Seeking Wholeness

Isn’t it fascinating that, in Plato’s Symposium, there’s this old myth about how humans were once these incredible, whole beings—with two faces, four arms, and four legs—only to be split in half by Zeus? The story goes that we were separated not out of cruelty, but to give us a sense of purpose—to spend our lives searching for that other part of ourselves.

It’s strange how this ancient story tugs at something deep within us, doesn’t it? Like it speaks to this buried ache we all have, this need to find that missing piece, as if by doing so we’d be whole again. It’s really both romantic and tragic at the same time. We spend so much of our lives chasing after connections, hoping for those fleeting moments where we think we’ve found that lost unity. And yet, it’s not just about finding another person—it’s about finding that elusive sense of completeness we think we’ve lost.

Every relationship, no matter how short or imperfect, gives us a glimpse of that fullness we’re after. Just for a second, we catch sight of what it feels like to be whole again, even though it might slip away just as quickly. And maybe that’s why we keep going, even when the heartaches pile up—because the pursuit itself says something about who we are, about how deep our need for connection really goes.

What’s beautiful about this myth, though, is that it reminds us the real magic isn’t in finding perfect unity. The way I see it, the magic is in the search itself. It’s messy, unpredictable, and sometimes painful, but that journey—where we’re constantly looking for meaning and trying to feel complete—is where the real beauty lies. It’s in those moments of longing and reaching out that we learn the most.

I may never feel fully whole, not in the way the myth paints it, with some perfect half completing me. But along the way, I’ve found something just as powerful. I’ve learned I have the capacity to love deeply, to form real connections even when they don’t last forever, and to hold on to hope, even when life throws me off course. There’s something in the act of reaching out, in trying, that reveals a kind of strength I didn’t know I had. And maybe that’s what truly counts—not the idea of being complete, but knowing I can keep going, keep caring, no matter how imperfect things are.

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