Brie Nicole Inked

There are days when I wonder if I was simply built for a different kind of world. Not necessarily a better one, and certainly not some romanticized version of the past where hardship did not exist. I know life has never been easy. Survival has always demanded something from us. Yet there is a particular kind of exhaustion that comes from living in a world that constantly seems to require more of me than I have to give. It feels as though modern life has become an endless negotiation between what I need to survive and what I am expected to become. I wake up knowing there are bills to pay, responsibilities to manage, decisions to make, and expectations waiting quietly in the background. There is always another obligation, another expense, another notification, another reason to feel as though I am falling behind. Sometimes simply existing feels like something that requires justification.

I think what weighs on me most is the constant pressure to participate in a life that often feels entirely disconnected from what I actually need. We have somehow created a world where being alive is no longer enough; we must also be productive, successful, attractive, financially stable, socially connected, emotionally balanced, and perpetually improving. We are told to work harder while simultaneously protecting our peace, save money while enjoying our lives, build a career while making time for ourselves, maintain relationships while setting boundaries, stay informed without becoming overwhelmed, and somehow find happiness in the middle of all of it. There is always another standard to reach, another version of ourselves we are supposed to become. The goalpost moves so frequently that sometimes I wonder whether we were ever meant to reach it at all.

Social media only seems to magnify that feeling. Every time I open my phone, I am presented with fragments of other people’s lives that somehow become evidence against my own. Someone is buying a house, traveling somewhere beautiful, getting married, starting a business, changing their body, renovating their home, achieving a goal, or living what appears to be an impossibly fulfilling existence. I understand that social media is curated. I understand that people do not photograph their debt, their loneliness, their anxiety, their arguments, or the nights they lie awake wondering what they are doing with their lives. I understand that I am comparing my entire existence to carefully selected moments from someone else’s. But understanding that does not always make the pressure disappear. Sometimes the comparison still finds its way beneath my skin, quietly convincing me that I should be doing more, earning more, accomplishing more, becoming more.

And there are moments when I simply do not want to become more. I want to become quieter. I want to become less concerned with whether my life looks impressive and more concerned with whether it feels meaningful. I want to step outside of the constant hum of consumption and expectation and remember what it feels like to do something because it is necessary rather than because it is marketable. Increasingly, I find myself drawn toward the most fundamental aspects of human existence. Hunting, fishing, gathering, growing food, preserving what I have, learning how to make things with my own hands. There is something deeply appealing about the thought of sitting beside a river with nothing demanding my attention except the movement of the water. There is something grounding about working with wood, tending a garden, making something imperfectly by hand, or preparing food that required actual effort to obtain.

Perhaps it is because those things offer something modern life so often takes away: a tangible connection between effort and result. There is something honest about work when I can see what my hands have accomplished. I can plant a seed and eventually watch something grow. I can catch a fish and understand exactly where my meal came from. I can gather what the land offers, build something useful, repair something broken, or create something that did not exist before. There is no algorithm measuring whether I am successful. There is no notification reminding me that someone else is doing more. There is no invisible audience waiting to decide whether what I have accomplished is worthy. There is simply the work, the result, and the quiet satisfaction of knowing I participated in creating something real.

Maybe that is what I am longing for when I imagine escaping to a simpler existence. I am not necessarily longing for an easier life. In many ways, that kind of life would probably be harder. There would be physical exhaustion, uncertainty, weather, scarcity, and countless things that modern conveniences have made easier. But perhaps I am craving a different kind of difficulty. I would rather be tired from carrying wood, tending a garden, walking through the wilderness, or learning a skill than exhausted from staring at a screen while trying to convince myself that I am keeping up with a world that never stops demanding something from me. There is a difference between being tired because I have lived and being tired because I have spent the entire day trying to survive a system that tells me I am never doing enough.

Sometimes I wonder if we have mistaken convenience for fulfillment. We have made almost everything faster, easier, and more accessible, yet so many of us seem increasingly disconnected from ourselves. We can order almost anything with a few taps, communicate with someone across the world instantly, consume endless entertainment without leaving the house, and surround ourselves with information every waking moment. Yet I find myself craving the exact opposite. I want fewer things competing for my attention. I want to hear the wind instead of notifications. I want to watch the seasons change instead of watching other people’s lives through a screen. I want to know how to make something instead of simply knowing where to buy it. I want to experience the satisfaction of necessity, where what I do matters because it directly contributes to my ability to live.

Perhaps there is something deeply human about wanting to return to the basics. Before our lives became so tangled in mortgages, algorithms, advertisements, subscriptions, deadlines, and digital identities, there was simply the need to find food, make shelter, create warmth, protect one another, tell stories, and make it through another season. Those things were not insignificant. They were life itself. There was purpose in the simplicity because survival required presence. You had to pay attention. You had to know your surroundings. You had to learn. You had to create. You had to depend upon yourself and, just as importantly, upon other people.

I think that is what I miss about a world I have never actually known. I miss the imagined closeness to something elemental. I miss the idea of a life where the earth is not simply something beneath our feet but something we participate in. A life where food has a story, objects have fingerprints, skills are passed from one pair of hands to another, and time is measured by sunrise, sunset, weather, and seasons rather than appointments and deadlines. Perhaps it is not the past I am yearning for so much as the feeling I associate with it: being present enough to understand where I am, what I am doing, and why it matters.

I do not know if I will ever completely escape the modern world, nor do I necessarily want to. There are things about this life I value deeply. But I am beginning to question the assumption that I have to embrace every part of it simply because it is the world I was born into. I can choose what deserves my attention. I can step away from the noise when I need to. I can learn to make things with my hands. I can spend more time outside. I can grow something. I can fish. I can learn skills that connect me to something older than a screen. I can create small pockets of simplicity even while living within a complicated world.

Maybe belonging was never supposed to mean forcing myself to fit neatly into the expectations of everyone around me. Maybe it means finding the pieces of life that feel authentic and building around them. I have spent enough time believing that I need to adapt myself to a world that constantly leaves me feeling inadequate. Perhaps I am allowed to question the shape of that world instead. Perhaps I am allowed to want less without considering myself unsuccessful. Perhaps I am allowed to desire a slower existence, a quieter life, and a deeper connection to the things that are real.

Maybe I am not failing to keep up. Maybe I am simply tired of running toward a destination I never wanted in the first place.

And perhaps there is nothing wrong with wanting to return to the basics. Perhaps there is something profoundly human about it. In a world that constantly tells me to consume more, accomplish more, become more, and prove more, there is a strange kind of freedom in remembering that I do not need very much to feel alive. A warm fire. Food I helped provide. Something made by my own hands. A quiet morning. The company of people who feel like home. The sound of water moving somewhere nearby. Enough time to breathe.

Maybe I do not need to fit into this world perfectly. Maybe I only need to create a life within it that still feels like mine.