What it Means to Practice Philosophy - A Short Introduction (part I)

Hello and welcome to wild:philosophy.

I’m away on a two-week vacation as you read this, so today’s essay is a little shorter than usual. But to me, it’s full of meaning.

It touches on some of the core questions behind what it means to live philosophically — at least, as I’ve come to understand it.

I hope it will mean something different to you.

Why? You’ll see soon enough. 🙂

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Early in my life, I thought clarity and peace about how to live well would come from finding the wisest thinkers, learning their ideas, and following their frameworks.

I devoured philosophies, read the classics, dabbled in mindfulness, stoicism, self-help — hoping one of them would unlock THE way to live well.

Some of it helped. But more often than not, I still felt stuck — unsure, conflicted, often disconnected from myself. More often than not, I didn't experience the sustained clarity or inner peace anyone seemed to promise.

I kept wondering: Why, after doing the right things, did I still feel lost — while others seemed so certain? Was I missing something? Or just not wired for this kind of life?

What I didn’t realize then was that adopting a philosophy is not the same as doing philosophy.

And more importantly: no philosophy — ancient or modern — can live your life for you.

This became clearer the more I engaged in actual reflection, inquiry, dialogue, practice — not just consuming ideas but questioning them, holding them up against my real experience, and slowly uncovering what truly mattered to me.

Two big shifts emerged over time.

First, I began to see that I wasn’t here to fit into someone else’s framework.

There is no universal formula for how to live. I have a particular shape, temperament, and set of values — and philosophy, at its best, helps me notice and nurture that.

I – just like everyone else – have a very specific way of engaging with and making sense of the world – my own innate philosophical engine, if you will. Or my soul, if you will differently. This defines my core questions, my inherent modes of reasoning, and the values that resonate with me.

The more I engage in and honor this personal process of questioning and discovery, the more life unfolds with a sense of coherence and authenticity.

The popular idea that “believe this and you’ll feel that” — whether it’s inner peace, purpose, or confidence — felt increasingly hollow.

What I came to realize is that meaning isn’t something you download — it’s something you wrestle with.

It’s not handed down by a guru, a book, or a method. It’s shaped by your lived experience, your questions, your values, your timing.

We might all face similar themes — love, loss, purpose, mortality — but the way we make sense of them is deeply individual.

Our soul is different. So is our way of navigating it.

This is why simply adopting someone else’s beliefs or path often feels misaligned or incomplete. It skips the most essential part: the inner work of making it real and true for yourself.

Philosophy, I’ve come to believe, isn’t about inheriting a philosophy or worldview. It’s about the ongoing constructing one-with — slowly, honestly, and in relationship with the world around you. Only to deconstruct it again. And reconstruct. Ever going.

Second, I began to notice that life doesn’t reward control the way I once believed.

Photo by Hoi An Photographer on Unsplash

For a long time, I operated under the assumption that if I could just find the right mindset, the right practice, the right belief system, I could create a predictable outcome: clarity, fulfillment, ease.

But life kept refusing to follow that script.

I would do the “inner work,” follow the steps, ask the right questions — and sometimes things would shift… and sometimes they wouldn’t.

At first, I took this as failure. Maybe I wasn’t doing it well enough. Maybe I just needed to try harder, go deeper, trust more.

But over time, I began to sense a deeper rhythm, an intelligence not governed by logic or linear cause and effect.

It wasn’t that life was random. It’s that life was relational. Mysterious. Timed in ways I couldn’t control.

Sometimes what looked like a setback turned out to be exactly what I needed.

Sometimes the results only came after I stopped pushing.

Sometimes (always) not knowing was the wisdom.

What emerged was a different kind of trust — not in a particular outcome, but in the process itself.

I started to see that I’m not here to master life — or a philosophy — like a system.

I’m here to be in process with it — to participate, to respond, to listen.

This shift didn’t make things easier. But it made them more real.

Less like a performance, more like a partnership.

It’s no longer about “doing X to get Y.” It’s about showing up with fully me — and letting life meet me in return. Only through that openness, I experience existential resonance.

And to me, that’s where the deepest kind of philosophy lives.

Not in having the answers, but in learning how to live the questions — in rhythm with something larger than just me.

I now see the purpose of philosophy not as finding “the right answer,” but as cultivating the courage and clarity to live the questions fully.

Over time, this has become my most honest and fulfilling path — not borrowed wisdom, but wisdom-ing, philosophy-ing, wise-ing.

That doesn’t mean I don’t still learn from others. I do. But I’ve stopped trying to copy them.

Instead, I use what I learn to ask better questions, make deeper choices, and become more of — not necessarily of who I am — but of who I want to be when I am in relation to what’s right in front of me.

That, to me, is some of the real beauty of philosophy.

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