I was at a coffee shop last week, watching an older man make his morning coffee with this kind of peaceful attention. Nothing dramatic or remarkable—just a person making coffee the way he probably makes it every morning. He wasn’t checking his phone or rushing or thinking about what’s next. He was just… there. Making coffee. Being a person on a Tuesday morning.

And I thought: that looks like a good life. Not an impressive life. Not a life anyone would write articles about or hold up as an example of success. Just a quiet, ordinary life where you make your coffee with attention and don’t need it to mean anything beyond making coffee.

You don’t have to be special. You just have to be you.

Tomer Rozenberg

Then I caught myself feeling almost guilty for thinking that. Like I’d just admitted to wanting something shameful. Because we’re not supposed to want ordinary lives, are we? We’re supposed to want to be exceptional, remarkable, someone who leaves a mark, someone who matters.

But watching that man make his coffee, I realized something: Maybe the most radical thing you can do is be okay with being ordinary.

The Tyranny of Special

Somewhere along the way, ordinary became an insult. Something to avoid, to fear, to transcend. We’re all supposed to be special, unique, exceptional. We’re meant for greatness. We’re destined to do remarkable things. We should leave a legacy, make our mark, be remembered.

Every graduation speech, every motivational post, every piece of career advice carries the same message: don’t settle for ordinary. Be extraordinary. Stand out. Make a difference. Change the world. Be someone who matters.

And if you’re not striving for exceptional? If you just want a quiet, peaceful, ordinary life? That’s treated as giving up. As settling. As wasting your potential. As playing small.

I’ve internalized this so deeply that even small choices feel weighted with significance. I can’t just read a book for pleasure—it should be teaching me something, making me better, contributing to my growth. I can’t just take a walk—it should be exercise or meditation or quality time with someone. I can’t just be—I should be becoming. Always becoming more exceptional, more remarkable, more special.

The exhaustion is real. Because trying to be special all the time is work. It requires constant self-monitoring, constant improvement, constant performance. You can never just be a person making coffee on a Tuesday morning. You have to be someone on a journey to greatness who happens to be making coffee right now.

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The People Who Are Fine Being Regular

The most peaceful people I know aren’t trying to be remarkable. They’re not working on their personal brand or building a legacy or striving to be exceptional. They’re just living their lives with attention and care, and they seem genuinely okay with that being enough.

I know someone who’s been a librarian for twenty years. Same library, same job, same routine. She comes to work, helps people find books, organizes collections, goes home. She’s not climbing any ladder or building toward anything bigger. She’s just… a librarian. A really good librarian who cares about doing her work well, but still, just a librarian.

And she’s one of the happiest people I know. Not because her life is extraordinary, but because she doesn’t need it to be. She finds satisfaction in the daily work of helping people, in the small moments of connection with library visitors, in the quiet pleasure of well-organized shelves. Her life is ordinary by any external measure, and she’s completely at peace with that.

I used to think people like her were settling. That they’d given up on ambition or accepted less than they deserved. But now I wonder if they’ve figured something out that the rest of us are missing. Maybe they’re not settling—maybe they’re free. Free from the constant pressure to be more, do more, achieve more. Free to just be people living lives that work for them.

I’ve also noticed that the people most at peace with being ordinary are often the ones doing the most meaningful work. Not the work that gets recognized or celebrated, but the work that actually matters. The teacher who shows up every day for thirty years making a difference to individual kids. The person who takes care of their aging parents with patient attention. The friend who’s just consistently there, reliably kind, steadily present.

Their lives won’t be written about. They’re not changing the world in any visible way. They’re just being good humans in ordinary circumstances, and somehow that seems like enough for them.

What We Lose Chasing Exceptional

When you’re always trying to be special, you can’t fully be present in ordinary moments. Because ordinary moments don’t count. They’re just the space between remarkable things, the downtime before the next achievement, the waiting period before something impressive happens.

I’ve caught myself treating entire days as wasted because nothing notable happened. Just regular work, regular interactions, regular life. As if living isn’t enough—it has to be exceptional living or it doesn’t count.

This means most of my life doesn’t count. Because most of life is ordinary. Most days are regular. Most moments are unremarkable. If those don’t matter, if they’re just filler between the special moments, then I’m spending most of my time in territory that I’ve decided isn’t worth being present for.

I’ve also noticed that chasing exceptional makes it hard to enjoy things for their own sake. Everything has to contribute to some larger goal or narrative. I can’t just enjoy a conversation—it should be networking. I can’t just take a vacation—it should be transformative or at least provide good stories. I can’t just do something because it’s pleasant—it should be meaningful or productive or impressive in some way.

The pressure to be special also makes it hard to do things badly. If everything you do is supposed to be remarkable, you can’t be a beginner at anything. You can’t try things you’re not good at. You can’t engage in activities purely for the joy of them if you’re going to be mediocre at those activities.

I’ve watched people avoid trying new things because they can’t bear to be ordinary at them. They’re so invested in being exceptional that being average at something feels like failure, so they only do things they’re already good at. Their lives get narrower and narrower, shaped around maintaining the appearance of being special rather than actually experiencing the fullness of being alive.

The Legacy Trap

One of the ways the pressure to be special shows up is through legacy. We’re supposed to leave something behind, make our mark, be remembered. The idea of living and dying without anyone noticing or caring is treated as the ultimate failure.

But why? Why does your life need to be remembered for it to matter? Why does impact need to be visible and lasting for it to count?

I’ve been thinking about all the people who’ve made my life better in small ways. The barista who remembers how I take my coffee and genuinely seems happy to see me. The colleague who always has time to listen when I’m working through a problem. The friend who checks in when I’m quiet. None of them are doing anything remarkable or legacy-worthy. They’re just being kind, attentive, present humans. And they’ve made my life measurably better.

Their impact won’t last beyond the people who know them. They won’t be remembered by history or celebrated in any public way. And yet, they matter. Their ordinary lives, filled with small kindnesses and steady presence, create more real good than most attempts at leaving a legacy.

I think about the people who’ve influenced me most, and almost none of them were trying to be remarkable. They were just living with attention and care, being good at ordinary things, showing up consistently. Their legacy, if you can call it that, is in how they shaped the people around them through daily presence rather than grand achievements.

Maybe that’s enough. Maybe you don’t need to be remembered. Maybe it’s okay if your life’s impact is quiet, local, limited to the people who actually know you. Maybe ordinary lives filled with small kindnesses and steady presence are actually more valuable than exceptional lives focused on being remembered.

The Freedom of Not Needing to Be Unique

There’s this pressure to be unique, to have a distinctive personal brand, to stand out from everyone else. We’re supposed to find our unique voice, our special perspective, our particular contribution that nobody else can make.

But what if you’re not that unique? What if your thoughts and experiences and perspectives are pretty similar to millions of other people’s? What if you’re just… regular?

I’ve spent time trying to identify what makes me special and unique, and honestly, I’m not that remarkable. My experiences aren’t that unusual. My insights aren’t that original. My perspective isn’t that distinctive. I’m just a person with a fairly ordinary life, thinking thoughts that probably thousands of other people are thinking too.

And there’s relief in that. Because if I don’t need to be unique, I can just be myself. I don’t have to perform distinctiveness or cultivate a personal brand or figure out my special angle. I can just show up as a regular person with regular thoughts and regular experiences, and that can be enough.

This doesn’t mean sameness or conformity. It just means accepting that you’re one of billions of people living human lives, and that’s okay. You don’t need to be the exception. You don’t need to stand out. You can just be part of the great ordinary mass of humanity, living your small life with attention and care.

I’ve found that when I stop trying to be unique, my actual self becomes more visible. The quirks and interests and perspectives that are genuinely mine show up naturally, without me having to cultivate or perform them. Turns out you don’t have to try to be yourself—you just have to stop trying to be special.

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The Quiet Good Life

What would it look like to build a life that’s good without being exceptional? What would it mean to aim for ordinary done well rather than extraordinary?

I think it looks like that man making coffee. Like showing up to work you care about, even if it’s not impressive work. Like being a good friend, not because it’ll make you a better person, but just because you care about your friends. Like finding pleasure in small things—a good meal, a comfortable chair, a conversation that goes nowhere important.

It looks like doing your work well without needing it to be recognized. Being kind without needing credit for it. Learning things without needing to become an expert. Creating things without needing them to be exceptional. Living without needing your life to mean something grand.

Most of the actually good lives I’ve witnessed are quiet. They’re not being documented on social media or celebrated in public or held up as examples. They’re just people going to jobs they find satisfying enough, maintaining relationships they care about, doing small things with attention, finding meaning in everyday moments.

These lives won’t inspire anyone. They won’t be featured in articles about people who are crushing it or living their best life. They’re just ordinary people being ordinarily good humans, and they seem mostly happy.

Maybe that’s the goal. Not to be exceptional, but to be good. Not to stand out, but to show up. Not to be remembered, but to be present. Not to leave a legacy, but to live with attention.

What Actually Matters

When I think about what actually makes a life good, the exceptional stuff rarely comes up. What matters is daily stuff. The quality of your relationships. How you treat people. Whether you’re present in your own life. Whether you do your work with care. Whether you’re kind more often than you’re not.

None of that requires being special. You can be completely ordinary and have all of it. You can be a regular person with a regular job and regular relationships, and if you show up to those things with attention and care, that’s a good life.

I’ve noticed that people who are at peace with being ordinary often do better work than people trying to be exceptional. Because they’re not performing or proving anything—they’re just doing the work. They can be beginners at things. They can do things badly. They can try stuff that might not work out. They’re free to just engage with life directly rather than through the filter of needing it to be impressive.

They’re also better at relationships. Because they’re not trying to be the interesting one or the impressive one—they’re just being present with other people. They can listen without thinking about what they’ll say next. They can be helpful without needing recognition. They can just be with people without performing anything.

And they seem to enjoy life more. Because regular pleasures are actually pleasurable when you’re not dismissing them as ordinary. A good meal is a good meal. A nice walk is a nice walk. A quiet evening is a quiet evening. These things are enough when you’re not constantly comparing your life to some exceptional ideal.

Permission to Be Regular

Here’s what I want you to know: You don’t have to be special. You don’t have to be exceptional. You don’t have to leave a legacy or make your mark or be remembered.

You can just be a person. A regular person living a regular life. Working a job that’s fine. Having relationships that are good enough. Doing ordinary things with ordinary attention. Being one unremarkable human among billions of unremarkable humans.

And that can be a really good life. Not an impressive life. Not a life that will be celebrated or documented or remembered. Just a good life. A life that works. A life where you’re present more often than not, where you treat people well, where you do your work with care, where you find pleasure in small things.

The pressure to be special is exhausting, and you’re allowed to put it down. You’re allowed to stop trying to be remarkable and just try to be good. You’re allowed to have a quiet life that matters to you even if it doesn’t matter to anyone else. You’re allowed to be ordinary.

Because here’s what I’m learning: ordinary lives, lived with attention and care, might actually be the point. Not the warmup act before you do something exceptional. Not the settling that happens when you give up on greatness. The actual point.

The man making coffee with peaceful attention—that might be what we’re all working toward. Not because it’s impressive, but because it’s real. Not because it’ll be remembered, but because it’s enough.

You don’t have to be special to have a life worth living. You just have to show up to the life you have with whatever attention and care you can manage. You just have to be a person doing your best with ordinary days and ordinary challenges and ordinary joys.

That’s enough. You’re enough. Your ordinary life is enough.

And there’s profound relief in accepting that.

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