When enough is never enough, we lose the art of seeing what already is.
There was a time—not long ago—when I paused before every meal, not just for prayer, but for perspective. A silent glance at the plate before me, the labour behind it, the hands that harvested, the hands that cooked. That brief ritual, now mostly lost to speed, reminded me that even ordinary things are never truly ordinary.
Somewhere along the way, we stopped doing that.
Modern life whispers a new gospel: more is better, faster is smarter, and happiness is somewhere just beyond the next acquisition. In this invisible arms race of lifestyle and image, we’re no longer simply living—we’re measuring. Our homes are compared, our holidays showcased, our milestones curated not for meaning but for visibility.
And in the midst of this spectacle, we’ve misplaced something essential: Gratitude—not as a virtue on a greeting card, but as a practice of perception.
I see it in others. I see it in myself.
When I catch myself scrolling through someone’s achievements or vacations, a subtle tension rises. It’s not jealousy in the raw sense—it’s a quiet erosion of contentment. The mind starts tallying what’s missing rather than honouring what’s present. The heart leans towards lack, not abundance.
And this is where peace begins to fracture.
You see, greed today is not just about hoarding wealth or possessions. It’s a restlessness of the spirit—a chronic dissatisfaction fanned by algorithms, marketing, and curated perfection. It convinces us that joy lies in what we don’t yet have, and so we miss the quiet miracles of what we already do.
Gratitude is not a passive, feel-good attitude. It’s an act of mental rebellion against a culture of comparison. It grounds us, brings back dignity to simplicity, and restores reverence for the everyday. In its company, ambition becomes healthy, desire becomes tempered, and the soul regains its breath.
Lately, I’ve begun a new practice. At day’s end, I name three things—small, unmarketable, deeply personal—for which I’m thankful. A cool breeze during my walk. A conversation with no agenda. A task completed without haste. This simple act doesn’t change my circumstances—but it transforms how I inhabit them.
And that, perhaps, that is the real magic.
In a world where people chase more to feel less empty,
gratitude invites us to sit with what is—and realize it might already be enough.
Letters for the Inner Journey by Pushkar
