory, but it doesn’t write songs about belonging. A dolphin may leap for joy, but it doesn’t wonder what joy is for. We are the creatures who not only live, but reflect on life — and that reflection awakens something new: sentiment.
When life grows heavy, numbing calls to us like a mirage.
A drink to quiet the nerves. A screen to scroll the hours away. A purchase to fill the hollow. A burst of workaholism to silence the questions. For a moment, numbing seems to help. The ache dulls. The noise fades. But then the mirage evaporates, and we find ourselves not refreshed but emptier, further from the wellspring of life.
Okay, Mr. Life Savor: yes, life is a gift. But it’s also a trial. Bills come due, bodies ache, relationships fray, accidents strike, and headlines darken our minds. Even when fortune smiles, stress and worry find their way in. So the question arises: how do we stay sane enough to keep loving life?
We live in a culture addicted to quick answers. “Find your true self.” “Unlock your destiny.” “Discover who you are.” As if identity were a hidden treasure chest waiting to be unearthed in one glorious moment of revelation. But selfhood doesn’t arrive like lightning. It unfolds like a long, winding road. There are detours, false starts, switchbacks, and stretches where the scenery seems to repeat itself. Becoming ourselves is not about one defining moment but a lifetime of becoming.
We all know the feeling. Expectations press in like a fog, filling our head with shoulds and musts. A grade, a job title, a social standing. One misstep feels catastrophic, as if the whole life we’ve imagined will implode. Sometimes the cost of those expectations is devastating.
Why bother living? It’s a heavy question—but an honest one. We all ask it, whether in quiet moments or darker ones. What makes this life worth all the effort, the heartbreak, the slog? What’s the payoff that justifies the pain? Because let’s face it: life isn’t Disneyland. It’s messy. It’s hard. It’s work. So why do we stay?
There are a million ideas out there about what to do with your life. Your parents have one. So do your friends, your boss, your culture. They’ll tell you what’s smart. What’s responsible. What’s impressive. But if you want a compass that points to something truly yours, try this one: follow your fascination.
Is depression all bad? Well, yes, in a sense it is. Because when you’re depressed, nothing feels good. But in the background, there are some things going on that can actually be helpful to you. Especially if you fully and honestly let yourself be depressed.
I love making progress, but sometimes I get too caught up in it.Progress helps me achieve a sense of traction in life, giving me a daily trickle of both saline and champagne. When I make progress, I feel empowered, fulfilled and secure because I feel like I’m perpetually ratcheting up.Sometimes, though, my fixation on progress becomes unhealthy, almost like a drug addiction.
Expectation primes us to be disappointed if things don’t work out exactly as planned. In reality, life rarely goes exactly as planned (especially when others are involved), and progress is often necessarily slow and uncertain.Furthermore, expectations make us pre-live what we think our experiences should be to the point of leaving us emotionally fatigued, bored and disappointed by the time the results of our goals become real.



















