The promise of well-being is enticing. I, too, believed in it. When I was younger, I drifted from one semblance of meaning to another, always dissatisfied with what I found there. It was an invitation to a life that was finally perfect—made up of eternal smiles, smooth, swaying movements, and yellow-orange light like a never-ending sunset.
Well-being appeals to our wounded egos, craving recognition or love; it speaks to our smallness—that part of us that doubts and never feels good enough. Well-being can be bought; it comes with a certain status, a certain standard of living. It’s also meant for a certain age—not too young, but above all not too old, because then it’s more about aging well.
Well-being is conveyed mainly through images—filtered, polished ones—that offer a glimpse of a life that’s always enchanting. A life of summer cocktails on a terrace, of cozy spas in the mountains during winter.
Ah, the mirage of well-being. The one that turns spirituality into yet another commodity to acquire, to possess. The one that stirs up the illusion of another self—a better, optimized version. And which only perpetuates a self-loathing of who we truly are, creates excessive expectations, and makes disappointment the norm in our lives.
True spirituality—the kind that awakens us to our lives—is not comfortable. It lays bare our ego-driven strategies, including those related to well-being. It offers a happiness—a lasting one at that—but one that has nothing to do with the glitter sprinkled over doctored photos and staged lives, all in an attempt to silence the fear of emptiness that dwells within them.
