Be careful how much you tolerate, because you are teaching others how to treat you. I learned this lesson the hard way. I’ve been giving of myself for as long as I can remember. I came from a broken home where my father was abusive, and this fostered an inferiority complex early on. This feeling of inadequacy grew into an overpowering need to be loved, especially by men. It suppressed my will to shine.

I am talented. I speak well, I write well. I used to paint and still sketch occasionally. I’m a good photographer, with a keen eye for style. People often come to me for fashion advice. I can orate. I am intelligent— and I am aware of how rare a quality that truly is. I am courageous. I’ve stood up to bullies, for as long as I can remember. I am a survivor, enduring my father’s regular abuse from the age of 13 to 19. I never show that I’m scared, even when I’m in the midst of an anxiety attack. Despite knowing I didn’t have to hide my fear, I did.

I haven’t succumbed to depression, though I came close. At 21, I was on the verge of taking my own life but stopped myself, realising that life isn’t just about one experience, one decision, or even today. I came out to my mum at 16, and by 19, my whole family knew. I was out and proud.

Human relationships became paramount in my life, and I placed a high value on abstractions like love and fidelity. I looked down on those who struggled with the pursuit of material ambition. I used to dismiss their drive for money, believing it paled in comparison to the importance of human connection. During my studies in English literature, I came across the famous lines in Paradise Lost, where Lucifer (Satan) declares in defiance:

“Better to reign in Hell, than serve in Heaven.”

This quote, from Book I, reflects Satan’s refusal to submit to God’s authority and his preference for ruling over his own domain, even if it meant enduring eternal damnation. His ambition and desire for power were central to his rebellion.

Over time, however, I stopped believing in God. I began to read what various religions had to say about ambition, because I was free from the tethering to one. Most theologies encourage ambition, but only when it’s rooted in moral, spiritual, or altruistic goals—serving others, improving oneself, or seeking knowledge. And, unchecked or self-centred ambition—linked to pride, greed, or ego—is frequently seen as a source of suffering, spiritual downfall, or ethical corruption. A balance of ambition with humility, selflessness, and alignment with higher principles is a common thread across these belief systems.

While ambition in both material and relational spheres can be noble, it is still bound by human limitations. No matter how altruistic the goal, human fallibility—whether one’s own or others’—can lead to suffering. The pursuit of meaningful relationships, like any other ambition, sometimes results in disillusionment.

This realisation led me to further reflection. If both material and relational pursuits are prone to failure, what remains? Perhaps this hints at the need for a broader acceptance of impermanence, acknowledging that all human endeavours—whether rooted in religion, ambition, or love—are inherently transient. The sense of abjection I’ve experienced after nearly 50 years of human interaction points towards the same fundamental truth found in spiritual teachings: that suffering arises from attachment. This time, however, the attachment wasn’t to material gain but to relationships themselves.

In this sense, the ideology I have developed may be evolving towards a philosophy where the emphasis is not just on ambition or relationships but on a broader equanimity. The wisdom lies in accepting that ambition—whether spiritual or secular, whether tied to relationships or success—is part of the human experience, but it is not its endpoint. Life’s impermanence flows through everything we pursue, and the challenge is to navigate ambition and relationships with care, knowing they too are temporary.

The trajectory of my life shifted from religious ambition to the pursuit of human connection, only to discover that even these relationships, which I once saw as the ultimate goal, are susceptible to profound loss. This ideology grapples with the limits of ambition in any form—religious or secular. The ultimate challenge seems to be finding peace in the space between striving and letting go. While the ambition to cultivate relationships is meaningful, it must also come with the understanding that even the best connections can be lost.

In the end, it is only the self that can truly be relied upon. Even though we need wider sustenance—whether in the form of money or love from the outside world—what we fold into ourselves remains ours. This, perhaps, is what I’ve learned. There is no right or wrong way to live. In the end, everything crashes and burns, only to build up again. And that’s life.