Why Is Everything So COMPLICATED?
Do We Create a Life of Over-Complication?
It started on a Thursday night. The kind where no one has the energy to talk much, but no one’s quite ready for bed either.
The house was finally quiet. The kids were asleep, half the kitchen was cleaned, and we were slumped on the couch, half-watching something neither of us had chosen but couldn’t be bothered turning off. I had my phone in hand, but wasn’t really on it.
That’s when my wife asked, softly, “Do you think we’re actually moving toward the kind of life we want?”
Not an accusation. Not a crisis. Just a question that felt like it had been waiting there all along.
“Are we still building something that feels right for us, or just maintaining what we’ve already built?”
It landed like a small stone dropped into still water. Nothing dramatic. But the ripples reached far.
Getting Good at Staying Still
We’re not unhappy. Not stuck in a bad job. Not longing for escape. Life works, and that’s part of what makes it so easy to stop checking if it still fits.
The truth is, you can create a life that functions beautifully… and quietly drifts from what matters to you most.
You start each week already behind. You make decisions that sound responsible. You do your best to balance everyone’s needs. And in the cracks between all that doing, you start to feel something strange:
You’ve gotten good at managing everything, but not at feeling anything.
You’re not in pain. But you’re not sure where the joy went either.
When You Stop Asking the Bigger Questions
At some point, and it happens slowly, you shift from asking What do I want? To asking What makes sense right now?”
Then from What makes sense? to What’s easiest to maintain?
And then, eventually, what keeps things from falling apart?
The questions get smaller. Safer.
You stop imagining a different rhythm because the one you’re in seems to mostly work.
You stop trying new things because the risk feels disproportionate to the reward.
You stop checking in with yourself because it’s been a while since you liked the answer.
And maybe you don’t even realise you’ve stopped, until someone you trust asks, “Are we heading toward what we actually want?” and you have no idea.
The Comfort That Quietly Replaces Curiosity
Comfort isn’t bad. But it’s sneaky.
It builds routines that become walls. It turns “just for now” into “this is just how things are.”
And it whispers things like:
“You’re lucky to have this, don’t question it.”
“You don’t need more, you need to be more grateful.”
“You’ve got responsibilities, now’s not the time for reimagining things.”
We’re taught to see risk as something loud — a job quit, a move made, a bold leap.
But the biggest risk might be the slow disappearance of curiosity.
The sense of possibility shrinks not because we’re afraid, but because we’ve forgotten how to wonder what else could be.
The Fear of Missing It
One of the thoughts that’s been sitting with us lately is this:
What if we reach retirement and realise we missed it?
Not missed out, but missed it. The thing that mattered most.
The slower mornings. The creative projects. The time to be truly present. The smaller, simpler joys that got deferred until “later,” again and again, until later never came.
We’re not afraid of hard work. But we are afraid of building something impressive that doesn’t feel like home.
Because you can reach every milestone and still wonder, Was this really mine?
What’s Keeping Us Here?
That night, our conversation turned to something more profound.
“If we weren’t already living here… would we choose to stay?”
That’s a confronting question. Not because we don’t like where we are, but because we realised how rarely we ask why we’re still here.
And for us, the answer was immediate: our kids. Our family.
This is the hub. The reason. The anchor.
Every decision, school, work, schedule, even the shape of our weeks, orbits that hub.
But then came the second question:
“If that hub didn’t exist, where would we be? What would we do?”
That question isn’t about moving. It’s about noticing how much of your life is built around something deeply important, and how easy it is to forget that you’re still allowed to design around it with intention.
It made us realise: we’re not stuck here. We’re choosing to stay close to what matters most.
But choosing consciously is very different from staying by default.
The first feels empowering. The second slowly erodes you.
For us, our children are the reason we’re here. That’s our why.
For someone else, it might be ageing parents. Or a creative community. Or the peace of a familiar coastline.
But knowing your anchor changes everything.
Because once you name it, you can start asking better questions:
How do we build a life around this thing that matters most?
What’s flexible? What’s fixed?
What are we assuming is non-negotiable that maybe… isn’t?
What Simplicity Means
We’re not chasing a minimalist fantasy. We’re not quitting everything to live on a mountain.
We’re just… listening more. To ourselves. To each other. To the life we’ve built.
And gently asking, Is this still what we want?
Simplicity for us looks like:
Fewer back-to-back weeks where every night feels like survival
Time to breathe between transitions, work, home, kids, instead of racing through them
Work that reflects our season of life, not just our skills
Turning down “great” things because they cost too much of our presence
Making space for joy, not just relief
It’s not about doing less.
It’s about making sure that what we’re doing still reflects who we are — and what we value.
We’re Not Alone In This
Over the past year, I’ve had conversations, quiet ones, unplanned ones, with friends, colleagues, even people I barely know.
There’s a shared tone. A gentle restlessness.
They’re saying things like:
“I don’t want to keep climbing just because I’m good at it.”
“I miss being creative. I haven’t made anything in years.”
“I’m grateful for what I have, but I think I’m done pretending that’s enough.”
This isn’t a mass exodus. It’s not burnout.
It’s a generation slowly waking up to the idea that life doesn’t have to be lived on autopilot.
What We’re Choosing Now
We didn’t end that night with a plan. But we did make a quiet decision to start choosing with intention again.
So we’re doing more of this:
Checking in instead of checking boxes
Asking each other better questions
Being okay with quieter seasons, if they bring us closer to peace
Redesigning parts of our life around the hub, our family, without letting everything else default to chaos
Saying yes to things that feel like us, not just things that make sense on paper
We’re not looking for perfect.
We’re just making sure our life still feels like our own.
If You’re Feeling This Too
You’re not imagining it. That feeling, the drift, the questioning, the sense that something needs adjusting, is real.
You don’t have to overhaul everything. You just have to get honest.
Start with:
What’s your hub, the thing you’d build around no matter what?
What have you been saying yes to that no longer fits?
When was the last time you felt you, not just useful?
And maybe tonight, after the kids are in bed and the house is finally still, you’ll sit down with someone you love and ask:
“Are we still building a life that feels like us?”
That question alone might change everything.
A Quiet Promise
We don’t need a five-year plan. We don’t need to explain it to anyone else.
We just need to keep having these conversations.
To notice when we’re drifting.
To ask where we want to be — and who we want to become.
Because we don’t want to meet ourselves for the first time at retirement.
We want to recognise the life we’re living now.
And maybe life was never meant to be this complicated.