Lately, I’ve been asking people what they truly want from life. Not what their parents expect, not what will make them money, or look good on paper, but what would make them feel deeply happy. The answers vary: some say freedom, others say wealth, stability, or success. Yet underneath it all, there’s often a quiet longing that people can’t quite name; a desire to breathe, to live at their own pace, to exist without being constantly measured. It makes me wonder why the idea of freedom feels so rare, even though it seems to sit at the heart of what we all quietly crave.
Modern life is built around: movement, alarms, deadlines, commutes, endless notifications. We live in a rhythm that values speed over depth, efficiency over peace. The world tells us this is progress, but often it feels like disconnection disguised as advancement. We’re surrounded by convenience, yet constantly restless. Our days are packed but rarely fulfilling. Somewhere along the way, the simple act of being sitting with a meal, feeling the wind, creating something for no reason, became a luxury instead of a birthright.
What many of us are searching for isn’t extravagant. It’s the same things humans have always cherished: community, creativity, nature, love, and quiet. Older art and literature often capture that sense of simplicity; bathing in rivers, watching the sunrise, walking through fields, touching the earth with bare hands. Those scenes feel timeless because they reflect something deep within us. Despite all our progress, we remain the same beings who find peace in stillness, meaning in beauty, and connection in simplicity. Maybe we’ve just forgotten that.
When I shifted from science to the arts, it wasn’t only a change in study, but rather a shift in perspective. I started to question what people truly live for. What endures beyond us? What gives life texture and purpose? It isn’t the superficial things. It’s art, love, creativity, culture, and tradition. These are the things that connect us to each other and to the world. Yet, those have somehow become side notes, pushed to the edges of our routines. We work to live, but somewhere along the way, work became the centre of life. We’ve mistaken survival for living.
Perhaps the solution isn’t to reject the modern world, but to remember ourselves within it. To slow down, to create, to reconnect with the things that make us human. Work, technology, and progress should be parts of life, not the whole story. Meaning doesn’t hide in productivity or status; it lives in stillness, in connection, in being present.
Maybe freedom isn’t about escaping the system, but maybe it’s about remembering who we are beneath it. To live slower. To love deeper. To exist as we were meant to: fully, honestly, and simply human.
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