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Progress That Only God Sees

Progress That Only God Sees

 

 

 

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“It feels different now,” I said quietly as we sat stuck at a traffic signal, horns blaring all around us. “I don’t feel like I’m just dealing with people anymore. I feel like I’m transacting with God.”

He turned toward me, listening carefully.

“When you see life that way,” I continued, “every moment becomes an opportunity—sometimes easy, sometimes painfully difficult—but always meaningful.”

He nodded. “And once that awareness settles in,” he said, “it becomes a powerful source of motivation.”

I thought about how true that felt. There was a time when I measured my growth only through the reactions of others—praise lifted me, criticism crushed me. But recently, something inside had shifted.

“I’ve started realizing,” I said, “that I don’t need to wait for people’s approval to know whether I’m improving. Sometimes the only witness to my progress is God.”

He smiled slightly. “That realization takes courage.”

“Especially when people comment,” I added. “Their words still sting sometimes. But now I try to ask myself one question before reacting: Am I being conscious right now?”

He looked at me with quiet interest. “That question changes everything.”

“It really does,” I said. “Let me give you a very real example. My anger—especially on the road. Road rage used to own me. A wrong turn, a careless driver, a delayed signal—and I would explode. It took time. A long time. But slowly, I began noticing the moment before the anger burst.”

He leaned forward. “That’s where real change begins.”

“Yes,” I said. “At first, the anger still came. However, I could now see it arriving. And once I could see it, I could pause.”

I remembered a recent incident clearly. A motorbike nearly struck my car. My body reacted instantly—tight chest, heated breath, words rushing to my tongue. But then, something interrupted the chain. That same silent question echoed inside: Who am I responding to right now—this person… or God?

“For the first time,” I told him, “I chose silence over shouting.”

He smiled. “That’s not a small victory.”

“But here’s the strange part,” I said. “No one noticed. The driver sped off. The passengers in my car were busy on their phones. There was no applause. No validation.”

“That’s how most real progress looks,” he replied. “Invisible.”

“That’s what surprised me,” I said. “The development is happening—I can feel it. But the people around me may still see me the way I used to be. And that’s not in my control.”

He nodded slowly. “Growth that depends on recognition becomes fragile. Growth that happens before God becomes steady.”

I sat with that thought.

“You know,” I said after a pause, “there was a time I would have been discouraged by this. I would have asked: What’s the use of changing if no one notices?”

“And now?” he asked.

“Now I realize,” I said, “that the fact I can notice it is enough. The fact that God knows is enough.”

He leaned back against the seat. “That’s a powerful shift—from performing for people to progressing with God.”

I felt a quiet strength settle in my chest.

“This journey isn’t dramatic,” I said softly. “It’s slow. Layer by layer. Slip by slip. Sometimes I do better. Sometimes I fall back. But a process is unfolding.”

“And that process,” he said, “is the real gift.”

I watched the traffic finally begin to move.

“So, the motivation,” I reflected aloud, “doesn’t come from being perfect. It comes from seeing that God is still giving me chances to improve—again and again. Sometimes with ease. Sometimes through difficulty.”

He looked at me and said gently, “And you must learn to draw strength from that alone.”

The signal turned green. Cars moved forward. Life resumed its ordinary noise.

But inside me, something remained still and clear. Progress was happening. Quietly. Gradually. Sometimes only between God and me.

And for the first time, that felt more than enough.

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Beyond Obedience

Beyond Obedience

 

 

 

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“I just want them to listen,” I said in frustration. “If they follow instructions, if they comply, that should be enough. At least they’ll turn out fine.”

He didn’t respond immediately. We were sitting on a bench outside a school, watching children spill out at the end of the day—some running toward their parents, some dragging their feet, some laughing loudly without a care.

“Do you want obedience,” he finally asked, “or do you want character?”

I turned to look, slightly unsettled by the question. “Aren’t they the same?” I asked.

He shook his head gently. “Not at all. Obedience is what a person shows when someone is watching. Character is what remains when no one is there.”

That line stayed with me.

“If you truly want to guide someone—your child, your student, your junior—you don’t just need their compliance,” he continued. “You need their inner willingness. And inner willingness is never born out of force.”

I thought of how often I had relied on pressure—raised voice, authority, emotional leverage. In the moment, it always worked. The task would get done. Silence would return. But something inside the relationship quietly eroded each time.

“Think about it,” he said. “When something is imposed on you, do you desire it from the heart—or do you merely tolerate it until the pressure lifts?”

I smiled bitterly. “I usually wait for the pressure to go away.”

“Exactly,” came the calm reply. “That’s what forced training produces: waiting, not transformation.”

He shared a small story.

“There was once a teacher who ruled the classroom with fear. Students stood when he entered. Every notebook was perfect. Not a voice dared to whisper. On the surface, it looked like discipline. Years later, one of his students met him and said, ‘Sir, the day we left your class, we left your rules behind too.’”

He paused before adding, “In the same school, there was another teacher—quiet, firm, respectful. Students followed his rules not out of fear, but because they didn’t want to disappoint him. Even years later, those students were still shaped by his influence.”

I swallowed. The difference between fear-driven behavior and heart-driven change suddenly felt stark.

“So, if I want someone to truly grow,” I said slowly, “I can’t just demand results.”

“No,” he replied. “You have to awaken desire.”

“Desire for what?”

“For the good itself,” came the answer. “For honesty because it feels right. For discipline because it brings clarity. For respect because it nurtures dignity. These things can’t be injected through commands.”

I remembered a child I once scolded harshly for lying. The lie stopped—but only in front of me. Later, I discovered that the child had simply learned to hide more effectively.

“That’s the danger of enforced goodness,” he said, as if reading my thoughts. “It teaches people how to perform right, not how to love right.”

We watched a child hesitate before helping another pick up fallen books, then do it anyway. No adult was watching. No rule was being enforced.

“That,” he pointed gently, “is what you are aiming for. Action without surveillance. Integrity without fear.”

I felt a quiet heaviness in my chest.

“But how do you build that inner desire?” I asked.

“By example,” he answered without hesitation. “By relationship. By explaining the meaning, not just issuing orders. By patience. By letting the other person feel respected even while being guided.” After a long silence, he softly added, “And by accepting that real change takes longer than forced change—but it lasts far longer too.”

I recalled how I had learned some of my deepest values—not from lectures, but from watching small, consistent acts: a parent returning extra change to a shopkeeper, a mentor admitting a mistake publicly, a teacher apologizing to a student. Those moments had stayed with me far more powerfully than any instruction.

“So, when we say we want to train someone,” I said, “we often mean we want them to behave the way we want—quickly.”

He nodded. “But true training is about helping someone want what is right. And wanting is a matter of the heart, not the whip.”

We sat quietly for a moment. “Force may create followers,” he said at last. “But only love and understanding create leaders.”

As we stood up to leave, I realized something uncomfortable and freeing at the same time:

It is easier to control behavior than to cultivate character. Easier to demand silence than to inspire understanding. Easier to enforce rules than to awaken conscience.

But if I truly wanted someone to become better—not just quieter, not just obedient—then I would have to change my own way of guiding first.

Because hearts are not shaped by pressure. They are shaped by meaning, trust, and example.

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Process Over Results

Process Over Results

 

 

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In nearly every area of life—whether it’s education, parenting, relationships, or even religious practice—we often fall into a results-focused mindset. We concentrate on outcomes: Did my child do well? Did the student understand the lesson? Did I receive a reward from God? However, life continually reminds us that although results matter, they are never entirely within our control. What we can control is the process.

This shift in perspective—from results to process—is both a practical and a deeply spiritual principle.

The Farmer’s Lesson

Imagine a farmer who plants his crops. He tills the soil, waters the field, and makes sure every step is done properly. But when hailstorms hit and destroy the crop, the farmer doesn’t curse the heavens or give up farming. He goes back to the same process—plowing, sowing, watering—because he knows this is the part he can control. The harvest, whether plentiful or ruined, is never completely in his hands.

Human beings are no different. Like the farmer, we can only work faithfully through the process, never guaranteeing the outcome.

The Child Learning to Speak

Parents often worry when their child is slow to talk. However, language development is a natural process. If the child is placed in the right environment where language is spoken, they will eventually start talking—unless there is a medical issue. Pressuring, comparing, or punishing will not speed up this process; it might even cause harm.

This illustrates the broader principle: development happens through exposure, modeling, and environment, not through force or obsession with results.

Process Orientation in Parenting and Teaching

Imagine a parent trying to teach a child generosity at the dinner table. A results-driven approach might scold the child: “You should share right now!” But a process-driven parent will demonstrate generosity, share stories of role models, and foster a culture of sharing over time. In the end, the child’s heart will lean toward sacrifice—not because of fear of correction, but because of the natural internalization of values.

Similarly, when teaching fasting (roza), parents may fall into the trap of using reward and punishment: “If you fast, you’ll get this gift; if you don’t, you’ll lose this privilege.” This approach might work temporarily, but once the external motivation fades, so will the practice. The real process is in cultivating faith, conviction, and a relationship with God, so that fasting naturally becomes an act of devotion rather than merely an obligation.

Why Result-Orientation Fails

  • It creates pressure and judgment. Parents, teachers, or religious guides often resort to scolding, labeling, or forcing because they seek immediate results.
  • It fosters hypocrisy. People act for appearances or rewards, not out of conviction.
  • It collapses when external control is taken away. When pressure or authority is removed, the behavior disappears.

This is evident across society: we impose bans, punishments, and external restrictions, but seldom focus on developing inner will, faith, and self-control.

The Civic Sense Example

One notable observation from Hajj is the lack of civic sense among pilgrims. Many perform rituals outwardly but fail to demonstrate patience, order, or consideration for others. Why? Because their religious practice is viewed through a results-oriented lens—praying for rewards or fearing punishment—rather than through a process-oriented lens of gratitude, discipline, and service to God.

Process Orientation in Self-Development

This principle applies not only to parenting or society but also to ourselves.

  • If I wake up early, stay disciplined, and put effort into my business, I may or may not become wealthy—but I will definitely develop resilience and good habits.
  • If I study sincerely, I might or might not top the exam, but I will definitely become more knowledgeable.
  • If I practice patience in small daily tests, I may or may not change others—but I will transform my own character.

As the saying goes: “Don’t control what you cannot control. Control what you can—and that is your process.”

A Personal Anecdote

A student once told his mentor, “I study hard but still don’t get the top marks.” The mentor responded, “Your responsibility is not the top marks. Your responsibility is to learn with sincerity, honesty, and consistency. Marks belong to the system, effort belongs to you. Don’t confuse the two.”

That advice stayed with him for a lifetime—not just for school but for every challenge.

Reflections for Our Lives

  1. Am I obsessed with results? Do I judge myself or others solely based on visible outcomes?
  2. Am I faithful to the process? Do I stay committed to what is in my control, even when results are delayed or unseen?
  3. Am I fostering conviction or simply enforcing compliance?

Conclusion

Process orientation doesn’t mean ignoring results. It means letting go of the illusion of control over outcomes while putting our best effort into the actions, attitudes, and environments we can influence. It means trusting that in time, results will appear—some sooner, some later, and some possibly never in the way we expect.

In religion, parenting, relationships, and personal growth, this principle protects us from despair, arrogance, and judgment. It keeps us grounded in humility, patience, and trust in God.

As the farmer teaches us, hail may ruin the crop today, but tomorrow the soil still encourages us to plant again.

Reflection Prompt

Think of an area in your life where you’re frustrated by not seeing results. How would it change if you focused on the process instead of the outcome? What steps in the process are within your control today?

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Controlling Behavior: Rewards and Punishments

Controlling Behavior: Rewards and Punishments

Across homes, schools, and societies, rewards and punishments have long been the main tools for controlling behavior. Parents threaten or bribe children, teachers assign grades or impose penalties, and institutions rely on punishments to maintain order. The immediate effects of these methods make them appealing: children obey, students comply, and employees adjust. However, beneath the surface, these techniques have hidden costs—stifling creativity, damaging self-esteem, and fostering duplicity instead of integrity.

Parents, teachers, and leaders often rely on rewards and punishments because they “work.” Promise a toy, and a child behaves. Threaten detention, and a student complies. Fear of a fine keeps drivers in line. However, although effective in the short term, these methods have long-term costs that can hinder genuine growth and character development.

The Obsession with Controlling Outcomes

One of the main reasons rewards and punishments dominate our homes and schools is our obsession with instant results. We want children to behave in a certain way, and we want them to do so right away.

But human behavior is just the outward display of deeper internal processes — thoughts, feelings, values, and intentions. If those internal processes stay the same, any “good behavior” shown out of fear or bribery is only a short-term disguise. The child might sit still, say sorry, or obey for now, but the inner mindset stays untouched.

A child might say “sorry” after hitting a sibling just to avoid punishment, not because they genuinely feel remorseful. Without developing empathy and a sense of fairness, this behavior is likely to recur.

This is why trying to control outcomes is an illusion: you can’t force sincerity, compassion, or responsibility from outside. You have to nurture the environment where they can develop.

Accepting this truth is liberating: we cannot directly control outcomes. What we can influence are the inner processes — by offering love, guidance, role models, and safe spaces for dialogue.

The Burden of Parental Identity

Many parents unconsciously believe: “If my child is not behaving right, it means I am not a good parent.” This fear drives overcontrol. To defend their own self-worth, parents push their children into immediate compliance.

  • A child’s misbehavior in public is seen not just as a challenge but as a sign of parental failure in the parent’s view.
  • The result: harsh scolding, threats, or bribes — not because the parent believed it was the best teaching moment, but because they feared losing face.

This misplaced sense of parental identity turns the child into a means for adult self-validation, instead of a person to be nurtured.

The Training Parents and Teachers Truly Need

Most parents and teachers have never received training in nurturing character. They depend on instinct, imitation, or culture. But good intentions alone are not enough; effective parenting and teaching require adults to develop their own character.

Some key areas of training include:

Developing Character Traits

  • Patience: Children learn slowly and repeat mistakes. Impatience leads to harshness.
  • Empathy & Compassion: Understanding what a child feels when they fail or misbehave.
  • Hope & Perseverance: Believing that change is possible, even if it takes time.

 

Role Modeling

  • Children learn more by watching what we do than by listening to what we say.
  • A parent who advocates honesty but lies during phone calls to avoid guests sends a stronger message than any lecture.

Dialogue and Open Communication

  • Creating a safe, non-judgmental space where children feel comfortable to honestly express themselves.
  • If a child admits to cheating on an exam, a parent who listens quietly and asks, “What made you feel you had to cheat?” encourages reflection. A parent who yells might silence the child forever.

Coherence of Environment

  • Children flourish in environments that align with the values parents aim to instill.
  • Teaching respect while mocking relatives in front of children causes confusion. Building a culture of kindness at home naturally strengthens the message.

Without these abilities, adults rely on the shortcut of rewards and punishments, confusing temporary obedience with long-term growth.

The Hidden Cost: Undermining Decision-Making

Perhaps the most significant long-term consequence of overreliance on rewards and punishments is that children never develop decision-making skills.

When every decision is made for them—either by offering a reward or threatening a punishment—they become passive followers of authority. The ability to weigh options, consider consequences, and make choices remains undeveloped.

  • A teenager who only obeys out of fear of punishment might follow rules when they’re watched but break them when no one is around, because they never understand the reasons behind the rules.
  • A student who has always studied for grades might lose all motivation to learn once exams end. The ability to choose to seek knowledge for its own value was never developed.

Adults who grow up this way often struggle with independence: they rely on external cues (bosses, peers, society) to tell them what to do, instead of cultivating inner moral reasoning.

Why Rewards and Punishments Appear to Work

Rewards and punishments are appealing because they cause quick changes in behavior. A threat can stop a tantrum. A bribe can secure silence. However, the effect is temporary and superficial. The child’s inner moral guide remains unchanged — or worse, it becomes distorted.

Just like fast food satisfies hunger but harms health, rewards and punishments provide parents and teachers quick relief but cause long-term damage.

Conclusion

The reliance on rewards and punishments comes from our a) obsession with control, b) fear of being “bad parents,” and c) lack of proper training in true character education. However, their hidden costs are serious: impaired decision-making, lowered self-esteem, and superficial behaviors that hide unchanged inner realities.

True parenting and teaching require a different approach: cultivating patience, empathy, compassion, and perseverance within ourselves; creating environments aligned with our values; engaging in open dialogue; and acting as role models of integrity. Only then can we hope to foster the inner processes that lead to lasting, meaningful behavior — not temporary facades.

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Rewards Corrupt Motivation

Rewards Corrupt Motivation

 

 

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Intrinsic motivation is when we act simply because we value or enjoy the activity itself—like reading for love of books, painting for joy, or praying out of devotion. Extrinsic motivation is when we act for external outcomes—money, grades, applause, or fear of punishment.

Examples:

  • A flute player initially plays out of love for music. When people applaud, it adds a layer of extrinsic motivation. When money is added, the act becomes even more externalized. But when external agents set conditions—“Play every day from 9 to 12 for this payment”—the joy fades, and the activity becomes mere labor.
  • A hobbyist painter may lose passion if every painting is tied to payment. The art becomes about the reward, not the love of painting.

Research and experience both show that conditional rewards undermine intrinsic motivation. Once people begin working for the external benefit, they often start cutting corners, taking shortcuts, and losing genuine interest.

Extrinsic Motivation Eats Away at Intrinsic Motivation

Rewards are extrinsic motivators — they come from outside the individual. While they can temporarily influence behavior, they often undermine the very intrinsic motivation that sustains genuine interest, creativity, and growth.

When a person is intrinsically motivated, they act out of interest, curiosity, enjoyment, or sense of purpose. For example, a child might read a storybook because they love the adventure, or practice drawing because it makes them happy.

But once rewards enter the scene — “Read for 30 minutes and I’ll give you ice cream” — the focus shifts from the joy of the process to the expectation of the outcome. Reading is no longer about adventure; it is about dessert.

Example: Students who once loved math puzzles lose their natural enthusiasm when every assignment is graded and ranked. The joy of solving is replaced by the anxiety of marks.

Over time, the activity itself becomes devalued: “If I’m not getting anything for it, why should I bother?”

This phenomenon is well-documented in Ryan & Deci’s research: extrinsic motivators tend to crowd out intrinsic ones.

 

They Shift Focus from Process to Outcome

Intrinsic motivation thrives on process-oriented activities — learning, self-improvement, artistic expression, healthy living, prayer, or fitness. The reward lies in doing them, not just in achieving something at the end.

Extrinsic motivators flip this dynamic: the process becomes a burden, tolerated only for the sake of the prize or fear of the penalty.

Example: A person may start exercising for the joy of feeling energetic and strong. But if they begin chasing external praise (“You’ve lost weight!”) or social approval, the internal satisfaction diminishes. Miss the praise, and motivation collapses.

This makes extrinsic motivators especially counterproductive in fields that demand patience, persistence, and love for the process — like science, writing, spiritual growth, or personal development.

 

They Hinder Passion and Creativity

Passion is sustained when people feel free to explore, experiment, and immerse themselves without fear of judgment or external pressure. Rewards and punishments create narrow goals: “Do this to get that.”

Example: An artist painting for joy explores styles, colors, and techniques freely. But when painting becomes about selling or winning competitions, their creativity may shrink to what pleases judges or buyers.

Similarly, children praised only for high grades may avoid challenging subjects where they might fail, stunting their curiosity.

In this way, extrinsic motivation limits exploration and replaces passion with compliance.

 

They Create Dependence on External Validation

When people rely on extrinsic motivators, they begin to crave external approval, rewards, or recognition in order to act. This fosters dependency rather than autonomy.

Example: A student who only studies when praised becomes incapable of studying independently.

Adults may similarly fall into cycles of praise addiction at work, where performance is tied to recognition rather than inner commitment.

This dependency erodes integrity: actions are guided not by what is right or meaningful but by what will gain approval.

 

They Trigger Anxiety and Fear of Failure

With extrinsic motivators, the flip side of “reward” is always “punishment.” When outcomes matter more than process, fear of failure looms large.

Example: If a child is rewarded for every success, failure feels catastrophic — not only is there no reward, but there may be shame.

Over time, such children may avoid risks, challenges, or difficult subjects altogether because the cost of failing seems too high.

Thus, extrinsic motivation promotes risk-aversion, the opposite of the resilience needed for growth.

 

They Undermine Long-Term Persistence

Extrinsic motivation is inherently short-lived. Once the carrot or stick disappears, so does the behavior.

Example: An employee who works hard only for a bonus may slack off once the bonus is removed.

A child who reads for stickers stops reading once the chart is full.

Intrinsic motivation, by contrast, builds habits and persistence — because the reward is internal.

 

They Can Distort Moral Outlook

When people act primarily for external rewards, the moral meaning of their choices is lost.

Example: A child may refrain from lying because “Dad will punish me” rather than because “truth matters.”

As adults, such individuals often ask, “What will I get if I do this?” instead of “What is the right thing to do?”

This transactional mindset corrodes integrity and weakens the foundation for authentic moral responsibility.

 

They Fail to Build Internal Constructions

For a reward or punishment to “work,” it must feel more valuable (or painful) to the person than the act itself. This fragile equation means the motivator must constantly escalate — a larger prize, a harsher penalty — to remain effective.

But this misses the deeper goal: to shape the inner meaning of actions. We want people to value honesty, justice, or compassion for their own sake.

Example: If a child tells the truth only to earn candy, they will likely abandon honesty once the candy loses its charm. True integrity comes when truthfulness is seen as inherently right — even if it costs one approval or comfort.

Failing to nurture such internal constructions does more than weaken motivation; it corrodes character. People learn to calculate payoffs instead of cultivating principle-centered living.

 

Conclusion: Why Avoid Extrinsic Motivation

Extrinsic motivators appear effective because they bring quick results. However beneath the surface, they are counterproductive: they erode intrinsic motivation, shift focus from process to outcome, stifle passion, foster dependency, trigger fear of failure, and erode moral integrity.

For all pursuits that require depth, patience, and sincerity — learning, creativity, health, spirituality, and relationships — extrinsic motivators are not just insufficient, they are obstacles.

The alternative is to nurture intrinsic motivation: the joy of learning for its own sake, the satisfaction of doing right, the pride of effort, and the sense of meaning that sustains us even when no one is watching.

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When the Pyramid Breaks: Self-Transcendence at Any Stage

 

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Abraham Maslow’s hierarchy of needs seems a good abstract of how people generally progress in their motives. At the bottom are the basics: food, shelter, safety. Then come the needs for belonging, esteem, and finally self-actualization — the desire to become what one is capable of becoming. The model struck a chord because it felt true to everyday life. We all know how hard it is to think about philosophy when hungry, or to pursue creative goals when worried about survival.

And yet, real life often surprises us.

When Life Breaks the Pyramid

History and ordinary life both tell stories that don’t quite fit the pyramid. A child who offers her candy to a friend who has none. A laborer who shares his meager lunch with a stranger. A soldier who throws himself on a grenade to save his comrades. Or closer to daily experience: a student rushing to an exam but stopping to take an injured person to the hospital.

None of these people had “completed the lower rungs” of Maslow’s ladder before acting. They acted in the moment, beyond themselves, and sometimes at great personal cost. These glimpses remind us that self-transcendence isn’t reserved for the comfortable and secure. It is a possibility seeded in every human heart, ready to appear in unexpected moments.

Viktor Frankl and Meaning in Suffering

Viktor Frankl, the Austrian psychiatrist and Holocaust survivor, saw this vividly in the concentration camps. In a place stripped of food, safety, and dignity, he still saw prisoners share their last crust of bread, comfort others, or choose to suffer with dignity rather than despair. Frankl’s Man’s Search for Meaning insists that meaning is not something we wait to reach after other needs are met. It is something we can choose, even in the midst of pain.

This challenges the neatness of the pyramid. If self-transcendence is possible in Auschwitz, then it cannot be locked away at the top of a hierarchy. It is not an “extra.” It is a hidden flame, capable of burning even in the darkest conditions.

Beyond Self-Actualization

Maslow himself later admitted that he had stopped too soon. At first, he thought the summit of human motivation was self-actualization — becoming your best self, your fullest potential. However, in his unfinished writings, he later suggested that beyond self-actualization lies something greater: self-transcendence. The shift is subtle but important. Self-actualization still centers on me — my growth, my potential, my fulfillment. Self-transcendence shifts the center outward — to others, to truth, to causes larger than the self.

In this sense, Frankl’s prisoners were not “self-actualizing.” They were transcending themselves — giving, enduring, hoping — not for themselves alone but for something beyond them.

Relatedness and the Need to Give

Modern motivation theory deepens this picture. Edward Deci and Richard Ryan, in their Self-Determination Theory, showed that human beings have three core psychological needs: autonomy, competence, and relatedness. Relatedness — the sense of meaningful connection to others — is not a luxury that comes later, but a need as basic as autonomy or competence.

This explains why even people in hardship often reach out to others. A poor villager feeding a guest, a disaster survivor comforting a neighbor, or even a child handing over candy — all these acts speak to the deep human need to belong and to matter in each other’s lives. In fact, relatedness often fuels the very strength needed to endure deprivation.

Transcendence at Every Stage

Perhaps, then, we need to rethink Maslow’s model. The hierarchy was useful as a map, but life is not always traveled on straight roads. People do not always climb one step at a time. Sometimes they leap beyond themselves even when their own needs remain unmet.

Seen this way, self-transcendence is not the final stage of human growth. It is an ever-present potential. Children, the poor, the sick, the ordinary, and the extraordinary alike — all can show it. And when they do, they remind us that being human is not just about surviving or even thriving, but about giving, relating, and finding meaning beyond ourselves.

A Gentle Reminder

Maslow’s pyramid still helps us understand the arc of human motives. But perhaps the true story of human life is less a ladder and more a landscape, where self-transcendence can appear anywhere — in a hospital corridor, in a schoolyard, in a moment of generosity across a dinner table.

Frankl was right: even in suffering, we remain free to choose our response. And Deci and Ryan remind us that connection itself is a basic need, not an optional extra. Together, these insights suggest that transcendence is not the top of a pyramid but the thread that runs through it all.

It is the quiet possibility that at any moment, even in lack, even in pain, we may rise above ourselves.

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