Finding Life in Motion

The beauty of life isn’t just in where we arrive—it’s in the movement, the struggle, and the unexpected moments that shape us along the way.

Costa Rica wasn’t just a place I visited—it was a place that moved me. From the dense jungle that wrapped around my stays to the howls of howler monkeys echoing at dusk, nature wasn’t just in the background. It was alive, pressing in from all sides, reminding me how vast and untamed the world can be.

When the universe winks at you in cloud form. Santa Teresa, Costa Rica—where the sky itself feels sentient.

One evening, as the sun dipped below the Pacific, the clouds took on surreal, otherworldly shapes—sometimes resembling a great celestial bird, sometimes the unmistakable silhouette of a mothership from the Galactic Federation. It was the kind of sky that made you pause, that made you wonder if there’s more at play in this world than we realize.

The previous morning, I had set out on a long hike over a rocky riverbed, the kind that forces you to watch every step. The stones were uneven, some slippery, others sharp. It took patience. Effort. And for a while, it felt like a never-ending stretch of work. But then, as the trail opened up, there it was—a stunning waterfall, cascading down from the sky. The water was cool and forceful, rushing over my skin like it was washing away more than just sweat and dust.

The moment felt earned. Like a quiet reminder that the best rewards often come after struggle.

That lesson stayed with me as I thought about expectations—the way we imagine people, futures, even ourselves. It’s easy to build up perfect versions in our minds, only to feel let down when reality doesn’t match. But swimming under that waterfall, I wondered: maybe the beauty isn’t just in the moment we arrive. Maybe it’s in the effort, the rocky stretches, the times we stumble before something breathtaking unfolds.

Later, I took on another challenge—a steep climb up a hill that wrapped around the waterfall. The incline burned my legs, my breath came fast, and my arms reached for sturdy tree roots to pull myself higher. As I reached the top, I noticed a woodpecker hammering away at a tree. It was relentless, pecking with a rhythm that felt both frantic and purposeful. And for some reason, it hit me: we all chip away at something. Whether it's our dreams, our relationships, or even just understanding ourselves, the work never really stops. But maybe that’s the point.

Maybe life isn’t about arriving—it’s about persistence, the climb, the steady effort of shaping something meaningful.

Even in quieter moments, Costa Rica had a way of bringing things into focus. I met a young mother who spoke about missing her two small children, torn between the freedom of adventure and the reality of responsibility. I felt it too, as an only child—the pull between exploration and home. My own mother, growing older, waits for my calls, my visits, my time. And I wondered how much of life is spent balancing that ache—the longing for the people we love, even as we chase the things that make us feel alive.

Maybe it hit harder because it was my birthday. Another year gone, another reminder that time moves whether we notice or not. I felt it in the way the jungle pulsed with life, in the ever-changing light of the sky, in the rivers that rushed forward without hesitation. Time doesn’t wait. And yet, in moments like this, it feels infinite.

The local spirit of pura vida seemed to embrace that paradox. I saw it in the way people lived—laughing through challenges, embracing both struggle and joy with the same open arms. Some of the long-time expats were even more pura vida than the locals, having absorbed the rhythm of slow mornings, long conversations, and an almost supernatural ability to remain unbothered.

And pura vida wasn’t just a phrase—it was a way of seeing life. Instead of saying "you're welcome," people would say pura vida after helping you, as if generosity wasn’t a transaction but just part of a fully lived life.

As my trip came to an end, I thought about that rocky riverbed—the uncertainty of each step, the instability of the ground beneath me. It reminded me of what I see in the world right now. Institutions and norms are shifting, collapsing, rebuilding. The old maps don’t work anymore. And yes, that’s unsettling—there’s real fear in the unknown. But fear isn’t the end of the story. Maybe it’s the challenge we’re called to face, the rough stretch we have to push through before something new emerges.

Because pura vida isn’t about clinging to what was. It’s about meeting the unknown with grit, with trust, and—when the time comes—with the courage to jump.

The Terrain Ahead

Like the rocky riverbed demanding presence with every step, our culture is navigating uncertain terrain. The gap between reactionary retreat and genuine metamodern¹ evolution is vast, and many will find themselves stuck in the turbulence. Some will long for the law of the jungle, seduced by its ruthless efficiency and illusions of dominance. But the task ahead isn’t to glorify or condemn this phase—it’s to understand it, to recognize its role in a larger transformation.

What does it mean to engage with this moment beyond simplistic narratives? To affirm whatever genuine developmental shift is emerging?

The answer may lie in cultivating a “listening society,”² as Hanzi Freinacht³ envisions—one that values emotional depth, psychological well-being, and collective growth over mere economic gain or ideological conquest.

The abyss we’re traversing is not just a crisis but a passage. And if we can be present for it—if we can hold space for each other in the uncertainty—perhaps we’ll find that the river doesn’t just pull us under. It carries us forward.

But what does it mean to move forward—not just individually, but as a culture? If postmodernism dismantled old certainties, what comes next? The answer may lie in metamodernism, a way of thinking that embraces both skepticism and sincerity, structure and fluidity, movement and meaning.

History doesn’t move in a straight line. It spirals—each phase building on what came before.⁴ The tensions we feel today aren’t just chaos; they might be the turbulence of something trying to emerge.

Like tectonic plates shifting beneath the surface, we are adjusting to a world more complex and interconnected than ever before.

The challenge now isn’t just survival or power. It’s presence. It’s learning how to hold paradox without retreating into simplistic answers. Maybe, as Hanzi suggests, the next stage isn’t about choosing between order and deconstruction, but about listening—about creating a society that values depth, well-being, and the space to grow into whatever comes next.

1. Metamodernism is what comes after postmodernism—the next wave of culture and thinking. It holds onto the skepticism and complexity of postmodernism but reaches for meaning, sincerity, and growth instead of just tearing things down. It’s not about picking a side between idealism and cynicism—it’s about learning to hold both at once.

2. A “listening society,” as Hanzi Freinacht describes it, is one that prioritizes emotional depth, psychological well-being, and personal development, rather than just economic growth or power struggles. The idea is that a society that listens—really listens—creates the conditions for people to thrive at a deeper level.

3. Hanzi Freinacht is the pen name of a political philosopher and metamodern thinker whose work explores cultural evolution, psychology, and the future of society. His book The Listening Society lays out a vision for a world that prioritizes emotional depth, personal development, and collective well-being over traditional power structures.

4. We often think of history as a straight line—progress moving forward—or a cycle, endlessly repeating. But some thinkers, like those in developmental psychology and Spiral Dynamics, suggest it moves more like a spiral—returning to familiar themes, but at a higher level of complexity each time. Cultural evolution isn’t just about change; it’s about integrating what came before into something new.