Why are we used to living as if everything around us is temporary

There is a strange feeling, familiar to many: as if real life hasn't started yet. This job is just for now. This apartment is for a year or two. This relationship... we'll see. The city, the profession, the plans, the habits—everything can be changed if needed. It's as if we've settled into a huge waiting room, only we forgot to buy a ticket.

We've learned to live with the prefix "for now"

Once upon a time, a person's biography more closely resembled a straight line. Born in a small town, got an education, took a job at a factory or a workshop, started a family, and lived for several decades in roughly the same neighborhood. You knew the neighbors by name, the shop assistant remembered what kind of bread you bought, and you could walk home almost with your eyes closed.

There's no desire to romanticize such a life. There were fewer choices, fewer social elevators, and the necessity to stay in one place might have felt less like coziness and more like a cage. And yet, there was one thing we sometimes lack today: permanence.

Home truly was home. Work was not just a stopover until the next offer. Friendship didn't require constant relevance checks.

Now we have gained the freedom of movement. You can change cities after thirty, your profession after forty, your social circle in a few months. You can work for a company whose office is a thousand kilometers away. You can decide in the morning that your usual life no longer suits you, and by evening you're already checking tickets.

A wonderful opportunity. But it has a side effect.

When the door is always open, there is a temptation never to unpack your suitcase.

Stability has unexpectedly become suspicious

Take a closer look at the words usually used to describe a successful person: Flexible. Mobile. Adaptive. Ready for change. Fast-learning. Open to new things.

They all sound quite reasonable. The problem begins just a bit further—when opposite qualities are automatically written off as flaws.

Have you been working in the same field for ten years? Maybe you've stayed too long. Lived in the same city your whole life? Probably afraid of change. Don't want to move for a salary bump? Strange. Value a familiar environment and don't dream of starting over every two years? Suspiciously low ambitions.

An amusing thing happens. Previously, a person had to explain why they wanted to leave. Now, they sometimes have to explain why they want to stay.

And somewhere along the way, the ability to change imperceptibly turns into an obligation to be constantly ready for changes.

You can love the new and at the same time want to have a place to return to. These desires do not contradict each other.

Roots don't stop a tree from growing, after all. Quite the opposite, really. But people are sometimes sold a different picture: they say the fewer attachments you have, the freer you are.

Sounds nice. Almost like an ad for a digital nomad's bank card.

Except that freedom without a point of return can quite quickly turn into endless wandering.

A draft that somehow lasts for years

The most insidious form of temporariness doesn't begin with a move or a job change. It appears in the head.

"Let me sort things out a bit—and then I'll start living normally."

"I'll put up with this apartment for now."

"Now is not the time to buy good furniture."

"When I find a normal job, then I'll take care of myself."

Each phrase on its own looks completely logical. Sometimes waiting really is wiser. Except that months have a nasty habit of turning into years.

A person lives in a rented apartment for five years, but doesn't hang their favorite photo on the wall—what if they move soon? They use a wobbly chair because it's a pity to buy a good one "here." They don't get to know their neighbors. They don't plant flowers on the balcony. Even the mugs are the ones that came with the apartment.

Details? Of course.

But it's precisely from these details that the feeling arises: is this my place or a transit point?

The same story happens with work. A person considers their position temporary for years, so they don't try to make their workspace more comfortable, don't deepen relationships with colleagues, don't build long-term projects. What's the point if they're leaving soon?

Except they don't leave.

And life starts to resemble a hotel room where, for some reason, they've lived for seven years.

An excess of opportunities also knows how to lock doors

We like the idea that a large number of options makes a person freer. Sometimes it does. But imagine a three-page menu and a three-hundred-page menu.

In the second case, you won't necessarily enjoy your dinner more.

Something similar happens with work, relationships, cities, and life scenarios. While choices are few, a person chooses between them. When it seems there are endlessly many choices, the desire arises not to choose at all.

After all, choosing means refusal.

Saying "yes" to one city means saying "no" to dozens of others, at least temporarily. Investing in a profession means giving up the fantasy that somewhere out there exists an ideal career that will instantly bring money, meaning, and pleasure. Deciding to build a relationship means closing the dating app and stopping the check to see if someone even more suitable has appeared there.

And that's a bit scary.

Therefore, a person leaves backup exits. Another option. Another opportunity. Another bridge that must not be burned.

From the outside, such a life seems incredibly free. From the inside, it sometimes looks like a room with twenty doors, where you stand in the middle and cannot decide which one to open.

When temporariness becomes a defense mechanism

There is another side, too. Sometimes we don't choose instability—we adapt to it.

A job can indeed disappear. A company can close down. The technology you spent years mastering can lose its value. A landlord might ask you to vacate the apartment. People drift apart. Plans break.

After several such blows, an understandable strategy emerges: not to attach yourself too strongly.

Not to rely on things.

Not to plan too far ahead.

Not to invest too much of yourself.

If you consider everything temporary in advance, the loss is supposedly supposed to hurt less.

Sometimes it works. In the short run.

But along with insurance against disappointment, we imperceptibly insure ourselves against closeness, too. Because it's impossible to truly make a place, a relationship, or a endeavor your own while keeping one foot out the door.

Why constant readiness is exhausting

Try keeping your suitcase packed for a long time. Even if you're not going anywhere.

That's roughly how the psyche works in permanent temporariness mode. It constantly keeps a bit of attention reserved just in case of changes.

What if I have to look for a new apartment?

Is this job even going to last?

Is it worth investing in this relationship?

Is there any point in buying something serious?

Maybe everything will be different in six months?

None of these questions look catastrophic. But dozens of small uncertainties add up to background tension. It's quiet. It's just that somewhere inside, an engine is constantly idling.

You seem to be resting—but not quite.

You seem settled—but not yet.

You seem to be living—but at the same time preparing to live later.

Hence the strange fatigue that is hard to explain by the number of tasks completed. Energy goes not only into actions. It goes into the constant readiness to start over.

You don't have to wait for the final version of yourself

Perhaps the most unpleasant trap of temporary life is the belief in a future self.

That version of you will definitely live right.

He'll have a normal routine, a good house, a clear job. He'll read books, reply to friends on time, travel, take care of his body, and finally buy that lamp you've had saved in your favorites for three years.

Your current self is a draft. The future self is the final copy.

Except the calendar doesn't care.

It doesn't know that July was a trial run and you intended to actually live October. A day spent waiting for real life is no less real.

This is not a call to tie yourself down permanently to a job, an apartment, or a relationship. Sometimes you have to leave. Sometimes quickly. Sometimes with two bags and a sense of immense relief.

It's about something else: the temporary deserves your presence, too.

If you are renting an apartment for a year—put your own mug there. Hang a photo. Buy a normal pillow. Get to know the person next door.

If you're working somewhere for six months—make those six months real, not a rehearsal for the next position.

If you've met someone dear to you, don't turn the relationship into an endless probation period just because no one issues a twenty-year warranty.

Yes, almost everything in our lives is temporary. In that sense, it's pointless to argue.

But temporary does not mean fake.

A flower doesn't become less beautiful because it will sit in a vase for a week. Summer doesn't lose its value because of September. A conversation with a friend doesn't become meaningless because one day you will both change.

Perhaps we don't need a final version of life.

It is enough to stop treating today like a draft.