The Poignant Being: The Interplay of Vulnerability, Existence, and Meaning

​​Preface

Life, in all its splendor and struggle, is a journey of becoming. It is a mosaic composed of moments, choices, and relationships that define who we are and who we aspire to be. Among these elements, there are anchors—forces so profound they transcend time and circumstance. Chief among these is the love of a mother, a force both elemental and eternal, shaping our lives in ways we often fail to grasp until much later. This book is an exploration of those forces, a reflection on the intricate tapestry of life woven with threads of love, sacrifice, ambition, and humanity's ceaseless striving for meaning. When I began writing, I did not set out with a grand plan or a specific audience in mind. What emerged instead was a collection of reflections, memories, and insights—a deeply personal exploration that touches on the universal. At its heart lies the story of motherhood, not as a singular experience but as a multifaceted phenomenon that transcends culture, time, and place. The mother is more than a nurturer; she is the first teacher, the sanctuary, and often the unsung hero. Yet, her role has also become a battleground, shaped and reshaped by societal expectations and the tides of progress. In honoring this role, we uncover truths about ourselves and the world we inhabit. This book is not merely about mothers, though. It is about the delicate web of relationships that define family: fathers, children, siblings, and the roles they all play. It is about the ways we hurt and heal each other, the sacrifices we make, and the burdens we carry. It is about how families can be both sanctuaries of love and arenas of conflict, teaching us resilience, empathy, and the complexities of human connection. These lessons, drawn from my own life, form the foundation of this work.

In my earliest years, I learned the profound influence of my mother. She was my refuge, my teacher, and my anchor in a world that often felt chaotic. Her strength was quiet but unwavering, her love unconditional but demanding. She expected us to rise to the challenges of life, to shoulder responsibility, and to honor the bonds of family. Yet, like all relationships, ours was not without its struggles. There were moments of misunderstanding, of pain and growth, and of learning to navigate the inevitable tensions between dependence and independence, tradition and progress. These reflections are not confined to the personal sphere. They open into larger questions about society and the human condition. Why do we create families? What purpose do they serve beyond the biological imperative? How do they shape our identities and values? And how do they evolve as societal norms shift, often in ways that challenge their very foundations? In exploring these questions, this book examines the tensions between individual desires and collective responsibilities, between progress and tradition, and between freedom and duty. As I wrote, I found myself returning to themes of love and sacrifice, not just within families but in the broader context of human relationships. Love is a force of creation, but it is also a force of challenge and change. It demands vulnerability and courage, asking us to transcend our selfish instincts to care for others. Sacrifice, often maligned or misunderstood in modern discourse, is a cornerstone of this love. It is through sacrifice that we grow, that we learn the meaning of commitment and the value of others. But sacrifice is not without cost. One of the recurring questions in this book is how to balance selflessness with self-preservation, how to give without losing oneself. In my mother, I saw a model of this balance, though not a perfect one. Her life was a testament to resilience and adaptability. She navigated the challenges of a blended family, the complexities of marriage, and the burdens of societal expectations with grace and determination. Yet, she also carried the scars of these struggles, scars that shaped her but never defined her. Her story, like so many others, is a reminder that strength is not the absence of pain but the ability to endure and grow through it.

This book also delves into the societal structures that influence our lives. It critiques the dehumanizing aspects of modernity, where the sacred bonds of family and community are often overshadowed by the demands of individualism and materialism. It questions the assumptions of progress, examining how technological and social changes impact our relationships and values. For instance, how does the rise of digital culture reshape our interactions, our sense of belonging, and our understanding of intimacy? How do shifting gender roles challenge traditional notions of family, and what new possibilities do they offer? In exploring these questions, the book does not seek to provide definitive answers. Instead, it invites readers to reflect on their own experiences, to question their assumptions, and to engage with the complexities of human life. It is a conversation, not a lecture, and its goal is to spark thought rather than impose conclusions. One of the central themes of this work is the duality of human nature—our capacity for both creation and destruction, for love and cruelty, for growth and regression. This duality is evident in the dynamics of family life, where moments of profound connection often coexist with conflict and misunderstanding. It is also evident in society at large, where the forces of progress and exploitation, unity and division, play out on a grand scale. By examining these dynamics, the book seeks to illuminate the choices we face and the responsibilities we bear as individuals and as members of a larger whole. In writing this book, I have drawn not only from my personal experiences but also from a broader engagement with history, philosophy, and culture. I have sought to situate my reflections within a larger context, to connect the particular with the universal. The result is a work that moves between the intimate and the expansive, weaving together personal narrative, social critique, and philosophical inquiry. One of the questions that has guided me throughout this journey is: What does it mean to live a meaningful life? This question, I believe, lies at the heart of the human experience. It is a question that each of us must answer for ourselves, but it is also a question that is deeply shaped by the people and circumstances that surround us. For me, the search for meaning has been closely tied to my relationships with my family, my reflections on love and responsibility, and my engagement with the world’s complexities. In reflecting on these themes, I have come to see life as a series of paradoxes. We are at once individuals and members of a collective, free and bound, creators and inheritors. These paradoxes are not problems to be solved but realities to be embraced. They challenge us to think deeply, to act responsibly, and to live authentically.

I have learned much upon this wretched path, yet still, I remain a humble pupil—forever unfolding, forever yearning. It is not mere knowledge that I seek, but understanding of the human soul and the shadow it casts. This strange, contradictory species, man, he who stands upon the earth as if suspended between two realms, between the heavens and the mud—how absurd, yet how profound! In his essence, in his body, he is a creation of the highest order, a divine thought made flesh. Yet, despite this, he chooses—by his own will, with arrogance or perhaps ignorance—to disfigure himself, to make of himself something less than perfect. Consider it, then: we are not like the machines that require constant renovations, facelifts, or upgrades—our form endures. What, then, is this human? Strong and weak, exalted and humbled in one fleeting breath. A single blow to the head, a single crushing strike to the body, and he is no more—nothing more than dust, nothing more than a whisper. He rises once, only to fall again, endlessly ensnared by his own foolishness, never truly learning, never truly understanding the gravity of his being. It is as if he does not know, does not comprehend that he is human, a creature caught in the storm of his own contradictions. And yet, even in this, my own folly mirrors the greater folly of mankind. I have always chosen to be respected rather than liked. Yes, in my arrogance, I sought respect as a shield, thinking it would spare me the folly of affection’s transient nature. Respect, cold and unyielding, was the fortress I believed would offer me security. To be liked—ah, that would have been too much of a surrender, too much of an admission of weakness, as if the heart could truly stand to be loved without becoming fragile, without becoming a fool. But now, what do I find? Respect, I see, is no fortress at all, but a hollow, brittle thing, incapable of sheltering the soul from its own needs and contradictions. For in this, mankind’s greatest folly persists: he cannot embrace kindness, honesty, or goodness without scorn. He cannot care for his fellow man without calling it weak, without mocking it as pathetic. To love is to be a fool, in his eyes—he who would rather clutch at his pride than open his heart. I, too, have made this mistake. I have clung to my pride, fearing to show myself vulnerable, fearing to be seen as weak. And so, the world spins on, caught in the madness of this endless contradiction, and I—oh, I—am left to wonder, what can be salvaged from this tragic, tragic species? What can be redeemed from the twisted wreckage of pride, scorn, and fear?

We rise and we fall, seeking something beyond ourselves, yet never truly understanding the nature of our own souls. Caught between sky and mud, between the divine and the wretched, we stumble, forever unable to reconcile the contradictions within us. And so, I ask—what, in the end, can be salvaged? What, indeed, is there to redeem from this endless struggle, this eternal madness of man?

​Introduction

My journey began with a cascade of questions. Why do we love the way we do? What is the essence of family? How can we find meaning in an increasingly fragmented world? These questions weren’t abstract or distant; they were deeply personal, born out of my own experiences, lessons, and struggles. Writing this book became my way of exploring these questions, not as an authority but as someone seeking clarity and understanding. As I reflect, I see my life as a tapestry woven with themes that connect us all. Each thread carries a story, a relationship, a challenge, or a revelation. My observations and experiences, though uniquely mine, are enriched by the broader societal and philosophical currents that shape us all. It all started during our school days when one of our teachers told us, If you make books your friends, you’ll see how you improve over time. At the time, I knew she was referring to academic books—the kind most of us found uninspiring, especially in a class where only a select few were genuinely interested in studying. Who could be drawn to books that had remained unchanged for decades?

One day, however, I stumbled upon Robin Sharma’s Who Will Cry When You Die? That moment was a revelation. I discovered an entirely new world of books—ones that were deeply personal, thought-provoking, and transformative. It was the start of my reading journey, and it opened my eyes to the richness of literature beyond the dull confines of academics. As I ventured into this world, I found books that resonated with the questions that had long lingered in my mind. My life, much like the narratives I read, became a reflection of universal themes of love, family, and identity. At the center of this narrative is my mother, a force of unconditional love and sacrifice. Her presence in my life has been both a sanctuary and a challenge. Through her, I learned the paradoxical nature of love: its ability to nurture and demand in equal measure. Her love shaped me, demanded accountability, and instilled values that have guided me through life’s complexities. But it also left me questioning how we honor such love in a world that often undervalues it. Growing up in a blended family, I experienced the intricacies of belonging, acceptance, and conflict. My family was a source of immense joy and deep struggle, a place where resilience and compromise were daily lessons. Misunderstandings arose, tensions flared, and yet, these moments forced me to confront my imperfections and limitations. My father, too, was a pivotal figure. A man of contradictions, his presence taught me about strength and responsibility, but also about the difficulty of reconciling personal ambition with familial duty. These reflections on my parents revealed not just who they were, but how their roles and relationships shaped me.

As I began to look beyond the personal, I saw how societal forces influence the way we live and connect. The rise of digital culture, for example, has transformed how we interact with each other. While it has created unprecedented opportunities for connection, it has also led to the erosion of deeper, more meaningful relationships. I found myself questioning how societal norms and expectations shape our choices and how we navigate these changes without losing ourselves. Throughout my life, growth has been a recurring theme. Whether through personal exploration, relationships, or unexpected challenges, each experience has carried its own lessons and opportunities for transformation. Growth isn’t always linear or comfortable—it is often messy, painful, and unpredictable. Yet, it is through these moments of struggle and discovery that I have come to understand myself and the world around me more deeply. One of the most transformative moments came when I stumbled upon Robin Sharma’s Who Will Cry When You Die?. That book opened my eyes to a world of learning and self-reflection I had never known, beyond the confines of academic textbooks. It marked the beginning of a journey of personal growth, fueled by curiosity and a desire to see life through new perspectives. What I learned is that growth doesn’t just happen—it requires intention, resilience, and an openness to change. Modernity, with all its advancements, presents its own set of challenges. The pace of life has accelerated, leaving little room for reflection. Societal roles and expectations are in constant flux, disrupting traditional relationships while offering new opportunities for reinvention. I found myself asking: How do we balance progress with preservation? How do we navigate a world that often prioritizes convenience over connection? This constant tension between creation and destruction, between love and fear, is a fundamental aspect of the human experience. It is a duality we must navigate, both in our relationships and within ourselves. And yet, it is also what makes life so profoundly human. This book is, above all, a work of hope. It acknowledges life’s imperfections but affirms the resilience of the human spirit. It calls us to embrace our responsibilities—to ourselves, our families, and our communities. By doing so, I believe we can create lives of greater meaning and purpose, honoring the sacrifices of those who came before us while inspiring those who come after.

Thank you for joining me on this exploration. May it inspire you to move forward with courage, compassion, and purpose.

​​Chapter 1

​​​The Profound Mother

"T he union of husband and wife is the very forge of civilization, where the strength of man meets the grace of woman, each one an essential force in the creation of the modern world. A woman, supported by the steadfastness of man, rises as a force to be reckoned with, a pillar of might and purpose. Yet when a man is upheld by the wisdom and spirit of a woman, he ascends beyond the mortal realm—his soul touched by the divine, his actions guided by the heavens themselves. In their mutual support, they transcend mere existence, and in their togetherness, they shape the future of all."

I fell from the stairs, and the world felt hostile. Where did I turn? To my mother. When misfortune knocked, I wept in her arms. When the rebuke of my father lashed at my soul, I sought her solace. In alienation, I shared my sorrows with her; in despair, her words were my refuge. Even in sleepless nights, her presence banished the darkness. Is it not curious how the child instinctively clings to the mother, as though she were the embodiment of all that is kind, safe, and eternal? The mother is the child's sanctuary—the first love, untainted and unconditional. In her love lies the purity of emotion unshackled by the chains of expectation or reciprocity. But in this purity, too, lies a dilemma—a question that echoes in the recesses of my mind: When I stand before my wife and call her my first love, will I not feel the weight of dishonesty pressing against my chest? My mother’s love was primordial, a force that existed before I had the words to describe it. And if one day my mother were to ask, 'Whom do you love more—me or her?' What answer could I give? Perhaps I would whisper the paradox of my heart: 'Mother, when I am with my wife, she reminds me of you, and when I am with you, the world shrinks until only you remain.' Is this not the nature of love—to echo, to reflect, to multiply its forms? I recall sitting with my mother and sister, flipping through the photographs of our childhood. My mother, radiant and youthful, narrates the stories behind the frames—the people who held us as infants, the hands that captured the fleeting moments. I see her in her early career, tirelessly balancing work and motherhood. My sister and I, mere children then, would wait eagerly for her return, racing to her embrace as though it were a prize to be claimed. And oh, how jealousy consumed me! I guarded her affection jealously, denying my sister the nearness of her own mother. In hindsight, I smile at my cruelty, for it was born not of malice but of a desperate desire to possess what I believed was wholly mine. Even now, they remind me: 'Remember, you wouldn’t let your sister near me.' And I laugh, though the laughter carries with it the weight of reflection.

In 2015, my family and I moved into a new apartment, marking a significant milestone in our lives. I cherish the memories of helping my mother in the kitchen, learning valuable life skills, and bonding with her. One evening, while we were preparing dinner, she shared some wise words with me: Son, learn how to cook so you can take care of yourself when I'm no longer here. Her motivation for saying this was her concern about her aging, as she had married later in life.

I was a sensitive child, and my mother's words struck a chord deep within me. I couldn't bear the thought of losing her one day. The world without my mother seemed unbearable, and I felt a sense of responsibility to take care of her. Leaving them to old age homes is unthinkable. Even if they're bedridden, I'll be there to support and care for them, just as they did for me when I was helpless and unaware. This got me thinking: Why do couples have children? 

Having children is often misconceived as a selfless act, but in reality, it's often driven by personal desires. People have kids for various reasons, but ultimately, it's about what they hope to gain from the experience. For instance, some may want a reason to love or be loved, to strengthen their marriage, or to fulfill cultural or societal expectations. Others may want to start a family to satiate their biological clock, gain an identity, or join a community of parents. However, people rarely consider the potential challenges and responsibilities that come with raising a child. They often have an idealized notion of parenthood, which can be disconnected from reality. The harsh truths of parenting, such as financial constraints, decreased freedom, and emotional turmoil, are frequently overlooked. When deciding to have a child, people rarely think about the problems their child may face, such as being born with a disability, or the potential impact of their own mortality on their child's life. They also rarely consider the strain that raising a child can put on their marriage, or the potential consequences of depriving their child of a two-parent household.

And yet, despite the risks and challenges that our parents took on to raise us, many of us will abandon them in their old age, leaving them to fend for themselves in nursing homes. Your parents took a risk to bring you here without