Near Yet Far

-Karthik Gurumurthy

We often reserve our finest courtesy and admiration for those beyond our inner circle, while inadvertently taking for granted the very people we see daily. There’s a peculiar irony in how the world outside our home can appear filled with fascinating lives and exciting pursuits, while we overlook the richness that exists within our own household.

This phenomenon reveals something profound about human psychology and the way familiarity shapes our perception. When we encounter colleagues, siblings, or even strangers, we’re naturally inclined to present our most polished selves. We listen more attentively to their stories, ask thoughtful questions about their experiences, and genuinely celebrate their achievements. There’s an energy and intentionality in these interactions that we rarely bring to our kitchen table conversations.

Meanwhile, the people who know us best—our family members, long-term partners, or the people who attend to our daily needs—often receive the remnants of our social energy. We interrupt them mid-sentence, half-listen while scrolling through our phones, and respond to their news with distracted nods. Their daily struggles become background noise, their small victories barely register, and their quirks transform from endearing to irritating simply through repetition.

The outside world, by contrast, presents itself as a carefully curated highlight reel. We see friends posting about their weekend adventures, hear colleagues discussing their latest projects with enthusiasm, and witness acquaintances navigating what appear to be more glamorous challenges than our own mundane concerns. From our limited vantage point, everyone else seems to be writing more interesting chapters in their life stories.

What we fail to recognize is that we’re comparing our behind-the-scenes reality with everyone else’s public performance. The coworker who seems perpetually engaged in exciting projects also has moments of doubt and routine. The neighbor whose life appears perfectly organized also faces their own invisible struggles.

This selective attention creates a double loss. We miss opportunities to deepen our most important relationships while simultaneously developing an unrealistic standard for what constitutes an interesting or fulfilling life. The person sitting across from us at breakfast may have insights, dreams, and stories we’ve never bothered to explore, simply because their presence has become as familiar as the furniture.

Perhaps the antidote lies in consciously choosing to extend the same curiosity and courtesy we offer strangers to those who share our daily space. What if we approached our household family members with the same fresh attention we bring to new acquaintances? What if we celebrated their small wins with the same enthusiasm we show for distant siblings’ achievements?

The most extraordinary lives are often built not from grand gestures visible to the outside world, but from the accumulation of meaningful moments with the people closest to us. The irony is that while we’re looking elsewhere for inspiration and connection, the raw materials for both may already be sitting right across the dinner table.