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For most of my life, I believed love, closeness and affection had to be earned. That I needed to be successful and do something impressive to be accepted and loved. If I worked hard enough, performed well enough, maybe then I’d be worthy. I am paying the cost of that belief. Only now—after years of striving—am I beginning to understand I have nothing to prove, everything to give. 

But affection doesn’t come after achievement. It comes before. It’s what makes us whole enough to stop competing, to rest, to soften.

We are touch-deprived not because we’ve evolved past it—but because we’ve been conditioned to fear what it offers: connection without condition. 

“Envy” – A Culture of Deprivation

Maybe this obstacle started with envy—subtle, ever-present, not loud but constant. My family didn’t name it that way, but it was in the air. I don’t remember anyone saying, “we don’t have enough.”

But I remember my grandfather collecting candy bar coupons from discarded newspapers. My mother scanned the store flyers to stretch our meal budget. The whispered judgments that felt like shields against shame.

I was measured by what others had and what others had accomplished. The unspoken belief was clear: the ones who have, deserve. And we didn’t.

Love, it seemed, to only belong to the successful. Affection was for the accomplished. Touch—unguarded and safe—was only deserved after you earned it.

-You can’t open your arms if you’re always bracing for comparison.

Affection Was Never Meant to be Earned

In academia, the hunger just changed costumes. Polite competition, professional striving, publication. I was praised for my output, but I lived with a critical voice in my head who sounded a lot like the police rather than a guide towards mutual satisfying lives.

Look at what they’re doing. You should strive to be like that. You should be better than you are.

That critical voice was never satisfied. And I obeyed it for too many years. I called it ambition, but it was control. I let it shape the arc of my days, even the tone of my relationships. I called it “the way to my success.” I thought it was normal.

But now, during this quieter time of my life, I see how envy and the critic has worked together to divide us. Not just from each other, but from ourselves—our softness, our enoughness, our humanness.

If I perform for the people at the top, they will look down at me anyhow. And if I’m trying to show off for people at the bottom, they will only be envious. Status, power and success will get me nowhere. Only an open heart allows me to stand among others, not above or below.

Capitalism teaches us to compete, to win, to accumulate. There was no rest in connection. We’re trained to evaluate, not to witness. We perform to be seen but rarely feel held.

Love is different. Love is being concerned about someone else’s pain as much as you are about your own.

Envy isolates. The critic polices. Scarcity becomes internalized. And touch becomes a luxury instead of a birthright.

-It’s no wonder we’re affection-deprived.

Reclaiming What Was Never Gone

The truth I’m learning—slowly, quietly—is this: we never had to earn love and affection.

I’d been sleepwalking through life. Going through the motions, doing what I thought I was supposed to do—chasing the version of success I’d been taught to want. My cultural programming ran deep: success meant achievement, status, productivity. It meant standing out, rising above, competing. The script that never asked me how I felt—only what I had to show.

What I truly wanted was closeness and affection. The warmth of someone choosing to stay, not because I impressed them, but because I’m real.

That’s the revolution I want to live now. A soft one. A human one.

I spent so much time collecting things I thought would bring me satisfaction—and then one day, I realized they didn’t.

Somewhere along the way, I began to take the most important things for granted: loving relationships, the people who cared, even the beauty of the world around me.

A Soft Revolution: Nothing to prove anymore, just everything to give

Now, when I give my time—when I can make someone smile after they’ve shared their story—that’s as close to happy as I ever felt.

Not when I look in the mirror and match what the culture says I should look like.
Not when I tally the things I’ve collected or the money I’ve made.
Not even when I’ve achieved something that once felt impossible.

It’s when I’m in service to people offering empathy and compassion. Showing up with care. That’s when I feel most alive.

I’ve spent years chasing what I thought would make me feel whole. And I don’t regret what I’ve built or earned—but none of it compares to the feeling I get when I act from the heart.

It’s in that space where envy and scarcity dissolves. No longing for what I don’t have. No comparison. No competition.

When I’m giving—genuinely giving—I’m not depleted. I become filled up. And I don’t think that’s accidental. I think that’s what we’re made for.

There is nothing to prove anymore, just everything to give. What comes from the heart never leaves us dissatisfied. It returns us to the wholeness of ourselves.

You get what you give—and sometimes, if you’re lucky, what comes back is even more than what we could have expected.

As the Zen saying goes, “When you realize there is nothing lacking, the whole world belongs to you.”