Turned away from the airport and rejected by landlords afraid of government fines, Shoaib and his fellow Ugandans had no choice but to sleep in a local Cambodian temple for three nights. The only shelter in Phnom Penh was full with a long waitlist.
Where this was said
At 7:41 · chapter starts 7:40
With his third ticket spent and his savings nearly gone, Shoaib found himself locked out of the city's guesthouses. The Cambodian government had announced that landlords housing foreigners without valid visas could face fines or criminal charges — so locals, frightened by that warning, turned him away. The immigration office offered no help; one official even directed him to a nearby temple. So Shoaib did the only thing he could: he found a local Buddhist temple called a Prasat and slept there for three nights with no running water among crumbling statues and the sounds of chanting. He tried everything — calling Ugandan officials, contacting the UN's IOM, and even showing up at the immigration department day after day, begging to be deported. Each time, he was told the same thing: pay the fine first. His savings were evaporating, his stomach ulcers were flaring up, and he started skipping meals.
After being turned away from the airport and finding no shelter, Shoaib and fellow Ugandans slept in a local temple for three days with no running water.
More freedom doesn't produce more happiness — it produces more anxiety. Kierkegaard identified this 180 years ago: the more options you have, the more you feel the 'dizziness of freedom,' a paralytic unease at having to choose any single one. The freest generation in history is, by his prediction, exactly the most anxious.
Every person lives in constant tension between infinite possible selves and the finite, limited self they actually are. Tipping too far toward infinite possibility produces a loss of identity; too much confinement in the finite produces stagnation. Kierkegaard argued that this tension is never solved — only managed.
Standing outside a cold pool imagining reasons not to jump is the exact experience of pre-commitment anxiety. Once you jump, the shock passes and you wonder why you ever hesitated. The same mechanism governs every significant commitment in life — the dread is always on the outside, the relief on the inside.
Traditional societies had rites of passage that closed off childhood and opened adulthood. Modern society kept the in-between liminal phase but eliminated the ritual that resolved it. The result is 'emerging adulthood' — a decade or more stuck in the transition — engineered by rising education requirements, women entering the workforce, and delayed marriage.
When Mark Manson proposed to his wife, software he didn't know was running — the low-level assessment of sexual market value and other options — suddenly shut down. Commitment doesn't take freedom away. It trades optionality (freedom to do many things) for focus (freedom from distraction). John Dewey called these positive and negative freedom, and the latter is more powerful.
Mark Manson spent years as a location-independent digital nomad — always a new country, a new woman, a new venture. Then the diminishing returns kicked in: countries started feeling the same, dates felt identical, businesses all frustrated him. The cure wasn't more novelty. It was narrowing: one place, one person, one career.
Every meaningful commitment has a dip — an initial peak of excitement, a brutal trough of difficulty, and a second higher peak for those who push through. Institutions once kept people in the dip long enough to reach the other side. With infinite optionality and no institutions, everyone bails at the bottom and restarts the cycle of shallow first peaks.
Stage one — the aesthetic — is the default: chasing sensation, novelty, and keeping every door open. Stage two — the ethical — is learning to choose with eyes wide open, accepting the trade-offs. Stage three — the religious — is when a commitment becomes so total that it no longer feels like a choice. It just feels like who you are.
The ethical stage is rational commitment — you can explain your choices. The religious stage is when your commitment exceeds rational justification. You can't explain why. It just feels like it chose you. Kierkegaard called this the 'virtue of the absurd' — and it's represented not just in faith but in the entrepreneurs, artists, and athletes who can't imagine doing anything else.
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