This past weekend I watched the Titan documentary. It’s a poignant retelling of the 2023 tragedy, when a submersible imploded on its way to the Titanic, killing all five men on board. There were many lessons in the story, but what struck me most was how determined Stockton Rush, the mind behind the Titan, was to become a living legend. He wasn’t just building a submersible; he was building a legacy. But in chasing that legacy, he crossed lines, and it cost lives.
There’s a bunch of behind-the-scenes footage of his story. In the footage, you see him boast about how his inventions were pushing boundaries no one else dared to. He wanted to be known alongside the likes of Elon Musk or Jeff Bezos. A genius innovator. A name that would go down in history. And he was hell-bent on making it happen, at all costs. He wasn’t just curious or adventurous. He wanted to be seen as a visionary and pioneer.
Despite repeated warnings from experts and consultants, despite test runs where the sub had imploded, despite concerns from his own team, he refused to listen. He kept pushing and striving. Kept chasing the extraordinary. In the end, he’ll be remembered, but not for the reasons he probably imagined. His pursuit of legendary status, not only cost him his life but the lives of others who entrusted him with theirs.
The whole story left me thinking about our collective obsession with living an extraordinary life. So many of us have spent years trying to make our mark on the world. We push and strive and force. Our creativity, our passion, our love for what we do—none of it feels like enough unless someone applauds it.
But what if the path to an extraordinary life is something far more counterintuitive? If everyone is chasing an “extraordinary life” is it really extraordinary anymore? What if living an extraordinary life has less to do with what we create and everything to do with who we’re being as we create it?
The Sneaky Truth About the “Extraordinary” Life
All of us want to believe we matter. I’m not entirely sure where that comes from, but it seems deeply ingrained in our psyche. This belief that we need to be seen, to be someone. We want others to think highly of us, to do work that matters, to have the kind of epic romance that proves we’re worth choosing. That we’re lovable and desirable.
The Titan tragedy holds up a mirror to so much of that. It reveals the allure of fame and legacy in a society obsessed with achievement. The danger of excessive pride, especially when it’s wrapped in innovation. And the lengths people will go to prove they’re extraordinary.
But it also speaks to the ache to be remembered, the longing to do something remarkable. The need to feel like we’re someone worth knowing. I think there’s something almost animalistic in it… some part of us that wants to be kings and queens of the jungle, to claw our way to the top, and to be admired and revered. Worshipped, even.
If anyone knows that hunger, it’s me. Back in 2018, I hosted a podcast called Becoming Known. I interviewed successful entrepreneurs, motivational speakers, athletes, and the occasional celebrity about the highs and lows on their journey to recognition. On the surface, it was about helping others. I’d say things like, “In order to become known to the world, you first have to become known to yourself.” And while that sounded wholesome and grounded, like the kind of person I wanted to be known as, I wasn’t totally honest with myself. I wanted to be widely known. For what, exactly, I wasn’t sure. It just felt like it mattered.
I’ve chased that same hunger in love too. I’ve shared before about the “Legendary Love Letter” I wrote at the end of my marriage. A letter that spelled out everything I wanted to experience in a future relationship. It was beautiful and heartfelt, and it did help me cast a vision. I believe in the power of vision. But I also see now that the word “legendary” was still rooted in striving. Because sometimes, the idea of living a legendary life or finding legendary love, is just another way of chasing meaning. Another way of trying to feel like we’re enough. And that kind of pursuit can become like Stockton’s deep-sea sub: sealed up in fantasy, built on pressure and with very little room to breathe.
As I watched the Titan documentary, I found myself thinking about my own life. The places where I’ve craved the extraordinary. The moments I’ve tried to make things legendary. It brought me face-to-face with the same old questions. What am I really chasing? Am I building something meaningful or just trying to prove I’m enough? What’s the cost of needing to be “somebody”? What’s the cost of needing my life to be legendary? My love to be legendary?
Stockton Rush’s life story ended up feeling like a cautionary tale. It invited me to ask myself honestly, Can I let my life be beautiful… without needing it to be extraordinary?
Because I’m starting to suspect that a simple, grounded, creative life, rooted in passion, and without the desperate need for recognition, might just be the most extraordinary kind of living.
How to Live an Extraordinary Life: A Countercultural Perspective
These days, one of my favorite teachers is the controversial mystic and spiritual rebel, Osho. For over four decades, he spoke to seekers around the world about what it means to live a truly poetic, beautiful, and liberated life. One that’s free from the trappings of societal expectations.
My friend Rob introduced me to Osho’s work a few years ago, and I’ve been devouring his books ever since. Say what you will about the man (and yes, I know he’s a polarizing figure), but the soul of his message has resonated with me in ways few other teachings have.
One of his ideas that has stayed with me is this: “Everybody is trying to be extraordinary. That’s why people are so miserable. Just be ordinary. Relax in your ordinariness. There is nobody else like you—this is your extraordinariness.”
That truth cuts deep. We’re so conditioned, especially in Western culture, to equate our greatness with our performance. With building something the world deems worthy of applause. We’re taught to create, not for joy, but for recognition. To post and share things so we can be praised or paid.
We want to be one half of a power couple, conquering the world in matching outfits. We want to be “the next big thing.” We want people to see our work and say, “Wow, she’s incredible.” So we chase perfection and validation. And honestly, it’s exhausting. I’ve lived that chase. And I’ve come to believe it’s not only unsustainable, but it’s also a setup for burnout, disappointment, and emptiness wrapped in shiny branding.
What Osho is saying cuts through all that noise. He suggests that our extraordinariness doesn’t come from what we do, but who we are. It’s not in the achievements we pile up or the audiences we gather. It’s in our presence. Our very essence. Our freedom to be fully ourselves, without needing permission or approval from anyone. It’s in our ability to reclaim our inner authority and sovereignty, and carve out a life that is honest, meaningful, and aligned with our hearts, regardless of whether anyone claps for it.
That’s the kind of extraordinariness that can’t be replicated or mass-produced. It’s fierce in its authenticity and it’s completely free. Cool, right?!
What if the most extraordinary thing, and the most rebellious thing, we could do was to break free of our conditioning altogether? To stop striving to be seen as special and simply be. To buck the status quo and reclaim our individuality, not in a loud and arrogant way, but in a grounded and soulful way. To move through life from a place of deep alignment with our passions, our creativity, and our truest essence. To create, not for applause, but because we can’t not create. To live, not for the story it tells the world, but for the aliveness it stirs in our bones.
What if that was the revolution?
What if living, loving and working purely for the joy of it… for the creative process itself, for the love of beauty and the depth of truth… was the real mark of an extraordinary life?
Simple Practices for an Extraordinary Life
The day I realized that the most extraordinary thing I could do was to relax into my own ordinariness, I felt something lift. It was a liberation, like a weight had been lifted from my shoulders.
I saw just how much of my work had been shaped by comparison. By Keeping Up With The Kardashians (guilty pleasure—sorry, not sorry!), and the rest of the boss babes on my Instagram feed. Creating work while comparing my every move was like pushing a boulder up a hill, smiling all the way to the top, then wondering why I was so tired.
Eventually, the desire to be seen was replaced by a longing to be invisible, at least for a while. I shut down my Facebook and Instagram accounts. I wanted to feel the silence of my own life and to create for no one but myself. I wanted to let inspiration rise from the silence. To sit with myself long enough to remember who I am when I’m not trying so hard to be someone, to be extraordinary. And as I slowly began living from that place life got richer. There was joy again. The kind that bubbles up unexpectedly in the middle of an ordinary Monday afternoon.
From that place, three simple practices began to anchor me. Practices that helped me redefine what it means to live an extraordinary life:
Create for the Joy of It
I used to think of creativity as something that had to lead somewhere. That at the end of a creative act, there needed to be a product whether it was a polished piece of writing, an impressive meal, or a piece of content that converted readers into buyers. Creativity, for most of my life, was tied to outcomes, metrics, and usually driven by a larger vision.
Whether I was writing to market my business, making art to prove something, or cooking to feed others (or just to avoid waste), everything had a goal attached. And with that goal came pressure and perfectionism.
The amount of times I’ve sat down to write a book over the years, only to freeze, hands hovering above the keyboard, mind spiraling with questions like: Should this story go here or there? Does this sound like a fifth grader wrote it? Will anyone care? How do I publish this? Should I self-publish or keep hoping for a book deal? It’s kind of embarrassing. Even with cooking, I’d wonder if it would take too long. If it was worth trying a new recipe. If I’d ruin the ingredients. If I should save it for guests. Or save it for… never.
Creating with an agenda often left me with half-finished work and half-filled joy. The end result rarely lived up to the vision. And more importantly, the process just didn’t feel good.
Everything changed when I began to create simply for the joy of it. Just pure, unadulterated joy. The pleasure of watching stories and memories take shape on a page. The messy meditation of grating beets, the gentle folding of fennel seeds into grainy bread dough, watching a glowing oven rise with a loaf of goodness. The absolute delight of filling my pantry with jars of goji berries, dried mango, pistachios… The vivid colors and textures that inspire the next thing I’ll make.
And that, strangely, is when life started to feel extraordinary. I wasn’t doing anything world-changing. I was just feeling so deeply present in it.
So here’s my invitation to you: Create something today that leads nowhere but back to your own delight. Write a few lines of a story that no one else may ever read. Make a meal that doesn’t need to be impressive. Just messy and interesting and entirely yours. Paint, if you want to. Sing, if you’re into it. Dance, like no-one’s watching, of course. Play, roll around the floor, re-pot a plant. Rearrange your spice drawer if that’s what lights you up. Make things that don’t make sense. Make things that don’t sell. Make things that are just for you.The act of creation when it’s free and playful and soul-led is the magic. It’s what turns the ordinary moments of life into something extraordinary.
Love for the Joy of It
I remember the first time I ever filled out a dating profile. It asked me for my “Dating Goals,” and I just sat there… blinking. Dating goals? I felt like I was ordering a relationship off a fast food menu: Long-term? Short-term? Still deciding?
But what I wanted didn’t quite fit neatly into any of those. I knew I wanted Legendary Love, that was for sure. But I’d never thought of it as a “goal.” I wanted someone to kick it with. To dance in the living room with. To make memories and messes. Not on a timeline or a five-year plan. I didn’t want to be married again, or to have kids, and I didn’t have a checklist of desired attributes of the ideal man.
And still, underneath my free spirit, was that subtle, but crushing pressure to have something epic, to be chosen and to be loved in a way that made everyone else go “wow.” I lived inside a kind of emotional submersible (Titan theme, still tracking!). It was a capsule built from fantasy, pressure, and hope. And everyone I tried to pull into it? Well, they felt the pressure too.
It’s interesting, isn’t it? The moment we turn love into a goal, it becomes a project. Every person we meet is either helping us get there, or wasting our time. They’re either part of the plan, or not. And before we know it, our hearts aren’t open. They’re interviewing candidates.
It’s not just dating. I’ve done this in friendships and with my family, too. In the way I’ve loved people with the subconscious hope that something extraordinary would be returned. That the love I gave would be recognized and matched. But love that comes with expectation, isn’t love. And I’ve realized love that needs to be “legendary” isn’t really love either.
These days, I’m choosing to love for the joy of loving. Without the pressure and without needing the proof of its return. To show up to love not as a transaction or a deal to strike, but as an overflow of my joyful heart. And something wild is happening. My heart feels lighter and my relationships feel softer. I feel more present, more generous, and much more myself.
I’ve found that the love that’s extraordinary doesn’t always announce itself. It doesn’t arrive with fireworks or fate-filled coincidences. It lives in the everyday moments of life. In a friend who remembers your coffee order, in laughing so hard you forget what started it, and in being seen as a human, not as a myth or fantasy. It’s not always cinematic and it’s rarely perfect. But in its realness it’s wildly freeing.
To love just for the joy of it might just be the most extraordinary kind of love there is.
Live for the Joy of It
Tomorrow, I’m off to the Bahamas. It’ll be the first trip I’ve taken purely for joy and pleasure in years. The last few times I’ve traveled, there was always a second reason—family obligations, a work engagement, scouting a location for a retreat I dream of hosting one day. And while each of those trips brought something beautiful, they also carried the weight of purpose and productivity. I was still taking care of life.
But this trip was born on a lazy afternoon at a coffee shop down the street from my apartment, dreamed up in conversation with a friend who shares my desire to live life for all its joy and beauty. We’ve both created our lives and schedules to have a huge amount of freedom, and every day we commit to becoming more content, more vibrant, more free. Nothing to prove, nothing to justify, no mind-blowing legacies we’re determined to leave behind. Just joy.
I want to live my whole life like that. To meet with friends in such regularity that we’re not catching up, we’re doing life together. To hang out not just when I’m in need, but when I’m radiant. To savor the in-between moments as much as the milestones. And to live not because I’m chasing legacy or racing toward achievement, but because I’m awake to the aliveness in each day. A sunset walk along the pier in South Pointe park. A mango eaten barefoot in my kitchen. Savoring honeycomb ice-cream on a random Wednesday afternoon on the floor of my living room, just because I can. I don’t need my life to be epic. I just want it to be alive.
Finding The Extraordinary in the Ordinary
I went to bed on Thursday night after watching the Titan documentary feeling a strange mix of sadness and reverence for the mind and life of Stockton Rush. He was just a man, swept up in the trappings of his own brilliance, brainwashed by a culture that taught him his adventure, his creativity, his aliveness weren’t enough unless they were seen, and somehow changed the world.
The legacy he left probably wasn’t the one he hoped for. Who would want to go down in history as the man whose ego led four others to their deaths, whose ambition left a trail of grief in its wake? And yet, his story is a cautionary tale with a gift tucked inside.
He reminds us that we are enough. That our desire to push boundaries, to explore, to create, and to love are all sacred. We just have to remain awake so those desires stay pure. So they remain untainted by the need to prove something.
Because when we live for the joy of it, something radical happens. A natural sharing begins. Words spill and art forms and love grows. Life pours out of us freely. And we offer our gifts, not for applause or legacy, but simply because it feels good to be alive.
I no longer create because I need my words to be read or admired. I share in love, with open hands, trusting that the right hearts will find what they need in the stories and ideas that land here. The more I lean into my own ordinariness, the more I create and share from a place that is truly aligned and original, and where my creativity rises from the depths of my soul.
It’s not legendary and it’s not always perfect. But it’s real. And maybe that’s what makes anything we do or create extraordinary… So, I’ll leave you with this: Where can you relax into your ordinariness, and in doing so, taste the freedom of a truly extraordinary life?
Ps. Want to kickstart your journey to a slower, more peaceful way of living? Sign up for the free 5 Days of Slow audio course here.
