What is Your Purpose in Living?
Christians and Muslims (actual believers, not in name only because they celebrate Christmas or Eid al-Fitr) believe the purpose of living is to serve and reflect their God’s will to ensure their assent to heaven after death.
Jews focus on the present rather than an afterlife. They believe humans should partner with their God in completing, repairing, and perfecting His creation.
Buddhists have no God. They want to wipe out greed, hate, mental anguish caused by desire, attachment, and ignorance to reach Nirvana (not the band ;-})—where the mind achieves clarity and peace. Rebirth is extinguished for the enlightened (those who achieved Nirvana), like a flame going out.
Hindus have Brahman, their Supreme God that takes many godlike forms. Their purpose in life is much like Buddhists—to reach Moksha (spiritual liberation), the end of reincarnation. They are unique in that they give no rigid purpose to living, but provide a moral, ethical framework for living a meaningful life and achieving Moksha.
I am an atheist, so I, alone, must determine my purpose in being alive. While I’m not a Nihilist, I agree there is no inherent, or dictated [by a god] meaning or purpose to life. My mother and father created me, as did theirs before them and so on, back to the earliest humans. All life here emerged through entropy, not born of some cosmic energy carving morality in stone or assigning us purpose.
Since I believe no god or mystical force gives me purpose, I’m free to create my own. I was lucky to be raised by Jews in name only—celebrating Hanukkah and went to temple on Yom Kipper, though in discussions driving home learned neither my mom or dad believed in Bible ‘fables,’ or a god. With no Grand Plan, like most of us I still needed one, something to motivate me to get out of bed in the morning. I, too, require some sense of purpose in living, and a reason to stay alive through dark times.
My mother was a devout social advocate. We spent many holidays feeding homeless, or handing out relief supplies to wildfire victims my formative years. She raised me with the foundation that all of us can make time to help others with less, especially those who have what they need. My father was a dreamer, and a philosopher at heart. His dominant side was a narcissist though—theory was fun to ponder, but getting to the best of us required his exclusive wisdom and guidance.
My old life’s purpose is partly a product of my parentage. My father believed a woman’s purpose—all women, in fact—is to reproduce. My mother was certain that raising kids would be the richest, most rewarding part of my life (and indeed they have been!). Having children, with mom as their primary caretaker, was the only consistent messaging my folks agreed on, (and society at large in the 1970s), so finding a mate and creating a family became my primary focus.
Since childhood, the life’s purpose I conjured was to raise kids better then me—kinder, more creative, emotionally intelligent, more aware of and caring for the world beyond theirs. I was sure that if each generation invested their TIME and energy into raising their children, gen over gen would become smarter, more innovative, more collaborative, and humans could reach our creative, compassionate potential.
I was that stupid.
Parenting is an art, not a science. Being there for your kids means way different things for different people. Both my husband and I worked full-time throughout their childhood, though my consulting career in marketing took a back seat to parenting, which basically killed it. (Running your own gig is like nurturing children—requires focused time and effort.)
By my kid’s measure, I’ve been present, available, attentive to my kids since their births, my focus on them, their needs first. I was lucky our combined income and investments allowed me to do so. Many parents can not, or choose not to make their progeny their highest priority while pursuing their own greatness. They raise latch-key kids who must fend for themselves for the most part while both parents work. With no safe harbor, children grow up afraid, resentful, angry.
My sister basically abandoned her kids to her nanny and our mother while she played tennis and traveled with her husband. And both her kids are angry, lost adults. Other parents are poor role models, instilling racism, blind faith, hate into their kids.
My life’s purpose before kids was clear, and simple really: to raise kind and productive people, and instill in them a desire to do the same. And so I have. But they are not one of many in a kinder, wiser, more empathetic gen, they are an anomaly. Regardless the safe harbor I provided my kids, they grew up lonely in a neighborhood where children were indoctrinated with religion from birth, often racist and mean-spirited, and focused on themselves and what they could get instead of give.
So much for my Utopian dream.
My kids are now adults, in their mid-20s finding their own purpose, creating their own lives. I have the time to indulge in the writing career I pivoted to when they were young. I have the time, but lately I seem to have lost the inclination to write anything beyond blogs. And if you read my essays, you’ll notice the tenor of my posts lately—I am completely and utterly lost, without purpose.
It’s not classic empty-nest syndrome because I worked while raising kids, so they weren’t my entire life, just my first priority. And I have many interests to pursue, from writing to mentoring to traveling, even becoming more intimate with my husband of 30 yrs. So why every morning when I wake up do I lay in bed for half and hour wondering what the hell I’ll do today, and even if I come up with something I’m wondering the point in doing it at all.
I can’t make humans kinder with my writing. No one can motivate or legislate anyone to care beyond themselves. The best I can do is entertain, and we’re already flooded with entertainment choices a lot less heady than mine, which is why I’m read by mostly intellectuals, engineers, math heads, professors—people who think more than just believe. While I’m grateful for my readers, I don’t have many and have a hard time getting them in a world that prefers mindless entertainment. And it isn’t fun for me writing meaningless crap. So daily, when I sit down at my desk and the cursor is blinking at me, I wonder what the point is in continuing to write.
I could go back to teaching entrepreneurs how to create sustainable startups, but a decade of doing so at Stanford and Cal Berkeley was a lesson in futility. Students want to build their ideas more then walk the tedious process of how to sell them. And most of their offerings were iterations on middle-men SaaS money grabs—drop-shipping on Amazon, or sites like Realtor or Robinhood, or yet another ‘AI-curated’ media site.
By my mother’s example, I was raised that our purpose in living was to serve—our family, our community, our planet. Most were taught, often by example, to serve themselves, which is why we have Instagram, corrupt CEOs, oligarchs, politicians, and ‘good people’ on their cellphone while driving causing 14% of fatal crashes in 2024. I grew up with a life’s purpose—to contribute to reaching humanity’s amazing potential—but I no longer believe in it.
What to do from here…
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