everything is a product of limitation

I resented the word “limitation.” It felt like a judgment, a reminder of all the things I couldn’t do, all the ways I wasn’t enough. The world sells you this idea of endless possibilities, infinite potential, like if you work hard enough, the sky is the limit. But no one tells you what to do when you hit a wall—or when you realize the sky has boundaries, too.

For years, I saw limitations as barriers. They were obstacles to overcome, things to break through or tear down. My goals were always about “more.” More time, more opportunities, more freedom to do whatever I wanted. But the more I chased that elusive idea of “limitlessness,” the more frustrated I became.

It started to dawn on me that everything I wanted—everything I cherished—was shaped by limitations. Even the things I thought I hated about my life gave it structure. I was the eldest sibling, which meant there were things I could never do, ways I could never let myself fall apart. Being the “responsible one” wasn’t a choice; it was a role I had to fill. For a long time, I hated that. I wanted to be carefree, reckless, the kind of person who could throw caution to the wind. But now I’m starting to think if those responsibilities give my life direction?

I see it everywhere now. My closest friendships aren’t built on endless, sprawling openness. They’re built on boundaries, on the things we don’t say as much as the things we do. There are things I can’t share with everyone and moments I know my friends hold back, too. It’s not dishonesty; it’s survival. The limits of what we give to one another make the parts we do share feel sacred.

I think about this often when I write. Writing has always been my way of processing the world, but I used to get stuck in the vastness of it. When I sit down with a blank page, I can write about anything—and that’s the problem. Endless possibilities freeze me. I end up writing nothing. But the moment I give myself a constraint—a topic, a word count, even a single sentence to start with—something clicks. The limitation becomes a guide.

And it’s not just in writing. I’ve started to notice how every aspect of my life is shaped by the limits I used to resent. My days have only 24 hours, and my energy is finite. I can’t be everything to everyone, no matter how much I want to. At first, that felt suffocating, like I was failing in some fundamental way. But now, I see it differently. If I can only give so much, doesn’t that make what I give more meaningful?

It’s not just about personal limitations, either. Even the world around us is defined by what it can’t do. The seasons are finite; the sun sets every evening. Trees don’t grow endlessly into the sky. Everything stops somewhere, and in that stopping, there’s beauty. Spring wouldn’t feel magical if it weren’t fleeting. Sunsets wouldn’t take our breath away if they lasted forever.

I’ve started to lean into this idea, to see limitations not as restrictions but as frameworks. They’re the edges that give life its shape. Without them, there would be no focus, no contrast—just chaos. The choices I make, the opportunities I say yes or no to, the people I let into my life—all of these are decisions born of limits. And instead of mourning the paths I’ll never take, I try to embrace the ones I do.

Of course, there are moments when limitations still feel like enemies. I look at the things I can’t control—time, circumstances, the ways people change—and I wish I could break free. I wish I could stop missing the past or worrying about the future. But then I remind myself that even these struggles give life its meaning. If we had no limits, no boundaries, no end points, would anything matter at all?

Everything is a product of limitation. My relationships, my creativity, my sense of self—all of it exists within boundaries. And maybe that’s not something to fight against. Maybe it’s something to honour.

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