The rain arrived without warning, drumming relentlessly against the glass as though it had something urgent to say. It wasn’t the gentle, rhythmic kind that soothes the mind—it was insistent, almost intrusive. The trees outside, usually calm and composed, bent awkwardly under the pressure, their branches twitching like they were trying to escape something unseen. Lightning cracked across the sky in sharp intervals, followed by rolling thunder that felt less like sound and more like a presence.
And yet, within that chaos, there was a quiet detail that held my attention. Raindrops gathered and traced slow, deliberate paths down the window. One after another, they slid silently, indifferent to the violence around them. Just half an hour earlier, the lawn had been alive—tiny insects swirling in frantic patterns, full of movement and purpose. Now, there was almost nothing. A few lifeless specks clung to the edges of pooled water, as if the storm had erased them without hesitation.
Watching this small, unnoticed destruction, a familiar thought surfaced—one that has lingered in human reflection for centuries: would it have been better not to exist at all? Is there any real purpose behind this cycle we find ourselves in?
We begin with nothing. We learn, struggle, build, lose, rebuild. We form attachments, only to watch them change or disappear. Time passes quickly, bodies wear down, and eventually, we leave just as quietly as we arrived. There’s something strangely ironic about it all. It raises an uncomfortable question—if this is the path, would it have been simpler to never step onto it in the first place?
This isn’t simply a fleeting or dramatic thought. It reflects a philosophical stance that has been explored seriously for generations—often referred to as antinatalism. While it may sound bleak at first, it’s worth understanding before dismissing it outright.
Ancient traditions have hinted at similar ideas. Certain spiritual teachings suggest that liberation lies in escaping the cycle of birth altogether. Not necessarily because life is inherently bad, but because it is, for many, incomplete. There’s always something missing—some gap between expectation and reality that never quite closes.
Philosophers like Arthur Schopenhauer leaned heavily into this view. He described existence as being driven by a restless force—an endless cycle of desire. According to him, wanting leads to dissatisfaction, and even when desires are fulfilled, they are quickly replaced by boredom. It’s a loop that never truly resolves.
More recently, thinkers like David Benatar have taken a structured approach to this idea. His argument centres on an imbalance between pain and pleasure. He suggests that preventing suffering is inherently good—even if there’s no one there to experience that absence. But pleasure, on the other hand, only matters if someone exists to enjoy it. From that perspective, non-existence avoids harm without creating loss.
It’s a confronting way to look at things, but it raises an interesting point. We don’t grieve for those who were never born. There are no memorials for the lives that never began. Their absence doesn’t trouble us because, quite simply, there’s nothing there to miss. Yet once life begins, it carries with it an unavoidable exposure to pain, uncertainty, and eventual loss.
Even in everyday language, we reveal hints of this understanding. When someone passes after a long struggle, we often say they’re “finally at peace.” There’s an unspoken acknowledgment that the end of suffering can, in some cases, feel like relief. It’s a quiet recognition that existence is not always easy to carry.
And still, despite these reflections, something doesn’t quite settle.
Because when you step away from theory and observe life directly, a different picture begins to emerge. You see people trying—genuinely trying—to care, to connect, to build something meaningful. You see parents supporting their children, small acts of kindness between strangers, moments of laughter that feel unexpectedly real.
Yes, suffering exists. That much is undeniable. But so does compassion. So does love. So does the quiet determination to keep going, even when there’s no clear reason why.
So perhaps the question isn’t as simple as choosing between existence and non-existence. Perhaps it’s more about awareness—about being willing to reflect deeply without feeling pressured to arrive at a fixed conclusion.
If you’re thinking about bringing new life into the world, it’s worth asking yourself difficult questions. Not out of fear, but out of honesty. What does it mean to create life? What responsibility comes with it? What kind of world are we offering?
There’s no need to rush to an answer. Some questions are valuable simply because they make us think.
In the end, whether we believe life is a gift, a challenge, or something in between, one thing remains true—we’re already here. The question of whether we should have been born is, in a sense, behind us.
What matters now is what we do with the time we have.
As I sit here, I realise the storm has passed. The sky has softened, and everything outside seems to carry a faint glow. It won’t last long—nothing ever does—but in this moment, it’s enough.
And maybe that’s part of the answer too.