Chapter 12: Letting Go of Who You Were Supposed to Be

The School Reunion

Benedikt is forty and has just come home from a reunion of his old school class, twenty-two years after they finished. He had been looking forward to it. But now, sitting in his car outside his flat, he feels low and strangely ashamed.

At the reunion, he heard about everyone's lives. One classmate runs her own architecture firm. Another has written two books. Another lives in a beautiful old house in the countryside with four children. Another has travelled all over the world for work. When people asked Benedikt what he was doing, he said that he works in the accounts office of a medium-sized company, lives alone in a rented flat and plays in an amateur orchestra at weekends. He saw a flicker of polite surprise in one face. At school, he had been one of the brightest students. Everyone had expected great things from him.

Driving home, he replays the evening. He compares himself with each of his classmates and comes out worse every time. He thinks of the life he was supposed to have: the brilliant career, the family, the house, the achievements. He feels as if he has failed a test that he did not know he was taking. And yet, until this evening, he had been reasonably content. He likes his colleagues, loves his orchestra and has good friends. Nothing in his life has changed today. Only his view of it.

Benedikt is carrying something that many people carry: an image of who they were supposed to become. It may come from parents, teachers, society or their own younger dreams. And measured against that image, the real life they are living can seem small and disappointing. This chapter explores what the Buddhist tradition says about comparison and expectation, and about letting go of the life we were supposed to have, so that we can see the life we actually have.

The Life We Expected

Most of us carry an expected life inside us. It is a picture, often vague but powerful, of what our lives should look like by a certain age: the job, the relationship, the home, the achievements, the kind of person we should be. This picture is built from many sources: what our parents hoped for us, what our teachers said we could do, what our friends achieved, what we see in films, advertisements and social media, and what we dreamed when we were young.

The expected life is not always a bad thing. It can give us goals and motivation. But it can also become a heavy burden. When our real life does not match the expected one, we may feel that we have failed, even if our real life is full of good things. We may spend years measuring ourselves against a picture that was never really ours, or that no longer fits who we have become.

In the language of this book, the expected life is something we cling to. It is an idea, a raft from an earlier time, carried long after the river has been crossed. It is also a kind of self-image, a picture of "who I should be", which, as we saw in the chapter on non-self, can make us suffer when it is threatened.

Letting go of the expected life does not mean giving up on hopes and goals. It means loosening our grip on a fixed picture of how our lives should be, so that we can see and appreciate the life that is actually unfolding, and so that we can choose new goals that truly fit us, rather than old ones that were handed to us.

It can help to notice how old some of our expected lives are. Many people are still measuring themselves against a picture they formed at fifteen or twenty, when they knew very little about the world or about themselves. A teenager's idea of success may have been shaped by a few films, a teacher's praise or a cousin's example. It would be strange to let a fifteen-year-old choose our clothes or our friends today. Yet many of us still let that young person's picture decide whether our life counts as a success.

Better, Equal, Worse

The early Buddhist texts discuss comparison in an interesting way. They describe a habit of the mind called māna, often translated as conceit, though it includes much more than arrogance. Māna is the habit of measuring ourselves against others.

The texts describe three forms of this habit: thinking "I am better than others", thinking "I am equal to others" and thinking "I am worse than others". What is striking is that all three are treated as the same habit. Feeling superior, feeling equal and feeling inferior are all forms of comparing, of building a self by measuring it against other selves. And all three, the teachings suggest, are sources of suffering and obstacles to freedom.

This can be surprising. We might expect a spiritual teaching to criticize feeling superior, but not feeling equal or inferior. But the Buddhist view looks deeper. The problem is not which result we get when we compare. The problem is the comparing itself. Whenever we measure ourselves against others, we are strengthening the idea of a fixed self that must be ranked, and we are setting ourselves up for pride, envy or shame.

Benedikt, at the reunion, was caught in the "I am worse" form of comparison. But earlier in his life, at school, he may have been caught in the "I am better" form, as one of the brightest students. Both were the same habit. Both depended on ranking himself against others. And both distracted him from simply living his own life.

The Dhammapada contains a verse, number 365, which can be translated, in my own words: "Do not look down on what you have received, and do not envy others. One who envies others does not find a settled mind." The verse was originally addressed to monks, but its wisdom is universal. Envy and dissatisfaction with what we have go together, and both disturb the mind.

Comparing Our Inside With Others' Outside

One of the reasons comparison is so painful is that it is usually unfair. When we compare ourselves with others, we compare our inside with their outside. We know all our own doubts, struggles, failures and fears. We see only the surface of other people's lives: their achievements, their photographs, their stories at a reunion.

Benedikt's classmate with the architecture firm may work eighty hours a week and rarely see her family. The one who wrote books may struggle with deep self-doubt. The one with the beautiful house and four children may be exhausted and lonely. The one who travelled the world may feel rootless. Benedikt does not know any of this. He only knows what they chose to share, at a cheerful evening, after twenty-two years. He is comparing the full complexity of his own life with a few polished stories.

Social media makes this unfairness even stronger. Many people share only their best moments, carefully chosen and sometimes carefully edited. Looking at these moments day after day, it is easy to feel that everyone else's life is better than ours. But we are comparing our ordinary days with their highlights.

Recognizing this does not mean assuming that everyone else is secretly unhappy. Some people's lives really are going well, and that is good. It simply means remembering that we rarely see the whole picture of anyone's life, and that comparisons based on surfaces are unreliable. The Buddha's teaching suggests a deeper question: rather than "How does my life compare?", we might ask, "How am I living, and how could I live more wisely and kindly?"

Another unfairness is that we often compare only one part of a life. Benedikt compared careers and houses. He did not compare friendships, evenings of music, kindness to colleagues or the quiet pleasure of a life that suits him. If he had compared whole lives, the picture might have looked very different. Most people, if they look honestly, would not want to trade their whole life for anyone else's whole life, with all its hidden difficulties. They only want to trade a piece of it.

The Gift of Sympathetic Joy

The Buddhist tradition offers a beautiful alternative to envy. It is one of the four qualities often called the divine abodes, which we met in the chapter on love. It is called muditā, sympathetic joy: the joy we feel at someone else's happiness and success.

Sympathetic joy is the opposite of envy. When a friend gets a promotion, envy says: why them and not me? Sympathetic joy says: how wonderful for them. When a classmate has written a book, envy feels diminished. Sympathetic joy feels glad. Sympathetic joy does not require us to have what the other person has. It simply delights in their good fortune.

Many teachers say that sympathetic joy is one of the hardest of the four qualities to develop, because envy is so natural. But it can be practised. One simple way is to notice the moment of envy, when we hear of someone's success and feel that small sting, and then deliberately bring to mind a wish for their happiness: "May your success continue. May you enjoy it." At first, this may feel forced. Over time, it can become more natural.

Sympathetic joy is not only good for others. It is also good for us. A person who can feel glad for others' happiness has many more sources of joy in their life than a person who can only feel glad for their own. Every friend's success, every stranger's good news, becomes a reason to be happy, rather than a reason to feel small. In a world full of other people's achievements, sympathetic joy turns a source of pain into a source of delight.

For Benedikt, sympathetic joy might change the meaning of the reunion. Instead of comparing himself with his classmates and feeling worse, he could feel glad that his old friends had found success, and appreciate the different paths that their lives, and his, have taken. He did not lose anything by their success. Their happiness was not taken from his.

Expectations From Others

Many of our expected lives were not built by ourselves. They were handed to us by our families, our communities or our societies. Parents may expect their children to follow a particular career, marry by a particular age or achieve particular things. Communities may have strong ideas about what makes a successful or respectable life.

These expectations often come from love and care. Parents want their children to be safe, secure and respected. But expectations can become a weight, especially when they do not fit the person. A child expected to become a doctor who longs to be an artist, a daughter expected to marry who wants to live differently, a son expected to take over a family business who has other dreams: each may feel torn between their own path and the path expected of them.

Letting go of others' expectations does not mean rejecting the people who hold them, or ignoring their wisdom. It means recognizing that our lives are our own, and that we are responsible for how we live them. It may mean having honest, respectful conversations with family members, explaining our choices and listening to their concerns. It may mean accepting that some people will be disappointed in us, at least for a while.

It also sometimes means letting go of our expectations of others. Parents who hold tightly to a picture of who their child should become may suffer greatly when the child chooses a different path. Loosening that grip, and coming to love the child as they actually are, can be one of the most important acts of letting go in a parent's life.

There is also the expected life that we hold for our own age. Many people feel that by thirty they should have one thing, by forty another and by fifty yet another, as if life were a timetable with fixed stations. But human lives do not run on timetables. People find their calling at fifty, fall in love at seventy, learn to read at eighty or start again after great losses. Letting go of the timetable can free us to see that it is rarely too late, and rarely too early, for the next good thing.

Grieving the Imagined Life

Sometimes, letting go of the life we were supposed to have involves real grief. We may have truly hoped for a particular career, a family, a place to live or an achievement, and it did not happen. Perhaps illness, circumstances, other people's choices or our own choices took us in a different direction. The imagined life was never real, but our hope for it was real, and losing that hope can hurt.

This grief deserves to be acknowledged, just like other grief. It is part of the first arrow. A person who longed for children and could not have them, a person who dreamed of a career that never happened, a person who hoped to live in a certain way and could not: each of them has lost something, even if it never existed in the world. Their sadness is natural.

The second arrow, in this case, is often the story we add: "I have failed. My life is worth less. Everyone else got what they wanted." Gently setting down this second arrow can make room for both grief and acceptance.

And then, slowly, there can be room to see what our real life contains. The career that did not happen may have opened space for other work, other relationships, other gifts. The family that did not form in the expected way may have formed in another way, through friendships, nieces and nephews, community or chosen family. The real life is rarely what we imagined. But it often contains things we could never have imagined, and that are deeply valuable.

Some people find it helpful to write a description of their life as a kind stranger might see it: someone who knows nothing of the expected life and simply looks at what is actually there. Such a stranger might notice the friendships, the skills, the small daily kindnesses, the challenges faced and the things built. This exercise does not erase disappointment. But it often reveals a richer life than the one we see through the lens of expectation.

Four Lives, Real and Imagined

Anouk is twenty-eight. Her younger sister is getting married, and at every family gathering, aunts and cousins ask Anouk when it will be her turn. She has had relationships, but none that led to marriage, and she is not sure she wants to marry at all. She feels like a disappointment. Talking with a friend, she realizes that she has been measuring her life against an expected picture that she never chose. She loves her work as a nurse, her friendships and her independence. She decides to answer the questions at family gatherings with a smile and a simple "I am happy as I am", and to stop apologizing for her life. At the wedding, she dances with her sister and feels genuinely glad for her.

Farid is fifty-five and has run a successful family business, a furniture shop his father founded. He always expected his son to take it over. But his son wants to become a primary school teacher. For a year, Farid argues, pleads and feels betrayed. Then, one evening, he watches his son helping a neighbour's child with reading, and he sees how happy and gifted his son is. Farid realizes that he has been clinging to an expected life, not for himself, but for his son. He tells his son that he is proud of him. He begins to plan for the shop's future in another way, training a long-time employee to take over.

Isabel is sixteen and has trained in gymnastics since she was five. Everyone, including Isabel, expected her to compete at a high level. Then an injury ends her competitive career. She is devastated and feels that she has lost not only a sport, but her whole future and identity. For months, she avoids the gym and feels lost. A coach encourages her to grieve, and then to explore what else she loves. Isabel discovers that she enjoys helping younger children learn the basics of gymnastics. She starts coaching on weekends. It is not the life she expected. But she finds a new kind of joy in it, and in the children's progress.

Benedikt, from the beginning of this chapter, sits in his car for a long time. Then he thinks of his orchestra, which is playing a concert next week, and the friends he has there. He thinks of his colleagues, who often ask his advice. He thinks of the quiet, happy evenings in his flat with his books and music. He realizes that he has been comparing all of this with an expected life that he never actually wanted; he has never longed to run a firm or write books. He sends a message to the classmate who wrote books, congratulating her and saying that he would love to read them. She replies warmly and says she envies him his orchestra. Benedikt laughs.

Anouk, Farid, Isabel and Benedikt each carried an expected life: a marriage, a son in the family business, a sports career, a brilliant future. Each suffered when their real life did not match. And each found that, by letting go of the expected picture, they could see more clearly, and appreciate more fully, the life they actually had.

Practical Steps

First, describe your expected life. Write down the picture of the life you were supposed to have. Where did each part of this picture come from?

Second, notice comparison. When you find yourself comparing your life with others', notice whether you are thinking "better", "equal" or "worse". Remember that all three are the same habit.

Third, remember inside and outside. When you compare, remind yourself that you are comparing your whole inner life with someone else's surface.

Fourth, practise sympathetic joy. When you hear of someone's success, notice any envy, and then deliberately wish them well and try to feel glad for them.

Fifth, grieve what needs grieving. If you have lost a hoped-for life, allow yourself to feel the sadness, without the second arrow of "I have failed".

Sixth, look at your real life. Make a list of what your actual life contains that you value, including things you never expected. Let it be enough to begin with.

A Short Practice: Gladness for Others

This practice takes about fifteen minutes. It is a simple form of the practice of sympathetic joy.

Sit comfortably and take a few slow breaths. Bring to mind someone you love who has recently had good fortune or happiness: a friend with a new job, a family member who is in love, a child who has learned something new. Picture them clearly, and remember their happiness. Silently say: "I am glad for your happiness. May it continue. May your good fortune grow." Notice any warmth or joy.

Now bring to mind someone you feel neutral toward, perhaps a colleague or neighbour, who has had some good fortune. Repeat the same phrases for them. Notice what you feel.

Then, if you feel ready, bring to mind someone whose success has stirred envy in you. Notice the envy without judging it. It is a natural feeling. Then, gently, repeat the phrases for this person: "I am glad for your happiness. May it continue." You do not need to feel glad yet. You are simply practising the wish.

Finally, turn the practice toward yourself. Bring to mind something good in your own life, however small, and say: "I am glad for this. May it continue."

End with a few slow breaths. Over time, this practice can make it easier to feel glad for others, and to see your own life with more appreciation.

Questions People Often Ask

"Is it wrong to have ambitions?" Not at all. Hopes and goals can give life direction and meaning. The Buddhist teaching is concerned with clinging to a fixed picture of how life should be, and with the suffering that comes from constant comparison. You can have ambitions while holding them lightly, being willing to adjust them and finding value in your life whether or not they are achieved.

"How can I stop comparing myself with others?" Probably not completely, as comparison is a deep habit of the mind. But you can notice it more often, remember that you are comparing your inside with others' outside, reduce exposure to things that fuel comparison, such as certain kinds of social media, and practise sympathetic joy. Over time, comparison usually loses some of its power.

"What if my family's expectations cause serious conflict?" Conflicts about life choices can be very painful, especially in families with strong traditions. It may help to have calm, respectful conversations, to listen to your family's concerns and to explain your own reasons. Sometimes, a trusted relative, community member or counsellor can help. If a conflict involves threats, pressure or harm, please seek support from appropriate services.

Chapter Summary

Many of us carry an expected life: a picture of who we should be, built from parents, teachers, society and our own early dreams. When our real life does not match, we may feel that we have failed, even when our real life is full of good things. The early Buddhist texts describe māna, the habit of measuring ourselves as better, equal or worse than others, and treat all three as the same source of suffering. Dhammapada verse 365 warns that envy disturbs the mind.

Comparison is usually unfair, because we compare our inside with others' outside. Sympathetic joy, muditā, the gladness we feel at others' happiness, is the remedy for envy and a source of joy for ourselves. Letting go of others' expectations, and of our expectations of others, can be a great relief. When an imagined life is lost, it deserves to be grieved, and then our real life can be seen more clearly.

In the next chapter, we look at how to stay steady when life blows us between praise and blame, gain and loss.