Incompleteness is not a flaw to be corrected but a fundamental law of human existence. We are not born to be everything, everywhere, all at once. Life, by its very structure, is a series of trade-offs—each choice implying the renunciation of another. To frame incompleteness as a deficiency is to misunderstand the nature of growth, focus, and fulfillment. Rather than being a symptom of inadequacy, it is an essential consequence of intentional living. To excel in one direction often necessitates abandoning, or at least deprioritizing, others.
This is evident early in life. Youth is typically accompanied by vitality, time, and curiosity—but little material wealth or professional standing. A young adult may possess extraordinary energy and mental agility but is often constrained by inexperience, modest income, and uncertain direction. Their world is filled with becoming, not yet being. Later in life, after decades of climbing the professional ladder, an individual may accumulate significant financial means and social status, but often this comes at the cost of health, lost family time, or missed opportunities for introspective development. The journey towards one kind of completeness inevitably opens a space of incompleteness elsewhere.
Consider the case of elite athletes versus academic scholars. A professional sportsman trains rigorously, often from childhood, investing thousands of hours in physical development and tactical discipline. This leaves little room for contemplative or intellectual pursuits, simply because time and cognitive energy are finite. On the other hand, a philosopher or mathematician who delves deeply into abstract thinking requires solitude, stillness, and long periods of concentrated study—conditions incompatible with the physical and travel demands of elite sport. These paths are not failures to achieve completeness; they are expressions of clarity in purpose.
From an early age, individuals begin to exhibit a bias—sometimes subtle, sometimes pronounced—towards a particular trajectory. This can manifest as a fascination with stories, a mechanical curiosity, or a tendency toward leadership or solitude. Over time, these preferences shape how time, attention, and energy are allocated. The result is a deeply carved niche of expertise or identity, which by definition excludes other possibilities. The same hands that build a violinist’s dexterity will not construct a world-class sprinter’s body, just as the mind trained to think in poetic metaphor may find it ill-equipped for financial risk analysis.
This tendency towards specialization, towards focusing one’s energy in a chosen direction, is both a strength and a limitation. It is the reason why we celebrate excellence, innovation, and mastery. Yet it is also why we often carry a quiet sense of what is missing—a different life, another skill, a parallel success. However, this missing piece is not an indictment of our efforts. It is a natural consequence of intentional living. To choose one path authentically is to unchoose many others, and that unchoosing is not a mistake but an affirmation.
The illusion of totality—the expectation that we must achieve completeness across all domains of life—is largely driven by contemporary culture. Social media platforms, career narratives, and commercial messaging often present curated lives that appear balanced in every dimension: professional success, physical fitness, family cohesion, artistic sensitivity, and spiritual depth. But this omnidirectional excellence is neither typical nor sustainable. It is a fiction that elevates the incomplete aspects of our lives into perceived shortcomings, ignoring the real substance of what has been accomplished.
Take the example of a corporate executive who, after years of pursuing success, begins to feel a void in personal relationships. This awareness may spark regret, but it should also invite recognition: that the emotional cost was part of the investment. Likewise, a devoted parent who chooses to step away from a high-flying career to nurture a child may later notice their resume lacks the milestones of their peers—but what they’ve cultivated in their family life is no less significant, and no less complete within its chosen domain.
The myth of “having it all” is not just false; it is harmful. It diminishes the beauty of focused dedication and deep commitment. When we view life through the lens of scarcity—obsessing over what we lack—we fail to honour what we have consciously built. This mental framing is akin to looking at a half-filled glass and lamenting the empty space, forgetting that the filled portion is a result of effort, choice, and time. A more mature perspective sees the emptiness not as failure, but as room deliberately left untouched to make greatness possible elsewhere.
To embrace incompleteness is not to abandon ambition or settle for mediocrity. It is to recognize that human potential is not measured by breadth alone, but by depth and authenticity. A person who dives deeply into one calling may emerge not as universally accomplished, but as irreplaceably distinct. That, in itself, is a form of wholeness. It is not a half-empty glass, but a vessel perfectly shaped to hold what truly matters to its bearer.
In the end, life is not a canvas meant to be uniformly painted but a mosaic made of bold, deliberate strokes in particular directions. Each of us carves a path not by multiplying every possible step but by taking meaningful ones. Incompleteness is not a weakness to be corrected, but a signature of commitment, of having chosen with clarity. We do not fail because we are incomplete; we become who we are because we are—as Nietzsche famously challenged us: “Become who you are.”