What Is A Life Worth Living?

The title sounds morbid, I know, but there are moments when the question slips quietly into our consciousness, heavy and unrelenting: What is worth living for? It can arrive in the stillness of night, after loss, burnout, or when the routines that once held us together begin to feel empty. It can arise from despair, from deep exhaustion, or from the soul’s quiet plea for meaning.

This question is philosophical, but I don't mean it to be rhetorical. When you ask me or when I ask you, it’s the basis of our humanity and what it means to be human. To ask it is to be alive, even when life feels uncertain. It’s the moment when survival meets curiosity or when we begin to search for something that makes waking up worthwhile again.

I started thinking about this question, earnestly, a few years ago. What makes life worth living, I have learned from you and my own self-inquiry, is not a single truth that fits all people. It's a constellation of values, connections, and experiences that change as we do. For some, meaning is found in grand purpose, such as in creating art, raising children, or changing the world. For others, it lives in the smallest details: the warmth of sunlight on skin, the quiet of a morning cup of tea, the laughter that briefly cuts through grief.

I saw a quote in a book recently and went on a rabbit hole exploration about the poet Mary Oliver, who wrote, “Tell me, what is it you plan to do with your one wild and precious life?” I journaled about that question until it was no longer about achievement, but about presence. It brought me back to my days in addiction recovery, teaching mindfulness to people who wanted anything but presence, but who discovered what I'm going to share with you: their deepest reasons for living was found in their relationships.

When I say relationships, I don't necessarily mean romantic ones, but the bonds of friendship, family, and shared humanity. Connection reminds us that we matter, that our existence ripples outward. When we love and are loved, we see ourselves reflected in the eyes of another and are reminded of our belonging. Sometimes, relationships also challenge us to grow, to forgive, to set boundaries, to learn empathy. They can be both the greatest teachers and the safest shelters in this journey of life.

Life often feels most meaningful when we’re evolving. Growth isn’t linear; it doesn’t require constant progress or perfection. It’s the quiet work of self-discovery, of learning who we are beneath the noise of expectations.

Personal growth can mean returning to a forgotten dream, learning something new, or simply healing from what once broke us. It's the moment we realize that even in suffering, there is capacity for change. That awareness itself can be a reason to live: to see what else we might become.

I recently went to a gallery that had a small jazz band. I love jazz for its spontaneous, emotional moments of birth. For artists, thinkers, and dreamers, the act of creation can be sacred. To create is to affirm life or at least to say, “I was here and I made something.” Art, music, writing, cooking, gardening are ways we transform emotion into expression. Creativity fills the space between despair and hope, I learned when I stopped performing. When we lose touch with what we love, life can feel dull and mechanical. Reclaiming our passions, even in small ways, can reignite the sense of wonder that makes living feel vibrant again.

I feel creative in my work everyday. There is an obvious deep purpose in helping others. Acts of service remind us that our existence has impact. Whether through caregiving, teaching, advocacy, or small daily kindnesses, contributing to someone else’s well-being anchors us in a sense of interdependence. Sometimes, when we cannot find a reason to live for ourselves, when that feels impossible or undeserving, serving others helps us rediscover it. Service pulls us out of isolation and reconnects us to the world.

For many, meaning reveals itself in quiet places like in moments when the world slows down enough for us to listen. Walking through nature, watching the ocean, or feeling rain against the skin can remind us that life itself is an ongoing miracle. I've been flying kites recently and it occurs to me during this aerial meditation that the sacred doesn’t always appear in temples or rituals. Sacredness can be found in the way a tree bends toward the sun or in how breath steadies the body after tears. When my kites suddenly fall towards the ground, I'm suddenly reminded that nature teaches us resilience, that everything changes, everything returns.

As we grow, our answers shift. What mattered a decade ago might no longer sustain us. This isn't a failure or being unstable. It's simply evolution. Meaning is a living, breathing practice, not a fixed destination.

If you are in a season where meaning feels distant, try beginning small. Ask yourself what brings even a flicker of peace or curiosity? What used to make you feel alive, before life got louder? Who helps you remember who you are?

Start there. Meaning rarely appears all at once. It unfolds slowly, in conversations, in courage, in noticing what still stirs something inside you. As we practice our mind/body connections in session, remember that to live is to participate in something larger than ourselves even when we can't name it. Maybe what's worth living for isn’t always found in certainty, but in the willingness to keep asking the question.

So keep looking, keep feeling, and keep creating.

Productivity under capitalism will convince you that your value is determined by a dollar amount. But outside of propaganda, we find that life's worth is not proven by what we achieve. It’s revealed in how we choose to stay, how we love, how we grow, how we notice the small things that remind us: we’re still here.