“To live without arriving is to learn how to stay.” ~attributed to the Buddha
For most of my life, I assumed that arriving was the point. Like many people, I believed adulthood would eventually deliver a clear role, a measure of security, and a sense of belonging I could point to and say, This is it. This is who I am. I trusted that if I worked honestly, followed what mattered, and stayed true to my values, that moment would come.
Now, much later, I’m facing the possibility that it never will.
I know I’m not alone in this, even if we don’t often talk about it. Many of us carry an unspoken expectation that effort will eventually resolve into something recognizable—something stable, legible, and rewarded. When that doesn’t happen, we tend to turn inward, assuming we missed something or misunderstood the rules.
Staying, as I understand it now, means remaining present without that arrival. It means continuing to live inside a life that doesn’t resolve the way we expected. This essay is about what it feels like to stay there—and why naming that experience matters.
There is a fear I rarely admit, even to myself. It’s not exactly the fear of failure, or aging, or financial uncertainty, though all of those are close by. It’s the fear of being an embarrassment. Not publicly. Not dramatically. Quietly. The kind that never causes a scene but lingers in the background of family life, unspoken but felt.
I sometimes worry that my children see me as someone who implied—perhaps too casually—that things would work out. That I would find my place. That I would arrive. I imagined myself as a father who could point to something concrete and say, Here. This is where I landed.
Instead, I feel like someone who never quite found a place here.
Much of my adult life unfolded elsewhere—geographically, culturally, creatively. I worked, taught, made things, contributed. I had purpose. But it often existed outside the visible systems that confer legitimacy. When I tried to fully settle inside the culture I returned to, I realized something painful: I didn’t know how to belong to it, and it didn’t quite know what to do with me.
That realization came slowly. Through job applications that went nowhere. Through polite rejections. Through the quiet discomfort of being asked, “So what do you do?” and realizing that the answer no longer fit neatly into a sentence.
What troubles me most isn’t that things didn’t turn out the way I expected. It’s the fear that this lack of arrival might reflect on my children—that they might feel they have to explain me, or quietly distance themselves, or wonder whether their father believed in something that wasn’t true.
That belief—that sincerity, care, and meaningful work would eventually translate into security and recognition—wasn’t something I invented. I inherited it. And I passed it on, trusting it would hold.
Now I’m old enough to question whether it ever did.
Aging has a way of sharpening these questions. When you’re younger, disappointment feels provisional. There’s still time to pivot, to reinvent, to arrive later. As the years pass, the story feels less open-ended. You begin to see not only what you did but also what you didn’t become.
And still—I’m here.
Still thinking. Still trying to live honestly. Still waking each day inside a life that didn’t deliver the clarity I expected, but did deliver depth, responsibility, and care. Many people reach this point quietly, without language for it, wondering whether they are alone in the reckoning.
I don’t see myself as a tragic figure. I see myself as someone who didn’t fit the story he thought he was supposed to inhabit. Someone who mistook integrity for currency. Someone who believed that meaningful work would naturally lead to welcome.
Occasionally, I wake at night with a humbling thought: What if I misunderstood how the world works? Not in a dramatic way—but in the slow realization that the values I lived by don’t always convert into security or status.
That fear doesn’t come from dishonesty. It comes from dissonance—from the gap between what we’re told matters and what is actually rewarded. And from wondering how those we love will interpret that gap.
There is a particular loneliness in feeling like an outsider in your own culture. Not exile—just a steady sense that the dominant language never quite landed in your mouth. The language of ambition, certainty, self-promotion. I’ve spent much of my life listening more than declaring, trying to live in alignment rather than ascent.
That way of being has given me meaning. It has also left me exposed.
I want to be clear about why I’m writing this.
I’m not offering a solution or a lesson. I’m naming an experience many people carry quietly: living with care and intention and still not arriving where they thought they would. I’m writing because naming it can soften the isolation around it. Staying is easier when it feels shared.
I could shape this into a story of quiet triumph. I could smooth the edges and suggest that everything worked out in the end. But that would miss the truth I’m trying to honor. This is a circular story because many lives are circular. Nothing here is resolved. That’s not a failure—it’s simply honest.
I don’t actually know how my children see me. This fear may live mostly inside me. But it speaks to something larger than my own family. It speaks to how deeply we equate worth with visibility, success with legitimacy, and care with measurable outcomes.
I offered love. I offered attention. I offered presence. I offered values that don’t fit neatly into résumés or retirement plans. Whether that will feel sufficient, I can’t control.
What I see now is that our culture offers very little language for people who age without trophies. There is no ceremony for quiet contribution. Without markers, we begin to doubt ourselves.
Buddhist teachings remind us that clinging—to identity, outcome, or story—is a source of suffering. I understand this intellectually. Emotionally, I still want my life to make sense in ways others can recognize. Letting go of that desire isn’t a single moment of clarity. It’s a daily practice.
Some days I manage it. Other days, the old fear returns—that I didn’t become what I implied I would, that the ending I expected may never arrive.
What I’m learning to hold alongside that fear is this:
A life doesn’t have to resolve to be honest. A parent doesn’t have to arrive to be present. Meaning doesn’t require guarantees.
I did not arrive. I may never arrive. But I stayed.
I stayed with the people I love. I stayed with values that mattered to me. I stayed with work that felt true, even when it didn’t reward me. I stayed with myself when it would have been easier to disappear into bitterness or performance.
To live without arriving isn’t peaceful. It can be humbling. But it is real.
And if there’s a purpose to this essay, it’s simply this: staying counts—even when the ending is uncertain, even when the story doesn’t resolve, even when no one is handing out recognition for it.
Sometimes staying isn’t the path to meaning. Sometimes it is the meaning.
About Tony Collins
Edward “Tony” Collins, EdD, MFA, is a documentary filmmaker, writer, educator, and disability advocate living with progressive vision loss from macular degeneration. His work explores presence, caregiving, resilience, and the quiet power of small moments. He is currently completing books on creative scholarship and collaborative documentary filmmaking and shares personal essays about meaning, hope, and disability on Substack.
Connect: substack.com/@iefilm | iefilm.com
