Is Life Meaningful or Meaningless?

I was watching a movie with my wife when we started discussing life's meaning. It's something we all wonder about sometimes. It's a question that has echoed through the halls of philosophy for centuries, a tension between the vastness of the cosmos and the intimate significance of our personal experiences.

Sometimes life can feel empty when we think about how small we are. There's something profoundly humbling about Carl Sagan's "pale blue dot." When I consider that our entire human civilization is but a speck in the unfathomable expanse of the universe, I feel a sense of awe and insignificance. Billions of galaxies, trillions of stars, and here we are, a tiny flicker of life in the grand scheme of things. Our greatest achievements, our art, our science, our love—all of it seems destined to fade into the cosmic silence.

Does anything we do really matter in this big picture?

Everything ends eventually. Buildings crumble, photos fade, and even memories disappear when there's no one left to remember them. When nothing lasts forever, it can make you wonder if anything truly matters.

Unlike a hammer made to pound nails or a cup made to hold water, were we designed with a clear instruction manual? What if there is no divine architect, no grand design, then perhaps we are just organisms navigating the complexities of existence without a predefined script. This idea is both terrifying and liberating. Terrifying because it strips away the comfort of a higher purpose, but liberating because it places the responsibility of meaning squarely on our shoulders.

Jean-Paul Sartre says that we are "condemned to freedom." If meaning isn't an inherent property of existence but rather something we create, then each of us is a universe unto ourselves, crafting our own narratives. A monk might find meaning in contemplation, an activist in social change, and a parent in the love for their child.

What feels meaningful to me might seem pointless to you. If meaning is just what each person decides, is it real or just something we make up to feel better?

From a Darwinian perspective, life has clear functions: survival, adaptation, and reproduction. Our bodies and minds are intricately designed through natural selection to perpetuate genetic information. Even our capacity for love, art, and philosophy might be seen as adaptations that have enhanced our ancestors' survival. Our bodies are amazing machines built to survive and pass on our genes. From this view, our purpose is written in our DNA – to live, grow, and continue the human story.

Across civilizations, humans have developed frameworks for understanding life's meaning. Buddhist traditions find meaning in overcoming suffering through mindfulness and compassion. Aristotelian virtue ethics locate meaning in developing excellence of character. Religious traditions provide cosmic narratives that situate human life within a larger divine plan.

Viktor Frankl offers distinctive insights from his experiences in Nazi concentration camps. His logotherapy approach suggests that meaning can be found even in the darkest of times. Through creative work, meaningful experiences, and choosing our attitude toward unavoidable suffering, we can cultivate a sense of purpose.

Similarly, existentialists like Simone de Beauvoir argue that our lack of predetermined essence is precisely what grants us the freedom to define ourselves through our choices and actions.

Mihaly Csikszentmihalyi talks of a concept of the "flow state." Whether it's losing myself in a good book, creating art, or having a deep conversation with a friend, these moments feel inherently meaningful.

I was sitting there with my wife, watching characters in the movie struggle with their own lives, when I felt both small and big at the same time. Small because we're just two people on a tiny planet, and big because somehow, sharing this moment felt important.

Albert Camus' essay "The Myth of Sisyphus" invites us to confront the absurdity of our search for meaning in a silent universe. Rather than despair or false hope, Camus advocates embracing this tension—what he calls the "absurd." Like Sisyphus eternally pushing his boulder uphill, we can find dignity in persisting despite knowing our ultimate fate. It's a call to embrace the struggle, to find meaning in the journey itself, rather than in some distant destination.

Perhaps meaning is in the wondering, in the questioning, in the very act of seeking.