So Close, Yet So Far

This morning, I woke up and saw a photo from exactly one year ago.

September 11th.

Mount Kailash was right in front of me.

On that photo, I had written four words:

So close, yet so far.

At the time, I was talking about the mountain. I could see it. I was physically there. It felt close enough to touch, and yet there was still a journey ahead of me.

One year later, those words mean something completely different.

I'm heading back to Mount Kailash again. The journey is less than two weeks away. I can count the days.

I'm so close.

And somehow, it still feels so far away.

That feeling made me realize something.

Maybe "so close, yet so far" has been one of the recurring themes of my entire life.

The feeling of almost being there

I know this feeling very well as an entrepreneur.

I've built different businesses and worked on different ventures throughout my life. And there have been so many moments when I genuinely thought:

This is it.

We're almost there.

One more launch.

One more breakthrough.

One more milestone.

One more month.

One more number.

And then I'll finally feel like I made it.

Sometimes I reached the thing I was chasing.

Sometimes I didn't.

But strangely, both roads often led to the same place.

There was always another mountain.

The moment I reached one milestone, another appeared in the distance.

And psychology actually gives us language for part of this experience.

It's often called hedonic adaptation, sometimes described through the metaphor of the hedonic treadmill.

We imagine that reaching a certain outcome will fundamentally change how we feel. More money. A successful company. The right relationship. Recognition. A beautiful home. Whatever our version of "there" happens to be.

We reach it, experience the high, and then slowly adapt.

What once felt extraordinary becomes normal.

And before long, the mind creates another destination.

The horizon moves.

There is nothing inherently wrong with this. Our ability to imagine something better is part of what makes us create, build, explore, and grow.

But there is a danger hidden inside it.

We can spend our entire lives almost living.

When I get there, I'll relax.

When the business works, I'll enjoy myself.

When I find the right person, I'll feel complete.

When I have enough money, I'll stop worrying.

When life finally looks the way I imagined, then I'll be happy.

Always so close.

Always somehow still far.

Then I noticed something uncomfortable

I started seeing the same pattern in my spiritual journey.

One more practice.

One more mala.

One more pilgrimage.

One more moment of stillness.

One more layer of myself to understand.

And maybe then I'll be closer.

Closer to truth.

Closer to peace.

Closer to God.

But that raises a strange question.

Am I turning even God into another destination?

Because if the Divine is everywhere, how far away could it possibly be?

Maybe the distance I'm trying to travel cannot be measured in kilometers.

We know how to measure almost everything else.

Revenue.

Years.

Flights.

Followers.

Kilometers.

Milestones.

But what is the unit for surrender?

How many kilometers until peace?

How many achievements until enough?

How many prayers until God?

I don't know.

And maybe I'm finally becoming comfortable admitting that I don't know.

Less than two weeks from Kailash

Soon, I'll begin the journey toward Mount Kailash again.

There is something beautiful about Kailash itself.

You don't conquer it.

You don't reach the summit and plant your flag.

You walk around it.

Step after step.

Breath after breath.

And perhaps there is something hidden in that.

Maybe some of the most important things in life were never meant to be conquered.

Maybe they are meant to change us as we walk around them.

Business has done that to me.

Failure has done that to me.

Love has done that to me.

Spiritual practice has done that to me.

And Kailash continues to do that to me.

I still have dreams. I still want to build. I still want to create. I still have enormous ambitions for my life.

I don't think the lesson is to stop wanting.

I think the lesson might be to stop postponing life until we arrive.

To build, while being here.

To dream, while being here.

To love, while being here.

To keep walking, while recognizing that this step is also part of the destination.

Because maybe the question isn't:

How much farther do I have to go?

Maybe the better question is:

How much of my life am I willing to spend believing that I'm almost there?

A year ago, I looked at Mount Kailash and wrote:

So close, yet so far.

A year later, I understand those words a little differently.

Maybe life will always contain another mountain.

Maybe there will always be another milestone, another question, another layer, another horizon.

And maybe that's okay.

I can keep walking toward what calls me without waiting for some imaginary future to give myself permission to be alive now.

Less than two weeks from Kailash, I feel incredibly close.

And somehow, incredibly far.

So close, yet so far.

Maybe that isn't a problem to solve.

Maybe that's the path.