What Is the Meaning of Life? What Truly Matters in Our Lifetime?

How the Meaning of Life Changes Over Time 

Childhood Innocence and the First Lessons in Importance 

When I was three, nothing in the world mattered more than the lollipop clutched tightly in my hand.

At five, I spent an entire afternoon chasing a dragonfly, convinced that catching it was the most important thing in the world.

By seven, I found myself staring at my classmate’s award certificate, admiring it, maybe even feeling a twinge of jealousy, wondering if success was what truly mattered.

At nine, I lay beneath the shade of a tree, dappled sunlight flickering across my face, and thought that nothing could be more important than the pure freedom of a carefree summer.

The Search for Meaning 

At thirteen, I realised that getting into a top secondary school was the key to my future.

At sixteen, sitting in a quiet classroom as a soft breeze passed through, I absentmindedly watched the ponytail of the girl in front of me and thought, maybe life, just like this, wasn’t so bad.

At eighteen, I studied relentlessly, praying for one thing: a university acceptance letter.

Stepping into the Real World 

At twenty-two, I stepped out of the structured world of school and into what everyone called “society.” Suddenly, finding a job became the most important thing.

At twenty-four, on my wedding day, I stood in a hall full of guests, looking at the woman beside me. She wasn’t the girl I had admired at sixteen, and for a brief moment, I felt a pang of nostalgia. But as I took her hand, I knew, she was now the most important person in my life.

At twenty-five, I laughed and drank with my friends, still young and carefree, believing that pride and reputation were everything.

Family, Responsibility, and the Passing of Time 

At twenty-six, I paced outside the delivery room, heart pounding. Then, a baby’s cry broke the silence, and I realised, I had just met someone even more important.

At thirty-three, buried under mortgage payments and car loans, I came to understand the weight of responsibility.

At thirty-eight, I noticed something that shook me, my once-stubborn father was now asking for my advice. It was then that I understood… he had finally grown old.

Still at thirty-eight, my mother no longer scolded me. Instead, she repeated herself, her words softer, her concern woven into every sentence. And in that moment, I realised, she, too, was growing old.

At thirty-nine, my son no longer clung to me. He had his own friends, his own world. I watched him grow more independent, knowing that from here on, he would only drift further away. That was the year I finally realised, perhaps time is the most important thing in this world.

Realising Life’s Fragility and the Importance of Time 

At forty, I sat in front of my health check-up report, staring at a mess of numbers and warnings. It hit me then, I had spent my entire life prioritising everything except myself.

At forty-five, having drifted through half my years, I sat at my desk with a beer belly, idly flipping through old memories. My youthful dreams, once so easy to dismiss, now felt like something I had let slip through my fingers.

At fifty, I watched my son marry a wonderful young woman. Squinting at him on stage, I found myself wondering, was she the girl he had loved at sixteen? But in the end, his happiness mattered more than my nostalgia.

At fifty-five, I panted as I chased after my grandson, afraid he might fall. In that moment, I had no grand ambitions for him, only that he would be safe, healthy, and happy.

The Weight of Loss and the Lessons in Love 

At sixty, I buried my parents side by side. With age, I had learned to let go of many things. I didn’t cry. I just stood there, thinking how my father’s scoldings and my mother’s gentle nagging had never been more precious than they were in that moment.

At seventy, my wife left before me. My son and daughter-in-law were busy with their successful careers, my grandson away at university. With no one waiting at home, I wandered the streets aimlessly, realising, my wife had meant far more to me than I had ever said aloud.

At seventy-five, lying in a hospital bed, the doctor asked to speak to my son alone. I knew then, my time was running short.

In that quiet moment, I reached for my phone and called my grandson. I wanted to tell him, if you love a girl at sixteen, hold on to her tightly, just like you once held your lollipop at three. But after a pause, I smiled at my own foolishness.

When he picked up, I simply said, “Grandpa misses you. If you have time, come see me.”

Later, the doctor reassured me it was nothing serious. I smiled and told him, there are no big problems in life. The most important thing is just to keep living.

A Final Goodbye 

At seventy-six, my grandson came to see me. Letting him witness me in such a frail state felt uncomfortable, but there was nothing I could do. My son and daughter-in-law sat beside me, their eyes red, their sobs barely restrained.

I no longer had the energy to dwell on what was most important.

All I wanted was a simple funeral. My son and daughter-in-law were no longer young, I didn’t want them to exhaust themselves with elaborate arrangements. My grandson had just started his career; taking time off wasn’t easy, and I didn’t want him to jeopardise his future for me.

As my thoughts drifted, a soft breeze brushed against my face. My eyes stung, and when I blinked, I saw them, my parents. They stood hand in hand, looking just as they had in my childhood, their faces untouched by time.

They smiled at me.

They opened their arms.

Oh, how I had missed them.

Without hesitation, I stood up, no, I ran toward them. And as I ran, something strange happened. First, I was sixty again, then fifty, then forty. The years melted away, thirty, twenty, until finally, I was three years old once more.

At last, they lifted me into their arms.