"Choosing to Be Better: When Ancient Survival Instinct Meets the Free Will to Grow"

Introduction: Our Long Pursuit of Happiness

It was a late autumn night, with a perfectly crisp coolness in the air. My old friend Changyuan and I met at a quiet bar with a river view. The bustling city beneath us transformed into a silent, shimmering galaxy of lights. We talked about many things, from the ideals of our youth to the trivialities of the present. After a few rounds of drinks, the weary look on his face, usually adorned with a polite smile, gradually became unmistakable.

He leaned back on the sofa, letting out a long sigh as if shedding a thousand pounds of burden. He turned to look at the illusory splendor outside the window, his voice tinged with a confusion I had never heard before: “What is all this for, anyway?”

I knew his story. In the eyes of others, Changyuan was a quintessential “winner in life.” Graduating from a prestigious university, he carved out a successful career in a big city, owning his own company, a warm family, a car, and a house. His social media feed was always filled with enviable updates: newly signed big deals, family trips, his children’s excellent report cards. He was like a precise machine, constantly climbing upward, never faltering.

“I seem to have everything,” he swirled the amber liquid in his glass, the ice cubes clinking softly, “but I don’t feel like anything truly belongs to me. Every morning I wake up, not by some damn dream, but by an alarm bell. That sound keeps ringing—‘You’re falling behind, you’re being left behind.’”

He paused, his eyes hollow: “I ran desperately, thinking the finish line was ahead, but after climbing one hill, I found there were higher ones. I didn’t even dare to stop and ask myself if I really liked climbing mountains. I was just afraid, afraid that once I stopped, I would be engulfed by the crowd behind me.”

Changyuan’s story, like a needle, precisely pricked the pain point of our era. We seem to be in an infinite game, with vague rules and a distant finish line, yet everyone is running frantically, fearing elimination.

A few years ago, the country of Bhutan suddenly captured public attention. This small nation nestled in the southern Himalayas, despite its modest material conditions, was crowned with the reputation of having the “highest global happiness index.” Overnight, it became a “Shangri-La” in many people’s minds. I don’t want to portray Bhutan as a utopian paradise untouched by worldly concerns; in fact, I know it also faces various challenges brought by modernization. But its existence is more like a brightly polished mirror handed to us.

On one side of the mirror is a relatively simple material life and the clear, unadulterated smiles on people’s faces. On the other side is our world of unprecedented material abundance, where the glass curtain walls of skyscrapers reflect hurried, anxious faces.

This mirror mercilessly reveals a huge paradox and asks each of us: Are we so eagerly striving for happiness itself? Or are we merely chasing the illusion of “appearing happier than others”?

This question was most vividly expressed a few years ago in an article that went viral, “Your Peers Are Abandoning You.” This article acted like a potent anxiety catalyst, injected precisely into the veins of every urban dweller. Subsequently, various sarcastic memes emerged:

“Puyi ascended the throne at 3, your peers are abandoning you.” “Xiang Yu led an uprising at 24, your peers are abandoning you.” “Bill Gates is worth hundreds of billions at 60, your peers are abandoning you.”

Behind these seemingly jocular words lies a collective, deep-seated helplessness. We know it’s absurd, yet we can’t help but identify with it. We are pushed onto an endless comparison arena by an invisible hand. We compare grades, positions, salaries, house sizes, and even whose children are more outstanding, whose vacation looks more enjoyable.

The ironic twist of this competition is that there are no winners. Because no matter how high a mountain you stand on, there will always be a higher peak shimmering in the clouds. Consequently, inner peace and joy are consumed in this never-ending pursuit.

Tonight, Changyuan’s monologue, and the weariness of thousands of silent “Changyuans” behind it, made me feel it necessary to embark on a deep internal exploration. Can we find a path to freedom from this “comparison” destiny, doubly set by genes and society, from which we cannot escape?

The answer might be hidden behind that fundamental question: What exactly is that invisible hand that pushes us onto the playing field?

Part One: The Invisible Arena: Why We Can’t Help Ourselves

Chapter One: The Ancient Echo of Survival: The “Comparison” Program in Our Blood

To understand why we cannot help but participate in this invisible competition, we might need to shift our gaze from the bustling city back to the ancient wilderness, to listen to that faint but unceasing echo from the depths of our bloodline.

I once heard a story, repeatedly cited, that serves as a stark parable revealing the most primal aspect of human nature.

Two friends were hiking deep in the forest, enjoying the tranquility of nature. Suddenly, a hungry beast appeared before them, letting out a low growl. The shadow of death instantly enveloped them. In the silent terror, one of them did not choose to flee but quickly pulled out a pair of lightweight running shoes from his backpack and calmly began to change them.

His companion looked at him in despair, his voice trembling, “Are you crazy? Even with new shoes, you can’t outrun this beast!”

The friend, tying his shoelaces, replied without looking up, “I don’t need to outrun it. I just need to outrun you.”

Every time I recall this story, a chill runs down my spine. It is too direct, even cruel, because it nakedly tears off the veneer of civilization, showing us the most primitive self, running for survival. We are accustomed to judging the “selfishness” of the person changing shoes in the story with morality and reason, but if we zoom out to the millions of years of evolutionary history, we might come to a different conclusion.

In that era of food scarcity and constant danger, survival was the only theme. What kind of individual was more likely to pass on their genes?

The answer is: those who were better at “comparing.”

Imagine two primitive tribes. Members of one tribe are content with the status quo; their stone spears are sharp enough, and their caves are warm enough. Members of the other tribe, however, are constantly comparing: “Loyong’s stone spear seems sharper than mine; I should learn from him, or do better than him”; “Kabu’s cave is higher up, less likely to be found by wild beasts; we should look for a similar place.”

When a harsh winter or a fierce saber-toothed tiger arrived, which tribe had a higher chance of survival? The answer is self-evident.

The act of “comparison” is not a vice we acquire later in life; it is very likely a survival program meticulously coded by natural selection and embedded deep within our genes. It acts like an always-on background warning system, constantly scanning the environment and issuing commands:

“Your companion is stronger than you, meaning you might lose when competing for food.” “That group’s weapons are more advanced than ours, meaning we might be annihilated if conflict breaks out.” “Their territory is more fertile, meaning our offspring might not get enough nutrition.”

In an era where “survival” trumped everything, this program was our most loyal ally. It kept us vigilant, driving us to imitate, improve, and compete. It was this ceaseless comparison that propelled our ancestors from living on raw meat to cultivating land, eventually igniting the torch of civilization. One could say that without this built-in “comparison” program, humanity might have long been eliminated by the brutal hand of natural selection.

However, the problem lies precisely here.

As we rode the express train of civilization into the information age at a dizzying speed, the iteration rate of our hardware (body and genes) lagged far behind the update speed of our software (society and culture). We are using physiological and psychological configurations designed millions of years ago for “survival mode” to run an extremely complex “life mode” application.

This has led to a profound, system-level “incompatibility.”

In ancient times, outrunning a companion meant you would survive. Today, seeing a peer buy a bigger house on social media, your body will still honestly secrete stress hormones similar to those for a “survival threat,” and your brain will still sound the alarm of “you’re falling behind.” But in reality, this will not leave you homeless tonight.

In tribal times, getting more meat than others was a guarantee of survival. Today, seeing a colleague receive a higher bonus, that primal fear of “resource deprivation” deep within you will still be activated, causing anxiety and injustice. But in reality, your basic needs are already met.

That ancient program, which once protected us and allowed us to survive, has become a constantly misfiring alarm in the new era. It is no longer an ally but rather a bug that continuously creates anxiety and internal friction. We no longer compare to survive, yet we cannot escape the pain that comparison brings. We are like soldiers who have reached a safe harbor but cannot turn off the wartime alarm, tormented day in and day out by the piercing noise.

Recognizing this is not to find a fatalistic excuse for our anxiety. On the contrary, it is the first step towards liberation. When you can clearly see that ancient program working day and night within you, you gain a valuable “awareness.” You begin to understand that the anxiety and pressure arising from comparison are not personal character flaws, nor proof that you are not working hard enough or are not good enough, but merely… the automatic execution of an old code.

You are not that code. You are the one who can observe the code running. And when you can observe it, you have the freedom to choose whether or not to be controlled by it.

Chapter Two: The Double-Edged Dagger: The Poison of Envy and the Ladder of Admiration

When that ancient “comparison” program activates within us, it gives rise to two seemingly similar yet fundamentally different emotions. These two emotions, like the two sirens guarding the straits in Homer’s Odyssey, lure passing ships towards vastly different fates.

They are twin sisters, both stemming from the psychological gap of “seeing what he has and what I don’t.” But one leads you to the abyss of destruction; the other builds a ladder for you to reach higher ground.

These are envy and admiration.

The Chinese character “比” (bǐ), meaning “to compare,” in its oracle bone script form, resembles two daggers placed side by side. This imagery is terrifyingly precise. When we activate the heart of comparison, we are essentially drawing out these two daggers simultaneously. One stabs at others, full of hostility and coldness; the other stabs deeper into ourselves, bringing endless anxiety and self-doubt.

I know a senior colleague, Old Wei, whose life was a typical example of being dragged into a quagmire by the dagger of “envy.” Old Wei was an extremely intelligent person, who thrived in a technical field in his early years. His company was once a star in the industry. However, the market changed rapidly, and a rising competitor, with a more flexible business model, quickly emerged and seized a significant portion of Old Wei’s market share.

From then on, the Old Wei I knew changed.

In the past, when discussing industry trends, his eyes held a hunter’s keenness and excitement. But later, whenever that competitor was mentioned, his eyes would turn gloomy, and the corners of his mouth would unconsciously droop. He no longer spent time studying the opponent’s strengths but became obsessed with finding their “dirt.” He would vividly recount rumors about the competitor’s founder at dinner parties and subtly hint at data fraud at industry conferences.

Initially, we all thought this was just standard business competition. But gradually, things spiraled out of control. He began to invest a large amount of company resources into meaningless malicious public relations, even spending heavily to poach non-core employees of the competitor, just to dig for irrelevant internal information. His company, like a provoked bull, no longer focused on plowing but, with bloodshot eyes, frantically dug up the field, only wanting to overturn the other bull.

The result was predictable. The rising competitor, after a brief period of trouble, managed to rally more users with its excellent products and clear strategy. Old Wei’s company, however, due to strategic deviation and misallocation of resources, missed several critical technological transformation periods and was eventually marginalized in the market torrent. The last time I saw him was in a corner of an industry forum; he looked much older than his peers, and the light in his eyes had extinguished.

Envy is such a poison. It makes you see not others’ excellence but your own inadequacy. It does not motivate you to create but incites you to destroy. It diverts your precious energy from the path of “how to make myself better” to the dead end of “how to prove others are actually bad.” In the end, the dagger aimed at others might only graze their skin, while the dagger aimed at yourself has already penetrated deep into your bones.

However, the other side of comparison, “admiration,” can demonstrate a completely different power.

I recall another friend of mine, Lin Lin. When she first started, she was an ordinary designer at an advertising agency. In her team, there was a very talented creative director, almost all award-winning works came from him. For a newcomer like Lin Lin, that director was like an unreachable mountain.

Lin Lin also felt immense pressure and frustration. But she didn’t let this emotion fester into envy. She did something very clever: she collected all of the director’s works, created a folder, and named it “High Mountain.” She didn’t envy the height of the mountain but began to study its “geological structure.”

She would analyze the director’s award-winning proposals one by one, pondering where his creativity came from, why his color schemes were so bold, and what special arrangements his compositions had. She even tried to redo the director’s classic cases in her own way. After work, she would pluck up the courage to bring her practice pieces to the director for advice. She would say, “Director, I particularly admire the light and shadow treatment in this work of yours. I tried to imitate it, but it always feels like something is missing. Could you give me some pointers?”

You rarely hear of anyone refusing such a sincere “admirer.”

In this way, Lin Lin transformed that desire of “I want to be that good too” into a solid, actionable learning plan. She broke down that unreachable high mountain into climbable steps. Years later, Lin Lin had long left that company and became the chief designer for another renowned agency, developing her unique style. When she spoke of that director, her tone was still full of gratitude: “He showed me the view from the mountaintop and made me believe that I, too, could have my own climbing path.”

Admiration is such a ladder to higher ground. It acknowledges the gap but doesn’t wallow in self-pity; it appreciates the light of others and uses it to ignite its own torch. It makes us believe that others’ excellence is not to highlight our inadequacy but to show us how vast the possibilities of life can be.

It seems the answer is already clear: we should put down the poison of “envy” and pick up the tool of “admiration,” striving to build our own taller buildings, shouldn’t we?

This is indeed a huge step forward, an effective strategy that can make our lives more positive. It can save us from the quagmire of internal friction and set us on the path of self-improvement.

But is this truly the ultimate answer?

When we exert all our strength and finally build a building as tall as, or even taller than, others’, will we truly achieve lasting inner peace? Or will we immediately see another higher building in the distance and continue to throw ourselves into the next, more exhausting construction?

We would merely transform from an irritable player into a more civilized, diligent, but equally bound-by-the-rules player. We would still be on the playing field, just running with a more graceful posture.

If our inner peace still relies on “catching up” or “surpassing” others, then will this peace not be like a sandcastle built on the beach, beautiful to look at but unable to withstand the next tide’s impact?

Perhaps true freedom does not lie in winning this competition. But in whether we have the courage to question the competition itself.

Part Two: The Source of Value: Why Do I Care So Much?

Chapter Three: The Inner Climate: The “Innate Wind” and “Acquired Rain” of Energy

To understand why we are so sensitive to “comparison,” why the poison of envy is so damaging, and the ladder of admiration so alluring, we must shift our exploration from external behaviors to our inner world.

Our inner self is like a vast wilderness, with its own climate system. Sometimes the sky is clear, and the breeze is gentle; even if the body is tired, the heart is full of strength. Other times, clouds loom, and the wind is bitter; even if nothing is done, there is an inexplicable sense of fatigue and depletion. This inner feeling, I prefer to call “psychological energy,” or, using a more Eastern term, “inner vital qi.”

I know a very interesting Traditional Chinese Medicine (TCM) friend who once took my pulse and told me that my physical foundation was “innately deficient,” requiring careful nourishment through diet and routine to supplement the “innate deficiency” with “acquired qi.” It was then that I realized that a person’s vitality is determined by these two forces combined.

This theory gave me great inspiration. If the body is like this, is the mind the same? Can our “inner vital qi” also be divided into “innate wind” and “acquired rain”?

Each of us comes into this world with a blank slate psychologically. And our original family, especially parents or important caregivers, are the first to draw on this blank slate. Their unintentional words, inadvertent glances, and ways of handling problems are like gusts of wind, shaping the initial landscape of our inner world. This is what I call the “innate wind”—it is not genetic in a biological sense but refers to the environmental factors in the early stages of our personality formation that we had no choice over.

I have two friends whose stories are the most vivid annotations to this model.

Let’s call him Gu Yuan. Gu Yuan is one of the most psychologically energetic people I know. He has not been without failures; on the contrary, his entrepreneurial journey has been full of twists and turns. But he has an astonishing “resilience”; no matter how hard he falls, he always gets up quickly, dusts himself off, and says with a smile, “It’s okay, consider it tuition.” He has an almost naive optimism and confidence, as if in his world, the words “I can’t do it” don’t exist.

I once curiously asked him about the source of this courage. He told me a story from his childhood. In elementary school, he once messed up a science competition; the small car he made with building blocks and a motor fell apart in front of everyone. He cried all the way home, expecting a scolding. Unexpectedly, his father didn’t say a word of blame but hugged him and said, “Oh, the way this car fell apart is cooler than when it was running! Like a Transformer exploding! Come on, tell Dad, how did you originally want it to transform?”

Gu Yuan said that from that moment, he vaguely understood something: making mistakes and failing would not make him lose his family’s love. His value was not attached to any single success or failure.

This warm and firm “innate wind” from childhood blew through his growth. It shaped his inner climate, giving him a warm haven even when he encountered storms in adulthood. His “inner vital qi” was abundant; he dared to try, dared to make mistakes, because deep down, a firm voice told him: “No matter what, you are valuable.”

And my other friend, Wen Jing, was a completely different picture. Wen Jing was the kind of particularly kind, particularly hardworking, and particularly “sensible” girl. At work, she always completed her tasks perfectly, but you rarely saw a sense of ease in her. She was like a constantly taut string, extremely sensitive to others’ evaluations. A casual remark from her boss, “Could this proposal be done faster?”, could make her ponder all day, repeatedly reviewing whether she had done something wrong.

Wen Jing’s childhood was spent in an atmosphere of “comparison.” Her parents didn’t not love her, but they were accustomed to educating her with a kind of “motivation.” “Look at Jiaming next door, he got first place again this time, you should learn from him.” “Your cousin plays the piano so well, why are you so untalented?” These words, like gusts of cold “innate wind,” blew into her young heart.

The message brought by this wind was: you are not good enough as you are; you need to be better than others to prove your worth and earn your parents’ approval and love.

Thus, she grew into someone who constantly needed to seek external validation to “recharge” herself. Others’ praise was her brief sunshine; others’ criticism was a blizzard in her heart. Her “inner vital qi” was scarce, like a leaky ball, requiring external input to barely maintain its fullness. She lived a very tiring life because her joys and sorrows were not in her own hands.

The stories of Gu Yuan and Wen Jing clearly show us that “self-worth,” this seemingly abstract psychological term, is actually the core regulatory system of our inner climate. A person with high self-worth is like having a powerful internal thermostat; external temperature changes rarely fundamentally affect them. A person with low self-worth, however, is like a drafty house; any slight disturbance from the outside will stir up a cold current within them.

Understanding this allows us to truly grasp why, when faced with “comparison,” some can turn it into motivation, while others are dragged into an abyss. Because this is not just a matter of mindset or choice, but a direct reflection of whether our inner “vital qi” is sufficient. It is difficult for someone who is already starving to ponder advanced cooking techniques.

So, for those who, like Wen Jing, did not receive enough nourishment in the “innate wind,” are they destined to live their lives in this sense of scarcity?

Of course not. Because in addition to the “innate wind,” in the wilderness of our lives, there is also the “acquired rain” that we can choose as adults. This rain, though unable to change the direction of the wind, can gently and persistently change the texture of the soil.

Chapter Four: Barking Up the Wrong Tree: The Demands Behind Sacrifice

Before discussing how to nourish our inner land with “acquired rain,” we must first distinguish a method of irrigation that appears to be “sweet dew” but is actually “poison.”

This method is “sacrifice.”

In our cultural context, “sacrifice” is a highly romanticized word. It is tightly bound with greatness, selflessness, and devotion, gleaming with a moral halo. However, if we peel back this glossy exterior and examine the frequent “self-sacrifice” dramas played out in intimate relationships, we often find a cold, calculating ledger hidden behind the tragic spectacle.

I once met a client whose story reminded me of the protagonist in the popular TV series The First Half of My Life from years ago. Let’s call her Sophie. Sophie graduated from a prestigious university and once had a brilliant career in a foreign company. But when she got married, her husband tenderly told her, “You don’t have to work so hard, I’ll support you.”

It was this tempting promise that led Sophie to abandon her career and pride, choosing to become a full-time housewife. She dedicated all her time and energy to this family. She kept the house in perfect order, took meticulous care of the children, remembered every family member’s birthday, and carefully prepared gifts. She gave up her social circle, alienated former colleagues and friends. In her own eyes and everyone else’s, she made a huge sacrifice for this family.

However, she did not find the happiness she anticipated.

As her husband’s career prospered, their common language dwindled. Her husband discussed industry trends at parties that she didn’t understand, while she could only share her children’s report cards and the new curtain colors. She became increasingly anxious, like a constantly alert radar, catching any suspicious signals from her husband: late-night engagements, unfamiliar perfume, vague phone calls.

Her sacrifice did not bring more love and security; instead, it bred endless grievances and resentment. During one heated argument, she cried out to her husband, “I gave up everything for you, for this family! How can you be so nonchalant?”

She thought this tearful accusation would elicit guilt and pity from her husband. But what she received was his tired and indifferent reply: “But… I never forced you to do any of that.”

At that moment, Sophie’s world collapsed. She couldn’t understand why her seemingly “selfless” devotion resulted in such an outcome.

Sophie’s predicament reveals a cruel truth: in intimate relationships, sacrifice is often barking up the wrong tree. You think you’re chopping wood, but you’re climbing a tree that bears no fruit.

Virginia Satir, a renowned American family therapist, proposed the famous “Iceberg Theory.” She likened a person’s inner self to an iceberg floating on the sea; what we see is only the small tip above the water, called “behavior.” Below the surface, a massive bulk is hidden—our feelings, perceptions, expectations, yearnings, and the deepest “self.”

If we use the Iceberg Theory to analyze Sophie’s “sacrifice” behavior, what would we see?

Above the surface, her behavior was “giving up her career for the family.” This is a seemingly noble and devoted act.

But diving beneath the surface, we see her immense, unmet expectations and yearnings. She yearned to exchange this “sacrifice” for her husband’s eternal love, absolute loyalty, and the highest recognition of her value in the relationship. She gave up her career not just as a job but as her most precious “chip” in the marriage gamble. She wagered her youth and future, hoping to win back her partner’s lifelong “debt of gratitude” and the emotional dependence it would bring.

When she cried, “I gave up everything for you,” the unspoken subtext was, “Therefore, you must love me with all your being, you must feel guilty towards me, and you must never leave me.”

Is this not a form of demanding? A kind of emotional blackmail disguised as “for your own good.” This connects seamlessly with the problem of “low self-worth” we discussed earlier.

It is precisely because a person deep down does not believe they are inherently worthy of love that they try to use “sacrifice”—a dramatic, almost unrefusable moral stance—to gain bargaining chips for love. She dares not directly voice her needs—“I need your attention,” “I’m afraid you’ll abandon me,” “I hope you love me as much as I love you.” Because she fears rejection, fears her needs will seem trivial to the other person. So, she chooses a more circuitous, and ultimately more destructive, path: she first makes herself a “saint,” a “martyr,” and then, from a moral high ground, makes the other person unable to leave due to “indebtedness.”

What a tragic case of barking up the wrong tree. It ultimately does not bring love, only a sense of suffocation. The sacrificer becomes unrecognizable in daily repression, while the sacrificed, under the heavy moral shackles, only wishes to escape.

In stark contrast to this “sacrificial” selfishness is a “healthy selfishness.”

I know a couple whose relationship model seems “unconventional” to many. The husband is an introverted technical expert who loves to delve into code and models; the wife is outgoing and ambitious, a strong entrepreneur. In their home, it’s “husband manages inside, wife manages outside.” The husband takes on more childcare and household responsibilities, while the wife battles it out in the outside world.

Their choices drew considerable criticism from neighbors. Many, especially older family members, accused the wife of being “too selfish,” saying she “lacked any spirit of sacrifice, not like a good mother.”

At a gathering once, I half-jokingly asked her how she viewed these comments. She smiled and very candidly told me, “If I truly gave up my career to cater to others’ expectations and became a full-time homemaker, that would be the most selfish thing I could do for this family.”

I asked her to explain. She said, “My passion and sense of worth are built on my career. If I forced myself to give it up, I wouldn’t become a gentle and virtuous wife; I would only become a resentful ‘bitter woman.’ I would feel the whole world owed me, and I would unconsciously vent this resentment on my husband and children. At that point, our home would never know peace. Now, I do what I love, my heart is full and happy, and I bring this positive energy home. My husband also supports me because he knows that a happy wife is more important than a ‘correct’ wife. We simply chose the way that best suits both of us, allowing us both to feel comfortable and fulfilled.”

Her words showed me the profound wisdom behind “healthy selfishness.” It’s not selfishness that disregards others, but an attitude of complete responsibility for one’s own life and emotional state. It is based on the premise that “I must first become a person with a rich inner life.” Because only when one is full can one truly pour out genuine, unconditional love and care.

A bird that plucks all its feathers cannot bring warmth to another bird. A person who empties themselves cannot truly nourish others.

Therefore, on the path to inner peace, we must be wary of the seemingly noble “sacrifice” trap. It is often a disguise for low self-worth, a dead end leading to mutual depletion. True nourishment comes from an equal, mutually respectful giving. It comes from daring to face and honestly express our needs, rather than blackmailing others for satisfaction by playing the “victim.”

Only when we learn to take responsibility for our own state of being and stop “barking up the wrong tree” with sacrifice can we clear a clean, healthy soil for the “acquired rain” to fall.

Chapter Five: Energy Account: Where Does Your “Exhaustion” Come From?

In our inner world, there exists an invisible “psychological energy account.” The balance of this account directly determines our state of life—whether we are vibrant and energetic, or listless and mentally drained.

For those with insufficient “innate qi” and lower self-worth, this account operates particularly fragilely. They are like a company that is highly dependent on external investment to maintain operations, with weak internal “blood-making” capabilities. The profit and loss of the account completely depend on whether external “funds”—the affirmation, praise, appreciation, and recognition of others—arrive on time.

Regarding this, I heard a story from a senior mentor that left an indelible mark on him. This story perfectly illustrates this reliance on external nourishment and its potential huge risks.

This mentor, let’s call him Commander Huang. Commander Huang has been working in the field of psychological training for many years, known for his highly engaging teaching style. He loves the stage, enjoying the process of imparting knowledge and energy to students and receiving their enthusiastic responses. A four-day, three-night course, standing for over thirty hours, was commonplace for him. However, most of the time, when the course ended, the room erupted in applause, and students gathered around him to share their insights and gratitude, he not only felt no fatigue but was energized, as if freshly recharged, vibrant and spirited.

He said that feeling was like being at the center of an energy vortex. He gave out knowledge and effort, but from the sparkling eyes, frequent nods, and sincere hugs and thanks from the students after the course, he received ten, even a hundred times the energy back. His “energy account” in this transaction yielded a huge profit.

However, one lecturing experience in Malaysia nearly “bankrupted” him.

He was invited to teach a course on organizational psychology to a group of Chinese entrepreneurs there. As usual, he prepared engaging case studies and interactive sessions, and began his presentation with full immersion. But he quickly noticed that the atmosphere in the audience was completely different from what he was accustomed to.

The students were all very attentive, each listening and taking notes diligently. But their faces showed little expression. Unlike students in China, they wouldn’t burst into enthusiastic applause at exciting points, wouldn’t actively raise their hands during interactive sessions, and certainly wouldn’t gather around him to chat during breaks. The entire classroom was quiet, reserved, orderly, like a solemn academic lecture.

Commander Huang initially thought his course content wasn’t engaging enough, so he worked even harder to liven up the atmosphere, telling his favorite jokes and sharing his most moving stories. But the audience’s reaction remained polite and distantly calm.

The four-day, three-night course ended in this almost “feedback-less” state. When Commander Huang finished his last sentence, there was polite, not overly enthusiastic, applause. Students quietly packed their things and left silently; no one stayed behind to talk to him as usual.

At that moment, Commander Huang said he felt an unprecedented “exhaustion.” It wasn’t physical fatigue but a feeling of being completely drained from the inside out. He was alone in the empty lecture hall, feeling like a robot with depleted batteries, unable to lift a finger. After returning to the hotel, he even fell seriously ill.

Why did the same amount of effort yield such vastly different results?

Later, Commander Huang gradually understood after talking with local friends that it wasn’t that his course was unpopular, but rather due to cultural differences. Malaysian Chinese culture, deeply influenced by traditional Chinese Confucian thought, is generally more reserved and subtle, unaccustomed to expressing strong emotions and praise in public. The students’ attentiveness was their highest form of expressing recognition.

But for Commander Huang at the time, his inner “energy account” heavily relied on “enthusiastic feedback” as an external, immediate “cash injection.” His mind had already scripted a familiar “play” for this course: I give -> students give enthusiastic responses -> I gain energy and satisfaction.

However, in Malaysia, the “actors” in the audience did not follow his script. When his most relied-upon energy source was cut off, his account was left with continuous “expenditure” and no “income.” After four days, this account was naturally “emptied.”

This story profoundly reveals that the true source of that feeling of “exhaustion” may not be the depletion of energy, but rather the “unmet expectation” within, which acts like a sudden black hole, instantly sucking away all our vitality. We feel “emptied” not always because others have consumed us, but more often because our own ravenous craving for external validation consumes us.

The lower a person’s self-worth, the stronger their reliance on this external nourishment. Their emotions, their energy levels, their self-perception are all built on such a fragile lifeline. When this lifeline is carelessly held in the hands of others, how can they achieve true, stable happiness?

Recognizing this brings us to a crucial crossroads on the path to healing. We must answer a core question: How can we transform from a “trading company” dependent on external investment to an “entity enterprise” with strong internal “blood-making” capabilities? How can we learn to sow, water, and fertilize in our own inner world, ultimately ushering in an “acquired rain” that nourishes the roots of our lives?

Part Three: Inner Alchemy: From Passive Reaction to Active Creation

Chapter Six: The First Good Medicine: From the Quagmire of Envy to the Ladder of Admiration

When we clearly see how our inner “energy account” operates and desire to break free from the fragile dependence on external validation, a profound journey of inner transformation officially begins. This transformation, like a long alchemical experiment, aims to transmute the heavy, impure “lead” within us (such as inferiority, envy, feelings of scarcity) into shining, stable “gold” (i.e., solid inner value and a sense of peace).

However, no great transformation can happen overnight. For someone stuck in a quagmire, we cannot expect them to instantly fly to the clouds. Our first task is to offer them a sturdy rope, allowing them to first climb out of the deepest despair.

This rope is the critical shift we discussed earlier, from “envy” to “admiration.”

We must clearly recognize that this step is not the ultimate goal of this alchemy. It is more like a potent “emergency medicine,” a “psychological tourniquet” that can save a life in a crisis.

Imagine when the emotion of envy, like a venomous snake, coils around your heart. Your entire world turns gray. Your reason is paralyzed by the venom; all your energy is focused on that which makes you feel glaringly inadequate. You unconsciously magnify others’ strengths and your own weaknesses, your heart filled with injustice, resentment, and powerlessness. In this state, any grand talk about “inner peace” or “transcending comparison” seems pale and ineffective, even like a mockery.

At this point, the most important, and indeed the only viable, thing to do is to act immediately to break this destructive negative cycle.

Force yourself to redirect that hostility, which almost consumes you and is aimed at others, towards constructive self-reflection. This process may feel very awkward, even painful, at first, requiring you to summon all your willpower.

You can try asking yourself this question: “If I could possess that one thing in others that I most envy, what would be different in my life? What is the smallest, most insignificant step I can take right now to achieve that state?”

This question is like a beam of strong light, instantly illuminating the dark psychological chamber shrouded by envy. It forcefully switches your role from a powerless “victim” to an “actor” who can make a difference.

For example, when you feel envious because a friend posts pictures of their perfect physique on social media, that “smallest, most insignificant step” might not be to immediately buy an expensive gym membership, but simply to do ten minutes of stretching at home with a video, or to take a brisk walk in a nearby park.

When you feel resentment because a colleague got a project you coveted, that “smallest, most insignificant step” might not be to complain to your boss, but to spend an extra half-hour after completing your own work learning a new skill related to that project.

These actions themselves may not immediately change your situation in the short term. But their significance is far greater than the actual effect the actions bring. They are like a sacred ritual, sending an incredibly important signal to your subconscious:

“I am not powerless. I can choose not to wallow in destructive emotions. I can take action for the life I want.”

Every such conscious shift from “envy” to “admiration” and then to “action” is a small exercise for your psychological muscles. You are cutting off the neural pathway leading to self-destruction and simultaneously forging a new path towards self-construction.

Therefore, we must fully affirm the value of this step. It is our psychological “self-rescue.” It pulls us out of the most dangerous quagmire of internal friction and onto solid ground. It gives us a chance to breathe and regain control.

However, we must also be soberly aware of its limitations.

If we stop here, content with becoming a more diligent “chaser,” then our lives will still be a competition set by others. We would merely transform from a passive participant to an active one. Our joys and sorrows would still be tied to our distance from others.

This medicine can heal our most urgent wounds, but it cannot eradicate our inner “susceptibility.” It can help us climb out of the mud, but it cannot prevent us from falling back in next time.

To achieve true, lasting inner peace, we need a more thorough internal alchemy. We need to learn not just to chase the sun when we see it in others, but to create an unsetting sun within our own inner world.

Chapter Seven: Photosynthesis of the Mind: Creating Sunshine in Your Own World

How do we create an unsetting sun within our own inner world? This sounds like a poetic fantasy, but behind it lies a set of real, workable, and profound psychological mechanisms.

I call this the “Photosynthesis of the Mind.”

Let’s imagine a plant. A plant growing in a dark valley, constantly lacking sunlight. Its branches and leaves are weak, its color dull, because it desperately craves the nourishment of the sun. When a ray of sunlight occasionally penetrates the gaps in the clouds and canopy, shining on its leaves, it immediately feels warmth and vitality, and it frantically stretches itself to welcome this fleeting gift.

This is like us, those with insufficient “inner vital qi,” when we occasionally receive external affirmation and praise. We feel joy, we feel nourished, and we might even exhaust ourselves chasing the next ray of sunshine. Commander Huang’s “exhaustion” in Malaysia was precisely because the sunshine he expected never appeared.

But a healthy plant doesn’t just passively “enjoy” the sun. Internally, it performs an incredibly marvelous transformation: it uses the sun’s energy to synthesize carbon dioxide from the air and water absorbed from its roots into energy-rich sugars that it can store and use.

This process is photosynthesis.

These synthesized “sugars” are the fundamental reason why the plant can still breathe, grow, and sustain life during long, sunless nights. It transforms transient, external energy into lasting, intrinsic vitality.

Our mental growth follows the exact same logic.

External praise, affirmation, admiration, and kindness are the “sunshine” in our mental world. They are very important, especially when our inner self is still fragile. But we cannot just stay at the superficial feeling of “it’s so warm to be bathed in sunshine”; we must learn to activate our inner “photosynthesis” mechanism to convert these external, fleeting energies into our own internal, stably storable “psychological nutrients”—that solid, unshakeable sense of self-worth.

How exactly is this inner alchemy performed? It’s not some mysterious technique, but rather a series of small, yet consciously executed, psychological activities.

Step One: Consciously receive, don’t unconsciously push away.

For many people with low self-worth, when “sunshine” (praise) comes their way, their first reaction is often to “push it away.”

“You did great today!” “Oh, no, I just got lucky.”

“That outfit looks really good on you!” “Really? It’s cheap, just something I threw on.”

This habitual “self-deprecating humility” may seem polite, but it is actually rejecting mental nourishment. It’s like a plant instinctively retracting its leaves when the sun shines. It sends a message to the subconscious: “I don’t deserve this affirmation,” “This praise isn’t real.”

So, the first action of “photosynthesis of the mind” is to consciously resist this habit. When a kind affirmation comes your way, try not to immediately refute or belittle yourself. Let that warmth linger in your heart for a few seconds. You can look into the person’s eyes and say with a smile, “Thank you, I’m happy to hear you say that.”

This simple act is profoundly significant. It’s equivalent to you openly spreading your leaves, ready to welcome the sun’s embrace.

Step Two: Extracting “value” from “facts.”

Simply receiving sunlight is not enough; the key to photosynthesis is “conversion.” After a positive external feedback occurs, we need to perform a small “value extraction” exercise on ourselves afterward.

For example, a colleague thanks you, saying: “Thank you for helping me solve that tricky software problem last time, it really helped me a lot!”

After receiving this gratitude, you can, in the quiet of the night, take out your journal, or simply in your mind, ask yourself:

“What quality or ability of mine did this gratitude prove?”

There could be many answers: “I have the ability to solve technical problems.” “I am a helpful person.” “I am reliable in my colleagues’ eyes.” “My experience is valuable.”

See? You’ve taken an isolated, external “event” (a colleague’s thanks) and, through extraction, transformed it into a series of internal “value descriptions” about “who I am.” This is like a plant converting light energy into chemical energy that can be absorbed by its cells.

Step Three: Build your “Inner Value Storage Room.”

The sugars produced by photosynthesis are partly consumed immediately, and partly stored for future use. Our psychological nutrients are the same.

I strongly recommend you keep a special notebook, or a private document, which I call the “Sparkling Moments Journal.” Every time you successfully perform a “value extraction,” write down those positive “value descriptions” about yourself.

“I am a persistent person, because I stuck to my morning runs for a month.” “I have good aesthetic judgment, because my outfit received compliments from friends.” “My communication skills have improved, because I successfully mediated a small team conflict.”

This journal is your “Inner Value Storage Room.” It’s not a brag book, but a solid, fact-based “evidence library” you’ve built for yourself.

What is its purpose?

When, in the future, you encounter setbacks again, fall into self-doubt; when that ancient “comparison program” rings in your ears again, telling you “you’re not good enough”; when external “sunshine” is temporarily absent, leaving you feeling cold and lonely…

You can open this storage room.

What you see will no longer be vague self-comfort, but real, tangible pieces of evidence about “who you are,” recorded by your own hand. You will see that you are not as bad as you imagined, that you have overcome so many difficulties, that you possess so many wonderful, proven qualities.

This process is like a plant in a cold winter night, starting to use the sugars it stored in summer to power itself. You are using your accumulated inner nourishment to withstand the current psychological winter.

By performing this “photosynthesis of the mind” day after day, you will find that a marvelous change is occurring. Your dependence on external validation will slowly decrease. Because you are no longer a hungry beggar, constantly searching for food; you have become a farmer with your own granary. Others’ praise is no longer life-saving sustenance, but more like a delicious dessert—it’s great to have, but you can live perfectly well without it.

Within you, an unsetting sun is rising. It may not be as dazzling as the midday sun, but its light is constant, warm, and entirely your own.

Chapter Eight: The Ultimate Choice: For Growth, Not for Victory

As we meticulously practice the “photosynthesis of the mind” and gradually build our own “Inner Value Storage Room,” a quiet yet profound transfer of power is taking place within our inner world.

The fragile “I” that once dominated, constantly seeking external validation, is slowly receding. And a more stable, resilient, and self-nourishing “I” begins to take charge of our lives.

It is from this new vantage point that we finally arrive at the exhilarating “ultimate choice” that can truly liberate us from invisible pressures.

At this moment, we can once again, calmly and clearly, look back at that ancient “comparison program” embedded deep within our genes.

In the past, when we noticed it running, our hearts would be filled with anxiety and resistance. We saw it as a “bug” constantly causing trouble, a “demon” we desperately wanted to get rid of. We tried every method to suppress it, ignore it, or transform it with the ladder of “admiration.” But all these efforts were, in essence, a “response to battle.” We remained in opposition to it, fighting an endless, energy-ddraining war.

But now, the situation is different.

When we no longer feel a threat to our survival due to inner scarcity, when we know that our worth no longer depends on defeating our peers, we can finally, for the first time, re-examine this ancient companion that has been with humanity for millions of years, with a peaceful, even slightly warm gaze.

We can say to it:

“Hello, old friend. I know you’re there again, reminding me to run faster, to be stronger. I can feel your deep anxiety, born from ancient times. For millions of years, this very anxiety protected my ancestors, allowing them to survive the brutal natural selection and ultimately pass the torch of life to me. For this, I genuinely thank you.”

“However, I also want to ask you to look at the era we live in. We no longer live in that dangerous wilderness. My survival no longer depends on whether I have a sharper stone spear than my neighbor. Your historical mission has been gloriously completed. Thank you for your guardianship; now, you can rest assured.”

This internal dialogue is not merely a clever form of self-consolation. It represents a profound reconciliation with our own nature. We no longer view the “comparison program” as an enemy but rather as an “old soldier” who has faithfully served but whose methods are no longer suited to the new era. We respect its achievements, understand its motivations, and then, gently but firmly, withdraw its excessive “military authority” in our mental world.

This reconciliation grants us an unprecedented, truly meaningful freedom.

We can finally understand the full meaning of that sentence from the bottom of our hearts:

“The reason you choose to be better today is not out of a survival need, having to compare yourself with others, but because you choose to make yourself better.”

Let us savor the immense power contained within this “choice.”

When a person “has to” do something, their state is tense, anxious, and full of pressure. They are like a slave pursued by debt, their sole purpose of action being to “get rid of” some negative outcome (being eliminated, being left behind, being despised). Their eyes are constantly fixed on the pursuers behind them, with no time to appreciate the scenery along the way.

But when a person “chooses” to do something, their state is relaxed, engaged, and full of enthusiasm. They are like a free explorer, their purpose of action being to “experience” some positive process (growth, creation, exploring the possibilities of life). Their eyes are always on the horizon ahead, full of curiosity and anticipation for the unknown.

These two states may be doing exactly the same things, but their inner psychological experience is vastly different.

Let me conclude this chapter with a mountaineering analogy.

In the past, we climbed mountains for “victory.” Our backpacks were filled with heavy anxiety and self-doubt. Our only goal was to plant the flag that read “I am better than others” on the summit. We were out of breath, ignoring the flowers at our feet, missing the clouds beside us. Each time we surpassed someone, it brought a fleeting thrill; each time we were surpassed, we fell into immense pain. We were prisoners of this mountaineering race.

Now, we climb mountains for “growth.” Our backpacks are filled with water, food, and a journal to record the scenery. Our goal is to experience the climb itself—to feel the soreness in our muscles, the rhythm of our breathing, and the joy of the expanding view as we gain altitude. We might trek with companions, encouraging each other; we might genuinely applaud someone who reaches the summit first, because their success proves to us that this path can be traversed.

We no longer care about that illusory flag on the summit, because we know that the true treasure is the stronger, more open, and freer self we become during the climb.

We are still climbing upward, but we are no longer slaves to the competition. We have become the true masters of this journey of life.

This internal shift, from the pressure of “having to win” to “choosing to grow,” is the ultimate key that can unlock all the shackles of our hearts. It won’t make the world stop its clamor, but it will allow you to hear, amidst the noise, that quiet yet powerful echo within you, undisturbed by any external factors.

Part Four: Beyond the Game: Gently Reconciling with the World

Chapter Nine: Shaking Hands with the Inner “Clippy Assistant”

As we navigate through this long and profound inner journey—finally reaching the free shore of “choosing to grow”—an interesting question arises: Will that ancient “comparison program” simply disappear? Can we, through spiritual practice, completely and permanently “uninstall” it from our mental system?

The answer might bring a touch of disappointment to those of us who strive for perfection: No, we cannot.

As long as we are human, as long as the imprint of millions of years of evolution flows in our genes, the code of that program will forever be etched there. In certain fleeting moments, it will still automatically run as a conditioned reflex.

You might feel a slight prick in your heart when you scroll through a friend’s company’s IPO bell-ringing photos late at night; you might feel a fleeting, inexpressible sense of loss when you hear that someone else’s child won a major award; you might even experience a brief moment of self-doubt when you read an article written more brilliantly than your own.

Yes, even when we have become the “masters” of our own lives, that loyal, somewhat stubborn “old soldier” will still instinctively jump out from the corner when it hears a similar “war” horn, trying to “defend” us again.

So, how should we face this “it that never disappears”? Are we doomed to spend the rest of our lives in this endless “whack-a-mole” game?

No. Because at this moment, we possess a higher wisdom. We no longer need to confront it, but can learn a lighter, more elegant way of coexistence.

I want to use an analogy that might reveal my age to describe this new relationship.

Do you remember, many years ago, in Microsoft Office software, there was a classic character—a paperclip made of a few lines, with two big eyes (Clippy). We called it the “Clippy assistant.”

Its original intention was to “intelligently” help users. But its actual performance often made people laugh or cry. When you were deep in writing, it would suddenly pop out from the corner of the screen, blinking its innocent big eyes, saying, “Hey! It looks like you’re writing a letter. Do you need help?” When you just wanted to draw a table, it would enthusiastically peek out: “Oh! You seem to be having trouble. Would you like to try the template I prepared for you?”

Most of the time, it not only didn’t help but also interrupted your train of thought, causing a slight annoyance. In the early days, we might furiously try various methods to close it, uninstall it, or even curse its designers in our hearts. We saw it as a “bug” that had to be removed.

But as time went on, as we became proficient in using the software and no longer needed any “help,” our relationship with this Clippy assistant quietly changed.

When it clumsily popped up again, offering some ill-timed suggestions, we no longer got angry. We might even find it a little cute, a little funny. We might, in our hearts, with a touch of affection and indulgence, say to it:

“Oh, you’re here again, old buddy.”

Then, we would skillfully click the “close” button and continue with our work. We would no longer expend any energy on its appearance, nor would we try to eradicate it from the system. We simply saw it, recognized its existence, and then, calmly dismissed it.

Our ultimate relationship with that inner “comparison program” is precisely this.

It is our mental system’s “Clippy assistant” that is never off duty. Its sole purpose is to “help” us. It’s just that its “logic of help,” originating from ancient times, is long outdated.

When our inner self is still fragile and eager to prove itself, we treat every “reminder” from it as a judgment against ourselves, thus feeling immense pressure and pain. We desperately want it to shut up.

But when our inner self is sufficiently abundant and no longer needs to define itself by defeating others, we gain the ability to “shake hands” with it.

When that voice, “Hey, look at others, then look at yourself,” rings in our minds again, we no longer need to immediately activate defensive mechanisms to analyze it, transform it, or lecture it with grand theories of “I choose to grow.” We can simply, in our hearts, treat it like that silly Clippy assistant, and say to it with a smile:

“Got it, thanks for the reminder. But I’m fine now, and I don’t need your help for the moment.”

This process, I call “humorous de-identification.”

“Humorous,” because we no longer treat this thought seriously, as if facing a formidable enemy. We see the clumsy yet well-intentioned motive behind it, and even find it a little pitiful, a little funny.

“De-identification” is even more crucial. We clearly recognize that the clamoring voice is not “me.” It is merely one of the many thoughts that arise and pass away in “my” mind. It is like the sound of rain outside the window, or the floating clouds in the sky; we can perceive it, but we don’t have to equate ourselves with it.

This lighthearted, somewhat playful mindset is the highest form of inner freedom. It means we no longer need to “do something” to achieve peace; we simply “are” peaceful. We no longer try to control thoughts, but exist peacefully amidst the arising and dissolving of all thoughts.

This is a profound “presence.” It is true perfection achieved after fully embracing the imperfections of our own nature.

Chapter Ten: When the Cup Overflows: From Self-Fulfillment to Warming the World

As we complete this long and profound inner journey—from understanding genetic programming to healing childhood deficiencies, from initiating the photosynthesis of the mind to finally shaking hands with inner “noise”—our lives will manifest a new, moving landscape.

I want to use a simple analogy to describe this ultimate transformation.

Initially, our inner self was like an empty cup. Because it was empty, we were filled with a craving for the outside world. We longed for others to pour us some water—that water being praise, recognition, attention, and love. We spent our days holding the cup, carefully following others, overjoyed by a few drops of sweet dew, and despairing during long periods of dryness. Our joys and sorrows were tied to others’ watering cans.

Later, we embarked on a journey of self-growth. We learned the art of “photosynthesis of the mind,” no longer relying solely on others’ giving. We began to seek our own water sources, learning how to dig, how to filter, how to transform bitter saltwater into drinkable fresh water. This was an arduous, “active” process; we put in immense effort and finally filled our cups little by little. We felt proud and secure in this full achievement. We had our own water and no longer needed to depend on others’ moods.

This is a remarkable accomplishment, the fulfillment of “cultivating oneself.”

However, the story does not end here.

When our inner exploration becomes deep enough, when we reconcile with our own nature and gain that lightness of “playing in the world,” our inner well is fully opened. It connects to a deeper, broader source of life. Clear spring water begins to flow continuously.

Our cup is not just full; it begins to naturally, unconsciously, overflow.

This overflowing water is the purest, most selfless kindness, empathy, and care.

It is no longer a “good deed” we need to deliberately perform. We give not to fill our “positive feedback log” with others’ thanks; we care not to play the role of a “kind person.”

It is simply because we ourselves are so full that we have no choice but to flow outwards. Just like a cup filled with water, if tilted slightly, the clear water will naturally spill out to nourish the surrounding land. This giving is spontaneous, natural, and without the thought of “I am giving.”

This is the natural transition from “cultivating oneself” to “benefiting the world.”

I recall an old professor I knew, long past retirement age, yet still shining in his field. He never pursued fame or fortune; many younger scholars had long “surpassed” him academically. But he possessed a peace and warmth that made one feel as if bathed in a spring breeze.

He was never stingy with praising young people. When he saw an excellent paper, he would genuinely email the author, telling them how he was inspired by a particular point. His praise had no hint of a senior’s “bestowal” upon a junior but was more like a fellow traveler who discovered beautiful scenery along the way and couldn’t help but share the joy with you.

He was also never afraid to expose his “ignorance.” In discussion meetings, he would, like a student, earnestly ask young people about new technologies he didn’t understand. His questions were full of pure curiosity, without any pretense or insecurity.

Being with him, you would feel no pressure. You wouldn’t feel you were being “compared” or “judged.” You would only feel completely seen, completely accepted. He was like a constant “radiator,” not the dazzling, harsh light you had to look up to, but a warm, gentle hearth. Just by being near him, you would feel the coldness within you melting away.

He was the person whose “cup overflowed.” His very existence was a form of nourishment.

This, perhaps, is the most moving culmination of our inner alchemy journey. We initially embarked on this quest simply to resolve our own suffering, to transmute the “lead” within us into “gold.” But when we truly forged that inner gold, we discovered that its greatest value was not in making ourselves wealthy, but in the gentle glow it emitted, which could illuminate those around us.

We grew from a child craving love into an adult with a full heart, capable of loving.

We transformed from a participant struggling in comparison into a warm observer who can applaud all participants.

We evolved from an individual striving to be better for ourselves to, ultimately, a humble contributor who, by being well, makes the world a little better.

This, perhaps, is the most profound meaning of “choosing to be better.”

Conclusion: Your Choice, Your Freedom

Our journey, to this point, is nearing its end.

We began with the monologue of a friend feeling lost in the dead of night, tracing back to the ancient wilderness deep within our genes, seeing that lonely and vigilant ancestor running for survival. We understood the “comparison” imprint left in our blood, that profound fear of “being abandoned.”

Next, we examined the two forces this imprint fostered within us—the poison of envy and the ladder of admiration. We saw how low self-worth made us always play the tragic card of “sacrifice” in life’s game, barking up the wrong tree, failing to find true love and peace.

Then, we began the inner alchemy. We learned the method of “photosynthesis of the mind,” transforming external sunshine into an inexhaustible inner energy. We finally stood at that fork in the road of destiny, making the earth-shattering “ultimate choice”—no longer fighting for victory, but climbing for growth itself.

Finally, we learned to shake hands with that never-disappearing, somewhat comical “Clippy assistant” within, and discovered with surprise that when our cup finally overflowed, our greatest joy became nourishing the land around us.

This journey feels like a transformation from a “gladiator” driven by genes, to a “mountain climber” making active choices, and finally to a “gardener” gently reconciling with the world.

Now, it is time to return this power to you.

Perhaps, when you close this article and return to real life, you will still hear the voice of “comparison” whispering in your ear. But you now know that it is merely an ancient echo, no longer your destiny. The “power of choice” in your hands is the true king of your inner world.

From now on, every step you take, no matter how big or small, how fast or slow, as long as it is your own choice, it is filled with meaning. Every tiny beauty you create will become an eternally sparkling star in your inner universe.

Go forth and choose. Choose to be better, not to surpass anyone, but simply to honor this magnificent, once-in-a-lifetime journey called “life.”