We ask for more,
Thinking it will make us whole—
More hands to hold,
More things to own,
More praise to ease the restless soul,
More roads to prove how far we’ve come.
But every “more” leads to a new desire,
An end forever beyond our reach;
A thirst that deepens as we climb,
And still, we grasp for what was never ours to keep.
The emptiness that keeps us in this hopeless pursuit
Is not found in what we lack,
But in the restless belief
That happiness is found in more—
More possession,
More achievement,
Or the next thing we tell ourselves we need.
The day we begin to notice
What our hunger for more has made invisible—
The hands already holding us,
The love already surrounding us,
The life already unfolding beneath our feet—
Is the day we finally discover:
We are already rich.
