Everything is empty, and that’s freeing

Everything Is Empty—And That’s Freedom

In Western psychology and culture, emptiness is often viewed as a void to be dreaded—a hollow absence of meaning or purpose that signals something has gone wrong. In psychology, emptiness is usually associated with conditions like Borderline Personality Disorder, addiction, and depression. This pathologization of emptiness is not surprising in a tradition that emphasizes individual substance and essence, coupled with a modern culture that glorifies constant productivity and self-actualization. The hustle culture, in particular, treats any moment of “emptiness” as wasted time that should be filled with achievement or consumption. It denies the transformative potential of emptiness and reduces life to a relentless cycle of activity (see Byung-Chul Han’s Absence; Lasch’s The Culture of Narcissism).

In contrast to seeing it as a flaw, Buddhists define emptiness differently. In Buddhism, emptiness does not mean ‘nothing.’ It is not a negation of existence, as most might assume. Quite the opposite—once we can grasp its true meaning, emptiness becomes the very ground of possibility. In this letter, you are invited to reimagine emptiness not as something to be feared, but as a vital space for being and becoming.

Dependent Origination (緣起)

To grasp the wisdom and creative potential in this alternative view of emptiness, we must first understand the Buddhist concept of 緣起—often translated as “dependent origination.”

Dependent Origination (緣起), also known as Pratītyasamutpāda in Sanskrit, is one of the core tenets of Buddhist philosophy. It describes the interdependent nature of all phenomena. According to this principle, everything arises from a web of causes and conditions. Simply put, nothing exists in a vacuum, and there is no single, independent cause for anything; instead, every event, object, or experience is the result of a vast network of interdependent factors.

Let’s begin with a simple example: a tree. A seed cannot become a tree on its own. It must wait for multiple factors to align for its transformation to happen. The soil must be rich, the rain generous, the sunlight just right. Without this quiet conspiracy of elements, the seed remains dormant. This is the nature of reality—nothing arises in isolation. Everything depends on a web of connections, often invisible but always present.

Now consider something even more ordinary: a morning cup of coffee. It may feel like a ritual you have created out of your own agency, but through the lens of Dependent Origination, we see that many precious conditions must orchestrate themselves just for that one moment to exist. Your coffee beans were perhaps grown in distant lands, nurtured by farmers’ reliance on rain, sun, and fertile soil. They were harvested, transported, roasted, and packaged by thousands of people you do not know or see. The water for your coffee may have come from a reservoir miles away, relying on complex pipeworks and workers who maintain them. Even your desire for coffee is not purely your own but is shaped by your culture and life experiences. For you to be sitting there, at that very time, holding that cup of coffee, hundreds—if not thousands—of factors must align. What seems simple is anything but.

Our very existence—our thoughts, feelings, and experiences—are all subject to the principle of Dependent Origination. A moment of joy in our hearts does not arise randomly or exist as an intrinsic, permanent state. Perhaps we just had a meaningful interaction with a friend or received good news. Again, it all depends on countless other conditions stretching infinitely backward. For instance, the existence of your friend depended on their parents giving birth to them, raising them, and providing them with opportunities to grow into the person they are today. Many factors stretching across time and space must also align for you to meet and become friends.

Anger might feel sudden and sharp, triggered by a specific event, such as a harsh word from someone. But if you pause and reflect deeply, this moment of reactivity has roots that stretch far back into history—perhaps even across generations of trauma. It is rooted in how you have been treated and the ways you might have been hurt before. It is also shaped by your beliefs and expectations, by what society has taught you about fair or unfair, right or wrong. Instead of labeling yourself as “an angry person,” you can recognize that anger is nothing more than a transient response to certain conditions—conditions that are fluid and shifting. There is nothing inherent in you that makes anger a fixed part of your identity. This understanding invites not only greater kindness toward yourself but also a sense of freedom and possibility.

If we deeply penetrate the wisdom of Dependent Origination and see the world through that lens, we will also see that everything is “empty.” Empty not in the sense that nothing exists, but in the sense that nothing exists in a fixed, permanent, or rigid way. Everything is simply a transient phenomenon that exists because certain conditions have come together—the tree, the cup, your anger, and most importantly, you.

Emptiness is not a lack, but a liberation from the tyranny of essence, permanence, and self-sufficiency. It is a creative absence—the absence of substance, of fixed notions, of labels, of permanent names.

Ichigo Ichie

Now that we have seen what emptiness means according to Buddhist teachings, the question is: So what? How do we use that understanding to inform and change the way we live?

Perhaps, when we see that every moment is a unique convergence of countless factors that may never align again, our task is no longer to frantically fix things or strive for perfection. Instead, we are invited to lean in with a sharpened sense ofappreciation. Embracing emptiness does not strip life of meaning—it enriches it.

This understanding is beautifully captured by the Japanese concept of ichigo ichie (一期一会). Translated as “one time, one meeting,” it reminds us that every encounter, every moment, is utterly unique and unrepeatable. Waking up to this reality calls for our full attention to what is happening right here and right now. The morning exchange with your barista, the evening meal with family, the solitary walk under the trees—none of these moments are mundane. They are all once-in-a-lifetime experiences, never to be repeated. We become alert and awake not because the moment is flawless, but because we truly never step into the same river twice.

Illusion of Self

Now, we can also turn to another gift offered by this understanding of emptiness—the ability to let go of the illusion of the “self.” Just like everything else in existence, what we perceive as “I” is also empty. This means there is no fixed, unchanging, or permanent “I” at the center of our being. To put this in another way, we are nothing more than a fluid, ever-shifting composition of physical and mental processes, constantly in motion and never truly static.

At first, it might sound bleak, perhaps even nihilistic, to hear that the self is empty. Yet emptiness is not a void; it is an opening to something exciting.

When we cling to the illusion of a fixed self, we create suffering for ourselves and others. For one, the belief in a solid, independent self fuels a constant drive to protect and enhance what we consider as ‘me.’ We accumulate more and more possessions, believing they will add to our sense of self-worth and security. We become overly attached to others, hoping they will validate who ‘we’ are, or distract us from the existential emptiness. We chase achievements, hoping our curriculum vitae will tell the story of who we are. We even cling to ideas as if they were extensions of ourselves, defending them fiercely when challenged.

We attach to our identities—parent, partner, professional, artist—as though losing one of these roles would diminish our very being. We end up living in constant fear of losing things. When our seemingly solid ground is shaken, so is our sense of self and our entire meaning of life.

The belief in an independent self creates an exhausting cycle of craving and fear. We scramble to achieve things, to hold onto things, to control others’ reactions to us. We cling to fleeting emotions, grasping joy while pushing away sadness, as though these passing states could define who we are. This endless push and pull—grasping at what we want, avoiding what we fear—traps us in a cycle of craving and dissatisfaction.

Emptiness of self offers us a doorway to a different path. When we let go of the need to defend and define a fixed self, criticism no longer feels like an attack, failure no longer feels like a permanent stain, and loss no longer feels like the end of who we are. When we pierce through the illusion of self, we stop needing every moment to construct an identity or reinforce a narrative. We stop fearing change and instead learn to flow with it.

To live with this understanding is to live with a quiet reverence for life—something spiritual, something far larger than the ego. Life is no longer an object we must control or manage. It becomes something we cherish, observe, and hold gently, with humility and awe.

Embracing Both Wings

At the heart of Buddhist wisdom is the invitation to hold two pieces of wisdom simultaneously: to cherish every moment with our whole heart while remaining unattached. This is the essence of 緣起性空 (yuánqǐ xìngkōng)—the understanding that all things arise in dependence on one another (緣起), and by their nature, are empty of any fixed or intrinsic existence (性空).

Practicing this balance does not ask us to hold two contradictory ideas in tension. Instead, it points to a deeper truth: genuine appreciation becomes possible precisely because of impermanence and emptiness.

Consider how this understanding manifests in relationships. When we hold someone close while remembering that both their existence and ours are impermanent and ever-changing, our love becomes lighter, freer, and actually more real. We no longer bind them with expectations of who they should be, nor do we love them out of fear—fear of losing them, fear of being alone, or fear of change. Instead, we meet them as they are, in this moment, with all their imperfections and beauty. Far from making love feel nihilistic, a firm grasp of emptiness enriches it.

This perspective extends to the simple joys of life. We can fully immerse ourselves in a child’s laughter, a moment of connection, or the beauty of a sunset, while maintaining an inner spaciousness born from understanding that these experiences are like clouds in the sky: they come together briefly, as conditions align, and then dissipate.

At first, this impermanence may feel sad—how wonderful things do not last very long. But with practice, we learn to embrace the bittersweet truth of it all. This nuanced understanding helps us see reality as it is, rather than clinging to a fabricated, Disney-like illusion of permanence.

When we release the compulsion to cling to pleasant experiences or push away unpleasant ones, we uncover an inner resilience. True psychological freedom does not come from escaping life’s impermanence but from embracing it so completely that we can rest in the natural flow of change. The wisdom of emptiness does not pull us away from life—it immerses us more deeply in it. 

It shows us how to love fiercely while letting go gracefully, and how to engage fully while remaining free.

In practice, this might mean savoring a meal without lamenting the taste once it’s gone. It might mean loving our children with all our hearts while accepting that their paths will unfold beyond our control. It might mean dedicating ourselves to meaningful work while staying unattached to whether it succeeds or fails.

In this way, emptiness is not a void to fear but a liberation. It invites us to meet life with both tenderness and courage, knowing that while our time here is fleeting, it is also rich with potential. By embracing this truth, we do not fall into despair; instead, we uncover the ability to live more deeply, to love more fully, and to face life with the wisdom and compassion it calls for.

And here are a few more random pieces I’ve shared elsewhere on the world wide web. This month’s theme, for me, seems to revolve around impermanence and memento mori. Thank you for indulging me!

When I Stopped Holding My Breath Lately, what I have learned is this: I cannot suspend my life until the “dark patch” is over to live it fully. I cannot keep waiting for the stars to align for me to find my smile and breathe again. So, I will do the work I love, for as long as I can, even though I don’t know how long I can hold onto it. I will always be swimming in a sea of uncertainties. As mortal beings, we are always craving certainty. More, and then more, and it is never enough. We want to know our finances will hold, that taxes will get paid, that the numbers will add up. We want the nods of approval, to know our job will last for many more tomorrows. We want love to stay love, always honest, always anchored, always loyal. We want our friends to be the forever kind, to never blur into past tense when we blink. We want the map to remain the same — always intact, neighbors waving with friendliness, no new borders drawn while we sleep. We want our body to stay a silent, uncomplaining ally, that no hidden malignant cell is growing inside us. All those always and never we crave. They just grow like weeds. We suspend our life waiting for that ‘time’ to come — when the dark patch lifts, the letter arrives, the phone rings. We wait, and wait, for when we have everyone’s approval, what we grieve stops hurting, who we long for finally looks back. our bully at last releases us. We tell ourselves: “When this is over, I will breathe again.” But here is the truth: Craving certainty, while human, is dangerously addictive. The more answers we chase, the more fear we uncover. The more safety we seek, the more fragile life feels. We look for new ways to make the world secure, to make it predictable, to make it neat. Meanwhile, life does not wait. It keeps moving, messy and relentless, while we turn a blind eye to the truth that life is shifting under our feet. The reality is that there is no solid ground, only a flowing river. And as we know, no one steps into the same river twice. Our only way to be is to meet life as it is — fluid, unpredictable, and fleeting. Not to fix it, but to be with it. And yet, we resist. We find ways to deny our fragility, our impermanence. We distract ourselves with routines, bury ourselves in tasks. We cling to the illusion of control, hoping it will shield us from the truth we are too afraid to name: Our impending mortality. While we suspend our lives — our joy, our courage, our biggest smiles — waiting for certainty and answers life rushes past us. memento mori. Our end-date does not pause for us to tie up loose ends. Do we really have the luxury to ‘wait until’? Life does not pause for us to set the stage with our craving for control and perfection. It spills forward, untidy and relentless. So, Say what you mean. Scream as loud as you need to. Tell them you love them. Tell them you are upset. Laugh and cry as much as you need. Do the work you love. Make the art you make and screw perfection. Do it. Do it with the questions unanswered, with the weight still on your shoulders. Live now, because you just cannot afford to wait ‘until then’. And so, I, too, have decided I will breathe, act, love, and create — before the river carries me to its end. Life does not wait, and neither would I.

To Pick No Flowers “I will touch a hundred flowers and not pick one.” A line from Edna St. Vincent Millay that inspired me to write this. How profound. I wonder: what would it be like if we could all live like this? To touch without taking. To marvel without claiming. Those who feel intensely carry the pulse of the world deep in their bones. They laugh and cry with a ferocity that cannot be contained. And yet, they cannot help but feel a visceral ache of longing when they wake up to the truth: nothing they hold dear is theirs to keep. Their lovers, their bodies, their beloved creatures, their houses, their memories, even their own identities—everything is on loan and must someday be returned. Loss is inevitable. Time. Health. Certainty. People. Companion animals. Financial security. Political safety. Friends. Lovers. Trust between neighbors. Solidarity amongst nations. Of course, we want to hold on to these things. Of course, we want our plans for the future to hold steady. I am almost ashamed to admit how much my happiness lies solely in excitement and hope for the future. I tremble and crumble when the sense of certainty is taken away from me. My heart holds the wisdom that permanence was never real, yet my brain and weakened limbs say otherwise. So yes, of course, we want to hold on. But how often, in our yearning to fill the hollows within us, do we try to claim what is fleeting? We pluck beauty from its roots, fearing it will leave us. And the irony is this: in our grasping, we destroy the very thing we sought to preserve. From a young age, we are taught to plan for the future. To set goals. To chase milestones. We live as though life is a destination, something we will finally arrive at once we’ve done enough, achieved enough, become enough. And while dreaming and reaching can be joyous, when they become our sole source of meaning, they unleash a quiet violence upon life. What if the moment comes when we realize there may not be a “someday”? What if we are given the news that our plans will not hold?What if we are finally thrown into our situatedness on earth and realize the grand plans are mere mirages, and life is nothing but a fragile string of moments? When we are busy clinging to the clouded moon, we miss the sparkling stars. It takes years—years of practice. Years of being an intense and deeply feeling creature with a melancholic disposition.Years to master the art of loving without possession, of taking in joy without greed, of being present in the absence of permanence. Perhaps the most profound act of defiance in the face of mortality is to live fully without demanding more from life than it is giving. If we savor each moment, then even a short life can feel infinite.And even a long life can feel empty if we are always sprinting past it, chasing security for the future. I aspire to touch a hundred flowers and not pick one. To marvel at the colors of the wind and the bittersweetness of a kiss without demanding permanence. To make a vague plan but hold it loosely, without needing life to conform to my expectations. Perhaps this is what it means to be fully alive: To love without caging. To see without consuming. To live without clinging. To hold hope against despair. To accept that disappointment may rise like the morning sun,and let it be so. To sit with the stillness of an ordinary day,content without the need for joy to shout. To find solace in neutrality,to live without the compulsion to name every momentas good or bad, right or wrong. We have not been singled out for despair. We are not alone in the ache of watching a meteor vanish. Our vision may shatter,but something in us will always rebuild—until the day we cannot. And in this shared humanity, Perhaps we can be the gladdest thing under the sun.

And one more, for the International Women’s Day.

What Patriarchy Has Done to Love There is always a “he.” It usually starts with a father, then a teacher, maybe a football coach, a boyfriend. But “he” is also our society—a shadow that speaks through all of us. As for “me,” I can be a he, or a she,or a they. He says: I love you. But his love is shaped by the grip of internalized patriarchy. His love is a leash— a leash that chokes every time I breathe too deeply, grow too strong, speak my truth. I will always be that broken thing he needs to fix, the fragile thing his almighty pity saves. In his superiority, he will not see me. He calls me his girl, but never his equal. He calls me clever, but never wise. He calls it love, but there is no respect. Patriarchy lives in all of us— like a shadow we don’t always see. But I feel it in every glance, every word, every moment I am reduced to a broken bird that needs his cage. He is the judge, and I am the jester. Clearly, I wear too much laughter, too much rage, too much everything. “Too much,” he says. Too much drama, too many tears, too much hysteria, too much sensitivity, too much overreaction. But I have now learned what he really means: I am afraid of you. Afraid of your fire. Afraid of your strength. Afraid of your beauty. Afraid of your sexuality. Afraid of the way you refuse to fit inside the story he has written for you. In his fortress, my fullness is a flaw. My overflowing energy, a nuisance. My standing up for myself, a tantrum. He will always see my rage as “too much”— a muchness that needs to be trimmed. And every time I challenge, every time I explain, his walls grow thicker, and the violence between us grows like wildfire. So I stopped explaining. Stopped begging for him to see me. Stopped praying for the version of an ideal “him.” Let him. Let him have his version of me. Meanwhile,I gather my strength and walk away from the cage he calls love. Not out of hate, but because I love myself enough to let my wings stretch to their truest span. A Little Note* I know this piece might not resonate with everyone, but this is not about hating men or making villains out of anyone. While using “he,” this is not just about men. Patriarchy shapes all of us—regardless of gender—and these dynamics can exist in all types of relationships. This is about naming the shadows we all carry so we can better understand ourselves and each other.