I keep noticing how much of life is made up of tiny chases. Not the grand, dramatic ones—the “quit your job, buy a ticket, change your life” kind. No, I mean the little chases: the hunt for the right brand of olive oil, the endless scrolling for the “perfect” couch that looks cozy in the picture but turns out to be the same lumpy shape as the last one you bought. Sometimes I stop and laugh at myself. Do these things really matter? Probably not. And yet, there I am, caught up in them, like everyone else.
The funny part is, while I’m caught up chasing these tiny details, life is sitting right there in front of me—unfolding, unfiltered, and usually not very Instagram-worthy. Meanwhile, social media serves me highlight reels of strangers drinking wine on rooftops, couples who never seem to argue about the dishes, and families smiling as if no one has ever raised their voice over Monopoly. And I wonder, in a quiet, guilty moment: is everyone else living the dream, and I somehow missed the invitation?
It’s hard not to feel like relationships come with a script. You find someone, you settle down, you post couple photos that look spontaneous but actually took seven takes. And if you’re single, someone—your mom, your aunt, or the well-meaning coworker—will make it their business to ask why. It’s as if happiness is measured by how quickly you can update your Facebook status to “in a relationship.”
I’ve been guilty of falling into this default mode myself, sticking with people who weren’t right for me just because it seemed easier than hitting reset. It’s a bit like those factory ringtones on a phone—you don’t really like them, but you live with them out of habit. And then one day you realize, you don’t even notice when the phone rings anymore.
Sometimes I think what I really crave isn’t romance in the epic sense, but something simple: someone to share pizza with on a Friday night, someone to sit in comfortable silence with while rewatching a show I’ve already memorized. Maybe that’s all love really is at its core—companionship that feels less like a performance and more like breathing.
Society loves to sell us the image of perfection. The kind where friends are gathered around long tables, glasses clinking, laughter bubbling as if no one has ever felt lonely or anxious. But I know better. I’ve sat through dinners where the laughter was too loud, where someone left early to cry in the bathroom, where the group photo looked far warmer than the evening felt.
The truth is, most of us are just trudging along. We smile, we play our parts, and we wonder if maybe everyone else has cracked some code we missed. Some people even pay good money chasing that secret—retreats with mindfulness coaches, weekends in mountain lodges learning to breathe “correctly.” I can’t help but smile at the irony. Breathing, of all things, turned into a luxury.
If there’s one thing society still mistrusts, it’s solitude. Stay home on a Saturday night, and people assume you’re sad or antisocial. I’ve been called that before—like enjoying my own company was some kind of flaw. But solitude, at least for me, is more like a refuge. A night alone with takeout and a book can feel like a small triumph, a reminder that my happiness doesn’t depend on being in the right crowd at the right time.
I’ll admit, small talk tires me, and “networking” might as well be a punishment. There’s a certain relief in admitting that. Solitude doesn’t mean loneliness; it means peace. And sometimes, in the quiet, I actually hear myself think. That feels rare enough to protect.
The older I get, the more I realize how easy it is to forget the point of it all. We chase—jobs, relationships, approval, the perfect vacation—and in the scramble, we lose sight of the ordinary magic right under our noses. A cup of coffee that tastes just right. A walk when the air is cool and forgiving. The sound of someone humming in the next room.
Life was never about reaching a polished destination, though it’s easy to believe otherwise. The prize isn’t waiting at some finish line. It’s right here, hidden in the daily mess—the uneven rhythms, the mismatched moments, the days that don’t look like much but somehow carry us through.
And maybe, just maybe, the trick isn’t in chasing more at all. It’s in learning to notice what’s already here.