This is a question I find myself constantly pondering. As a human being in today’s society we all have dreams, goals and accomplishments that define who we are. Some strive for simplicity and some strive for fame or power or riches. I mean nothing negative to big or small dreamers, but I need to ask--what if it were all gone?

I mean it. What if we lived a life where accomplishments and end goals weren’t so haunting, where success was measured on something much larger than money or milestones?

What you are reading is one voice in a chorus. Here’s a thought: for myself (and I assume many others), I had a stark and burning hatred for American suburbia. That’s right--those mostly white communities that form a weird circle over already large overly-large cities. The houses have similar layouts, same sized yards, same sort of expectant thing inside. It’s where chain restaurants rule and schools can flaunt their high property tax budgets. It seems very surface, but underneath it came off like a society dominated by corporate America.

I didn’t grow up in American suburbia, but one thought always came to me when I visited: is this it? Is this the touchdown of life, where I’m supposed to be? Many of us have had parents or guardians who brought us up to believe that this was the destination, that many of us with big dreams would eventually settle down, we’d eventually have children and a dog and a nice little place. We’d save up for retirement and hope our children continue to visit as we age.

Yeah, I was hopelessly disgusted. To be frank, I assumed anyone living there was a failure and the moment I ended up there, I’d be a failure too. Suburbia was where dreams went to die. It’s where life met the dead end. What has always appealed to me is the variety of life and all the world has to offer. In suburbia, however, there’s nothing seemingly unexpected. It was already pre-ordained. You move in, you have kids. Birthday parties, graduations, a 9-5 job you don’t wake up in the morning excited for. It’s safe. You know the outcome.

My views are not universally shared among my millennial counterparts, but I know I’m not alone there either. The “I’m never moving to the suburbs” attitude has hit all kinds of people post-1950s from every walk of life. We end up there, and we don’t. We change ourselves, and we don’t.

For the past few years, my Dad has been living out in the Texas country. It’s pretty similar to what you’re imagining, for the most part. For those in Texas it’s one of those long drives in the hill country that pretty much borders on perfection. It’s pretty isolated save for the neighbors on long stretches of land. You have to drive half an hour to go grocery shopping.

While sitting on his front porch in the sunset, we had a fire and grill going. Crickets were already beginning to buzz and the world was dark. One could feel utterly alone out there if it weren’t for the very distant coyotes and neighbors going about their yards, and the occasional F-150 driving by and giving the whole street a jump. A startling thought then came to me:

This is all I could ever want.

It felt like a slap in the face when I realized what I’d thought. My entire life before that moment had been building towards a goal: more than anything, I wanted to be different. Not the pink-haired punk rock goth kind of different (hello 90’s high school kids), but the kind of different where you can have some sort of pride in yourself. At least you didn’t end up like them. At least I can be the most interesting person in my family. At least my experiences outweighed the ordinary.

But here I am in the ordinary and loving it. I was at peace. I was existing with none of the pressures of life. My baby sister was jumping around the porch. Little embers soared past stars. As simple of a moment as ever.

On the drive back in the darkness, I’d found myself tearing up. Nothing happened that would give anyone a clue. Internally, it was a moment where I’d felt everything I’d ever known totally flip on it’s head and left me shell shocked.

I had to make peace with my fatal flaw: I was seeing everyone else as lesser. I was seeing people in suburbia as pure losers, and while I still have problems with suburbia I no longer have problems with the people. The truth of the matter is that life is not built on what we accomplish. There are no banners at funerals. My friends and family, if I died, would remember me for who I was more than what I did. Total strangers would only know me of accomplishments, but they wouldn’t know me. They wouldn’t know my joy, my sadness. They would not know the fundamental elements of what makes me human.

For instance: when you stare up at a painting of a historical figure, you’re not looking at anyone. It’s simply a snapshot of an idea. That person is not truth, that person is a concept. No one can talk of the power of their love and hate, or the gleam in their eyes when their child takes their first steps across the living room. That’s living. That is power.

This doesn’t mean to strive for nothing. It doesn’t mean that you should retire to family life. What I’ve found is that when I’m constantly striving for a goal, I’m not feeling anything. When I started looking at life through a lens and seeing small little miracles, I felt satisfied. Yes, I want more. I have dreams and ambitions, but I’m realizing that perhaps I’ll be okay if I don’t achieve them. To lose sight of the magic of little moments was the worst thing I could achieve. That was true failure.

Some people just don’t need big dreams to be happy. It’s all there for them. Those who see the blessings of every day living are the ones inspiring me now. Laurels, medals, and awards are certainly wonderful, but I can live without them. I’m thinking you can, too.