We live in a world where everything appears solid. Houses stand firm, names are etched in stone, and people speak as though their positions, identities, and beliefs are set in concrete. But physics, philosophy, and personal experience all point to a deeper truth: nothing is solid. Nothing is permanent.
Modern science has stripped away many of our comforting illusions. Atoms, once thought to be tiny building blocks, are mostly empty space, their components flickering in and out of existence. Time bends. Particles jump unpredictably. What looks stable is actually in motion—changing, vibrating, decaying.
And yet, most of us live as though things will stay just as they are. We ignore what science and physics have taught us and pretend.
We plan, we accumulate, we define ourselves through roles, possessions, opinions. We fear change, and cling to certainty—even when it hurts us. Why?
Some of it is practical. Our biology is built for survival, not truth. Predictability helps us function. The illusion of permanence gives us a kind of mental foothold in a fast-flowing river. But there’s more to it than that.
We’re afraid. Afraid of loss, of death, of meaninglessness. Afraid that if everything changes, then nothing matters. So we tell ourselves stories. Stories about forever. About permanence. About control.
And into that fear step those who promise safety. Leaders, ideologies, systems—offering to take the burden of uncertainty off our shoulders. “Follow me,” they say, “and I’ll protect you from the chaos.”
But if we look more closely, it becomes painfully clear: power is only ever given. Those who seem to have control over others are only empowered because the rest of us accept the story they tell. We trade our freedom for their promises. We allow the illusion to harden into a structure.
There’s no real control—only agreement. And often, it’s agreement with something that doesn’t serve us at all.
This fear-based resistance to impermanence is the source of so much suffering. Grasping at what must pass. Resisting what must come. Hoping life will sit still for us when its very nature is movement.
Buddhism calls this clinging the root of suffering. The Stoics call it false expectation. Taoists say, simply, that to fight the flow is to lose one’s harmony with life. Modern psychology has its own terms, but the message is the same: peace comes not from holding on, but from letting go.
There’s great freedom in this—not nihilism, but clarity. When we stop pretending that anything outside of us is permanent, we begin to look within for what is. And here, I’ve found something worth sharing.
There is, within each of us, a place untouched by change. Not a belief. Not a theory. A feeling. A presence. Call it peace, call it being, call it home. Call it me. Whatever the name, it is something you can feel, now—not someday, not when everything is “sorted,” but right here, in this breath.
Teachers like Prem Rawat speak to this with simplicity and warmth. He reminds us that the only thing that doesn’t change is this moment, lived fully. That the peace we seek isn’t out there in the shifting world, but already within us, waiting to be felt.
When I touch that place in myself, the fear of change fades. I can love more easily, because I no longer need guarantees. I can grieve without being destroyed. I can live without being trapped in the illusion that life will wait for me to be ready.
The truth is, life isn’t a thing to hold on to. It’s a wave to ride. A breath to feel. A gift to receive.
And perhaps the most beautiful thing is this: once we stop insisting on permanence, we can finally begin to appreciate things as they are—precious precisely because they are passing.
Comments powered by CComment