About illusions, different perspectives, and the question of what really matters to us.
Sometimes I wonder how often we wish for a different life without even knowing what it would actually feel like to live that life.
We see someone at the beach working on their laptop. How lovely, we think. Working where others go on vacation. The sea in front of us, the sun on our skin, and the freedom to be at home anywhere in the world.
But perhaps the sun is glaring on the screen. Perhaps it is too loud to concentrate. Perhaps this person has been trying to complete a single task for an hour while everyone else is already in the water.
A few meters away stands a waiter. He serves drinks, watches the people in the sea, and perhaps thinks how wonderful it would be to simply sit on the beach with a laptop and be his own boss.
One envies the other’s freedom. The other perhaps envies their apparent independence.
And both are mainly seeing what they themselves imagine it to be.
We see an image and turn it into a story
This doesn’t only happen at the beach.
At a campsite, we can pitch a tent, book a bed in a dorm, or take a private room. Three options, three different prices. And yet all these people can be in the same place, use the same kitchen, sit at the same table, and enjoy the same garden.
Nevertheless, stories quickly form in our heads.
Whoever has a room can afford it. Whoever sleeps in a tent may have to save money. Whoever treats themselves to something expensive perhaps lives in luxury. Whoever lives simply is perhaps especially free.
But how do we actually know that?
Perhaps the person in the room worked hard for it and saves elsewhere. Perhaps the person in the tent made a deliberate decision to spend their money on travel instead. Perhaps someone sleeping in the dorm would rather spend the money for a room on something else entirely.
We see a person’s decision. But we rarely know the thoughts behind it.
And even less do we know the things that person gave up for it.
Sometimes we don’t envy the life, but our idea of it
Once I met a security guard who told me he would love to travel. He envied me for being on the road.
From the outside, that was understandable. I could discover new places, meet different people, and change my everyday life again and again.
But in that moment, I also thought about how similar our situations actually were.
We were both in a place where we could make ourselves something to eat or go shopping. We both had our daily routine. Only he was paid for his work and had to stay in that place for it. I paid to be there and had to earn my money in other ways.
He saw my freedom. I also saw the advantages of his situation.
Perhaps he imagined my travels to be easier than they were. Perhaps I saw the security of his job more clearly than the limitations that came with it.
We were looking at the same life, but from two different directions.
And perhaps we both would have envied something the other didn’t actually feel the way we imagined.
We compare our inner world with others’ outer world
That is probably one of the reasons why comparisons can be so deceptive.
We know our own doubts, our efforts, our worries, and the small things that bother us in everyday life. We know what something costs us – not only financially, but also in time, energy, and sometimes nerves.
With others, by contrast, we often see only the result.
We see the trip, not the work that finances it. The beautiful home, not necessarily the obligations that come with it. The supposed freedom, not the uncertainty that may accompany it.
We know our own life in every detail. We view the lives of others through a window.
And through that window, much looks different.
Perhaps that is why we sometimes don’t envy what we are actually missing. Perhaps we envy a story we tell ourselves about another person’s life.
A story in which everything seems easier, more beautiful, or freer than in our own everyday life.
But that story doesn’t have to have much to do with reality.
What does this have to do with our priorities?
A great deal, I think.
Because if we constantly orient ourselves toward others, we may develop desires that aren’t actually our own.
We see someone with a big house and wonder why we don’t have something like that ourselves. We see someone who travels without a fixed home and wonder why we aren’t braver. We see someone with a secure job and wish for stability. And when we have that stability, we may dream of more freedom.
In our minds, we move from one life to the next.
In doing so, we sometimes overlook a very simple question: Do I really want this – or do I just like the idea of it?
Of course, there are things we truly need. Food, a safe place to sleep, protection, health, and people we can rely on are not illusions. Financial worries, lack of opportunities, and difficult living circumstances cannot simply be thought away with a different perspective either.
But beyond our basic needs, our desires differ. And not every desire we discover in others also fits us.
Perhaps we don’t actually want a big house, but simply a place where we feel comfortable. Perhaps we don’t want to be constantly on the move, but simply to know that we could leave at any time. Perhaps we don’t need freedom from all obligations, but more influence over how we spend our time.
These are different things. And it’s worth keeping them apart.
We cannot walk all paths at the same time
Our life consists of decisions. Some we make consciously, others arise from our circumstances. And not every person has the same opportunities.
Still, one fact remains: We cannot walk every path at the same time.
We cannot be in Vienna and Rome at the same time. We cannot take every trip, try every profession, get to know every place, and experience every conceivable way of life ourselves.
When we decide on something, we often decide against something else at the same time – at least for a certain period.
That doesn’t mean we have to commit forever. Some things can be caught up on later, changed, or started anew. But our time, our energy, and our financial possibilities are limited.
That is why it helps to know what really matters to us.
Not because there would be a right order for a good life. But because otherwise we risk aligning our decisions with images we have of other people.
Perhaps we save for something that ultimately doesn’t make us as happy as we thought. Perhaps we give up something that would mean a lot to us because we believe we have to achieve something else. Perhaps we chase an ideal we have never questioned.
And perhaps we only realize late that we wished for a life we didn’t actually want to live.
Perhaps someone envies us for exactly what we take for granted
It’s strange: We can look at our own life and see mainly what we lack. Someone else could look at the same life and discover something they wish for themselves.
That doesn’t mean our life is therefore perfect. It also doesn’t mean we have to be satisfied with everything.
But it shows how differently we can view the same reality.
What freedom means to one person is uncertainty to another. What is security for one feels like limitation to another. What means renunciation to one is a conscious decision in favor of something more important to another.
From the outside, we can hardly judge what feels right for another person.
And perhaps we don’t need to.
What would I wish for if I couldn’t compare myself to anyone?
Perhaps it begins right here: with the question of what we ourselves actually want when we stop looking at how others live.
Not at what is socially considered success. Not at what looks enviable. And also not at what others consider the better decision.
But at what is personally important to us.
How do we want to spend our time? What gives us security? What does freedom mean to us? What would we gladly do without, and what would we absolutely not want to miss?
The answers don’t have to be spectacular. They don’t have to impress anyone. And they don’t have to stay the same forever.
Perhaps we discover that we actually want to change something. Perhaps we realize that we have oriented ourselves toward ideas that don’t fit us at all. Or perhaps we see some things in our previous life with different eyes.
Not because everything is suddenly good. But because we begin to distinguish between our own desires and the images we form of others.
Because in the end, we don’t have to live the life that looks most enviable from the outside.
We have to cope with the life we actually live – with its possibilities, its limits, its beautiful sides, and its difficult moments.
And perhaps that is why it’s a good question to ask ourselves now and then:
If I didn’t know how other people live and couldn’t envy anyone for anything – what would really matter to me in my own life?
Perhaps we won’t find the answer to everything there.
But perhaps we will find something there that is much more valuable than the idea of another life: a clearer idea of our own.
When what we love suddenly no longer leads to success
There is a question I find particularly fascinating in this context.
What if we could suddenly no longer do what we have lived for until now? If we were to lose something into which we have invested a lot of time, energy, and perhaps even our whole identity? And if afterward we could only do it in a small way – without recognition, without visible success, and without the prospect of ever getting back to where we once were?
Would we still do it?
It made me think of the film Peaceful Warrior. In it, a young gymnast loses the ability to continue as before after a serious accident. At first, an entire world collapses for him. Because his goal wasn’t just gymnastics. He wanted to win, belong to the top, and fulfill his dream.
But what remains of the love for something when the big goal suddenly seems unattainable?
When someone can no longer stand on the big stage but perhaps still takes joy in movement? When an artist can no longer sell her works but still loves to paint? When someone writes even though hardly anyone reads the texts? When a person builds something that will never achieve the success they hoped for?
Would it still mean something then?
Perhaps it is precisely in such moments that what really matters to us about something becomes visible.
Of course, it is wonderful when our work bears fruit. Recognition can motivate us, and financial security is indispensable for many people. There is nothing wrong with wanting to be successful. And not everyone can afford to do something purely for joy when no money can be earned from it.
But perhaps it is worth distinguishing between what we love and what we want to achieve through that love.
Sometimes we cling so strongly to a particular outcome that we no longer even notice whether the path there still means anything to us. We want something to become big, to be worthwhile, to be seen by others. And when all of that fails to happen, it suddenly feels as if what we did was worthless too.
Yet something doesn’t have to be successful to mean something to us.
So perhaps the question isn’t only what we would do if we lost everything. But also what we would still do today if no one admired us for it and we could achieve nothing that can be measured from the outside.
Perhaps we would still do some things. Perhaps we would let go of others. Both would be okay.
What does this have to do with our priorities?
Because it’s not about holding on to something at any cost. It’s about finding out what really matters to us – and what we perhaps pursue so strongly only because we believe it will ultimately lead us to a happier or more valuable life.
Priorities don’t mean getting as much done at once as possible. They mean consciously choosing what we invest our limited time and energy in – and what we don’t. Whoever never prioritizes leaves that decision to circumstances, to other people’s expectations, or to chance.
Perhaps the most important priority isn’t visible success at all, but the question of whether what we do still fits us. Whether we would choose it even if no one applauded. Whether it gives us something that cannot be measured from the outside.
And sometimes setting priorities also means admitting to ourselves that something has changed – and that it is okay to leave a path that no longer suits us.
Perhaps the question is more important than the answer
Perhaps we will never be able to definitively answer whether we would still do something if it no longer brought success. Perhaps the answer depends on the day, on the mood, on what is currently possible and what isn’t.
But the question itself can show us something.
It can remind us that not everything valuable has to be visible. That a path doesn’t become meaningless just because it no longer leads upward. And that it is not a defeat if we do something smaller, slower, or differently than before.
Perhaps that is the real point: that we don’t have to experience ourselves as valuable only when something succeeds. That we are allowed to continue not only when others see it. And that the love for something doesn’t have to disappear just because circumstances have changed.
Perhaps in the end less remains than we had hoped. But perhaps also something that is closer to us than the big success ever was.
And perhaps that is exactly the question that matters: What would we do if no one saw it – and would we still do it then?
