6 minute read
The walls of the cage of familiarity are not made of iron. They are made of words.
They are the excuses we give ourselves and the reasons we use to justify staying. While these stories may sound virtuous, over time they harden into excuses.
The longer one stays, the more fluent one becomes in the language of excuses, reasons and positive hyperbole. Here, stability, being sensible or even gratitude can become grandiose titles.
And there is truth in that for a while. Stability can indeed be a gift. Gratitude can indeed be grounding. Taking responsibility does make you noble. However, if left unchallenged, they all turn sour. I have seen how stability can easily turn into stagnation and how gratitude can morph into guilt as soon as you start to desire more. And all too often responsibility becomes a leash, keeping you in check and convincing you that freedom would be selfish.
This is how the cage tightens. Not with locks and chains, but with the stories you tell yourself, or the ones others tell you, that make staying seem righteous.
I told myself some of these stories, saying things like:
At least I have a job where people appreciate my skills.
At least I am not alone, and some people even understand me.
At least this city is familiar. I became an adult here. There are no wars here. It is all my children know. At least I know how to survive and make do in this place.
“At least” became a mantra, a twisted prayer, and a principle I relied on.
But “at least” is not a life.
“At least” is survival on rations. It is learning to breathe shallow and convincing yourself that air was never meant to fill your lungs enough to inspire you write, create, and live a life full of your own poetry. The kind of artful living I like to think feeds and strengthens your soul, your mind, your heart, and your body.
The reason “at least” feels persuasive is that your mind is wired to cling to what is already in your hands.
Psychologists call this the endowment effect: once you own something, you assign it more value simply because it is yours.
That relationship you no longer want, the job that has outlived its promise, the house that no longer feels like home. You hold on to them not because they fit, but because they are already mapped into your story. To let them go feels like tearing away part of yourself.
Rationalisations grow out of that attachment. They give us a language to defend what is slowly draining us. You end up saying things like, At least this job pays the bills, or At least I am not alone.
These sentences soothe the anxiety of change but keep you circling the same cage. They make you feel sensible, even noble, while quietly taking away your ability to imagine anything more.
I caught myself reciting these lines like affirmations. The moment my heart and body felt restless, I reached for a shield made of gratitude or rationalisation. I said, Others have it worse. Be thankful. Or Be patient; it is not the right time to help yourself.
Gratitude is a powerful practice when it opens your eyes to the fullness of life. But when it is used to excuse a life that no longer fits, it morphs into guilt. Instead of freeing you, it convinces you that even wanting more is selfish.
This is why rationalisations are dangerous. They highlight certain virtues like stability, responsibility, gratitude, which, in their distorted form, become chains. Chains that keep you praising the bars of your cage while your deeper self suffocates inside.
Raphan
One way we betray ourselves is through the bargain of the “at least” mantra.
At least it pays the bills. At least I am not alone. At least I do not have to start over.
What have been the various “at least” you have used to justify staying?
