On realizing that excess often steals peace

The other evening, I opened my food delivery app with a simple mission: order dinner. Ten minutes later, I was still scrolling. By the thirty-minute mark, I had switched between North Indian, Italian, and “something light but not too light.” By the forty-fifth minute, I had read more reviews about momos than I’ve ever read about mutual funds. At one point, I caught myself analyzing a salad — as if a three-star rating could warn me that lettuce leaves might shatter my dreams.

I finally shut the app and made dal at home. Ironically, it took less time to cook than to decide.

This is modern life: we don’t suffer from scarcity; we suffer from buffet. Endless, glittering, maddening choices. Somewhere along the way, society sold us a story: the more options you have, the freer you are. Yet most days it doesn’t feel like freedom — it feels like drowning in menus, catalogues, comparison charts, and the eternal voice asking, “But what if there’s a better one out there?”

I often think back to my younger days. Choices were simpler, almost charmingly so. If you wanted tea, you got tea. There was one dusty jar at the corner shop. Nobody asked whether it was organic, single-origin, or “sustainably hand-plucked under a full moon.” It was just tea. Now, walking through a supermarket aisle feels like preparing for an exam. I’ve spent more cognitive bandwidth choosing tea leaves than I did choosing my career.

This is the paradox of abundance: it promises empowerment but delivers anxiety. With every extra option comes the hidden tax of self-doubt. Did I choose the right job? The right gadget? The right partner? Even streaming a movie becomes a marathon — we spend forty minutes scrolling, then give up and re-watch an old sitcom. Apparently, choice doesn’t always enhance life; sometimes it just eats it up.

Over time, I’ve realized the real antidote isn’t to sample everything on the shelf. It’s to know myself enough to say, “This is enough. This is mine.” My peace doesn’t come from the fanciest option but from the clarity to pick without guilt. The best tea is rarely the most exotic one; it’s the one that warms me while I sip in silence, no comparison running in the background.

The illusion of endless choice will always sparkle like a candy store. But real freedom? It’s when you walk past the aisles, smiling, and say —

I already know what I came for.

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Letters for the Inner Journey by Pushkar

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