Arguing with a Columbia University Buddhist monk: When should we stop striving?
In the basement of St. Paul’s Chapel on Columbia University’s campus, I attended a meditation “sit.” Firm, circular red cushions arranged in a circle, Tibetan sound bowls ringing, the whole shebang. We began with a silent meditation, then had a discussion about our own relationships with Buddhist values. I resonated heavily with the vast majority of the monk’s ideas, such as being present, finding contentment with what you have, etc. He argued that there’s “no such thing as a bad meditation,” that peace is not the goal of meditation but a byproduct of it. I was following, nodding along excitedly. The statement sat deep in my chest: I’ve always treated peace as something to strive for, to achieve. But it truly is merely a byproduct of intentionality, health, and gratitude. Then, he began to make claims that completely conflicted with how I’ve been taught to think about growth, goals, and success. He stated that striving for anything is part of the problem — life is suffering, and trying to escape that suffering only creates more of it. Okay, okay, still following. But, it’s alright to strive to be a better person, right? Striving for money, success, and material items promotes suffering, but it’s alright to strive to be a better friend, partner, and student, right?
No, he stated. According to Buddhist teachings, striving for anything is selfish. I pressed. Is it wrong to want to become a better human, friend, or creator? Is it beautiful or twisted that I am proud to endure suffering if it makes me a kinder, better version of myself? Internally (and externally), I pushed back: Goals matter, and wanting more is part of being human.
Arguing with a respected monk at an Ivy League university, a man educationally and experientially more wise than I, wasn’t my classiest moment, and was honestly very telling of my American, capitalist, grind-culture upbringing. But, I figured a self-realized monk should be the best person to engage in my potentially naive, dramatic discourse: You surely don't mean applying that philosophy to all parts of life, right? We should still be striving to better ourselves and our relationships with others; we just must remove the picking-yourself-apart piece? But no, he said, in every aspect of life we should be able to exist exactly as we are happily, and to strive for anything more is ungrateful. I’ve always really resonated with Buddhist ways of thinking, but I was left questioning how applicable this kind of advice is for people facing circumstances far more urgent than my own. It feels a bit condescending, like saying: Hello, impoverished young women trying to survive a war on the other side of the world—have you tried being happy and grateful? That should solve it!
I've always been an advocate for confronting your belief systems and challenging every “truth” you’ve been taught about success, happiness, and way of life. I constantly push against the Western values I grew up with, but this feels too uncomfortable. Am I just giving into self-optimization culture? Yes, my points were a bit generalizing and hyperbolized, but they felt valid.
Ultimately, after embarrassing myself at least three times, we arrived at the same conclusion. His final claim was that when you cultivate awareness and an all-encompassing gratitude for who you are and what you have, qualities like kindness, patience, and creativity arise naturally. The moment we goalify growth, even when it’s meant to benefit others, it subtly becomes self-centered. For example, take the goal of becoming a better partner. You make a list of everything you need to fix about yourself, do well for a while, and then spiral into self-criticism when you inevitably mess up. I don’t deserve them. I’m the worst. In that moment, the focus shifts away from your partner and back onto your own shame.
Through a Buddhist way of thinking, the mind softens and quiets. You become more aware, more perceptive. You begin to notice the small ways they show up for you, the crinkle of their nose, the little freckles splattered across it. Soon, expressing gratitude feels effortless rather than forced and planned. When irritation arises, you pause, breathe, and let the impulse to lash out pass without acting on it. Simply through practicing awareness, becoming a better partner happens organically. And when you inevitably fall short, your response won’t be rooted in self-crucifixion, but in acceptance. However, we still must tread carefully, as radical self-acceptance is never an excuse for bad behavior. But, when applied with intentionality, it works!
I now realize that the monk wasn’t asking me to stop caring, or to abandon growth altogether. I think he was asking me to loosen my grip on becoming. Impermanence means that nothing I am chasing will stay fixed: not success, not failure, not even the version of myself I’m trying so hard to improve. My striving for more has always been rooted in a perceived lack, from the belief that I am not enough as I am, and this is the kind of suffering Buddhist ideology suggests abandoning.
In our Western society, so driven by success, we need attention to replace ambition. We so often see violence as proof — scars splattered across our bodies as marks of our deservance and heartache, adversity as confirmation of our success. However, through this new lens, we see that growth and achievement can be rooted in peace and awareness rather than competition and ferocity. Rather than questioning the monk and nearly insulting an entire belief system, I should’ve looked inward and asked why we strive in the first place. If we can learn to exist fully in who we are right now, without turning ourselves into a project to be fixed, then whatever change comes next won’t be forced.
Westernization is still tattooed on the folds of my brain, a tendency to strive still strong in my synapses, and I don’t think that instinct should be thrown out entirely. I think there is value in the suffering of striving, and it is vital to undergo a few internal battles to arrive at a more fleshed-out version of ourselves. I still see the value and beauty in clawing through adversity to reach your goals, but these truths are not mutually exclusive. The moment we stop trying to become is the moment we will naturally arrive at ourselves.
