Thich Nhat Hanh’s wisdom brings us back to who we truly are
I was sitting on a park bench with my old friend Zhe, warm soy milk in hand, when he sighed:
“I feel like I’m stuck. I keep trying to move forward, but nothing changes.”
“You’re not stuck,” I told him. “You’re just gripping too tightly to how life should unfold.”
He frowned. “Aren’t we supposed to push through?”
“Sometimes,” I said. “But other times, trying becomes the very thing in the way.”
That’s when I shared the teachings of Thich Nhat Hanh — three gentle doors of liberation that free us from the pressure of becoming and bring us back to simply being.
1. Aimlessness — You Don’t Need to Earn Your Place in the World
Most people hear “aimlessness” and assume it means giving up. But in Zen, aimlessness means recognizing you don’t need to chase worth or identity.
“You’re already the sky,” I told Zhe. “You don’t need to chase blue.”
The right effort is never forceful.
You don’t tug the grass to make it grow. You let it grow in its own timing.
Our worth works the same way.
2. Signlessness — Stop Labeling, Start Seeing
Zhe turned a leaf in his hand, thoughtful.
“You think I’m too obsessed with who I’m supposed to be?”
“Yes,” I said. “Most of us are.”
When we label ourselves — job titles, expectations, past mistakes — we freeze a living being into a fixed image.
Thich Nhat Hanh taught signlessness to remind us:
You are not the labels you carry.
You are a fluid, changing mystery.
Sometimes losing track of who you’re “supposed” to be is the beginning of finding who you truly are.
3. Emptiness — You Are Never Alone
Zhe asked, “What about emptiness?”
I lifted my cup of soy milk.
“This isn’t just soy. It’s water. Sunlight. Farmers’ hands. The entire world.”
Emptiness doesn’t mean nothingness — it means interbeing.
You don’t exist independently from anything else.
You are a single drop that contains the entire ocean.
Understanding this softens loneliness and dissolves the illusion that we must carry life alone.
We sat in silence as golden light moved through the trees.
Zhe whispered, “Your monk… he had a kind soul.”
I smiled.
“He said, ‘Don’t build a stupa for me when I’m gone. I’ll be in your mindful breathing, in your peaceful steps.’”
And as we walked home beneath drifting clouds, it felt true — that the monk was still walking with us, gently, quietly, in every moment of awareness.
