The Myth of Arrival: Why Fulfillment Isn’t Waiting at the Summit

The Myth of Arrival: The Hollow Wind on the Ridge

From below, the summit gleams like salvation. The peak whispers its promises: just a little higher, just a little more effort, and life will finally feel complete. I’ve heard that whisper on mountainsides, in classrooms, and even in courtrooms. We all have.

But here’s the cruel trick: sometimes, when you finally crest the ridge, the air is thinner than expected, the silence heavier. Instead of triumph, what settles in is strangely hollow.

Psychologists call this post-achievement letdown. A muted, sometimes depressed feeling that follows success. On the way up, urgency fuels us. Deadlines, caffeine, and the adrenaline of striving keep our feet moving. Dopamine (the brain’s chemical of pursuit) becomes trail mix for the soul. But once the summit is gained, the urgency fades. The nervous system is no longer flooded with striving, and what remains is often a disorienting quiet.

In Man’s Search for Meaning Viktor Frankl called this hollowness the existential vacuum; the space left behind when purpose dissolves. I’ve felt it after degrees earned, after projects wrapped, after personal milestones checked off. You stand on the ridge, the view vast and open, but with no cairns to guide the next step. The climb gave structure. The summit gave stillness.

This is the first face of the Myth of Arrival: the belief that reaching the peak will resolve the ache. It doesn’t. It can’t. The silence at the summit is not failure, though…it’s transition. Our bodies, minds, and spirits need to recalibrate here. What feels like emptiness is often fertile ground, clearing space for something new to take root.

The silence at the summit can feel disorienting; like discovering the peak you worked for was only a false summit. I’ve written more about how expectations and distortions can leave us stranded on ridgelines that weren’t the true destination.

The Myth of Arrival in the Brain: Hedonic Adaptation

Why does the glow of achievement fade so quickly? Psychologists Brickman and Campbell (1971) described this phenomenon as hedonic adaptation. We’re wired with what researchers later called a “happiness set point.” A tendency to return to a baseline level of well-being after both highs and lows (Lyubomirsky, 2007; Diener et al., 2006).

Think of it like hiking into a breathtaking meadow. At first, you can hardly take in the wildflowers. But soon enough, your eyes adjust, and what dazzled you becomes dull. The same thing happens in life.

Lottery winners and paraplegics, studied side by side, both returned near baseline happiness within a year of their life-changing events (Brickman, Coates, & Janoff-Bulman, 1978). The medal won, the house purchased, the career milestone achieved? Each feels euphoric for a while, but then fades into ordinary. The horizon recedes.

This is the second face of the Myth of Arrival: even when we do reach the summit, our brains quietly move the goalposts. The very wiring that protects us from prolonged despair also denies us permanent fulfillment from achievement. Each “arrival” becomes just another waypoint, never the destination.

When the horizon keeps moving, it can feel exhausting. But this is exactly where resilience is forged between the ridges.

The Myth of Arrival vs. The Gift of the Trail

So if fulfillment always fades, is hope a fool’s errand? Not at all. It simply means we’ve been looking in the wrong place.

Psychologists Teresa Amabile and Steven Kramer (2011) discovered what they call the Progress Principle: the single greatest motivator isn’t dramatic achievement, but steady progress. Small wins that create momentum.

On the trail, this means learning to savor the switchbacks instead of resenting them. They may feel like delays, but they are the very path to the peak. In life, progress looks like keeping a promise to yourself, practicing patience in conflict, or taking one faithful step toward growth.

For me, journaling has been my cairn-building practice. Each messy page, often written in the exhaustion of late nights or the uncertainty of hard seasons, marks the path. Over time, they become a map. Proof of distance traveled, reminders that the trail itself holds meaning.

This is the third face of the Myth of Arrival: we confuse the point of the journey. Arrival isn’t the goal. Progress is. The trail, not the summit, is where resilience is built, intimacy deepened, and faith tested into something real.

Carol Dweck’s (2006) growth mindset research echoes this truth: fulfillment comes not from static success but from embracing growth itself. Anders Ericsson’s (1993) work on deliberate practice confirms it too. Mastery isn’t achieved in dramatic leaps but in steady, intentional steps.

The trail itself is the gift.

The Myth of Arrival and the Compass Within

If the horizon will always move, how do we resist the endless chase? By reorienting the compass.

Edward Deci and Richard Ryan’s (1985) Self-Determination Theory identifies three needs essential for deep fulfillment: autonomy (choosing your path), competence (growing your skill), and connection (walking with others). These aren’t horizons to reach; they are companions who journey with us.

The Japanese concept of ikigai teaches the same lesson. Purpose is found at the overlap of what you love, what you’re good at, what the world needs, and what sustains you. Ikigai isn’t a finish line. It’s a compass bearing.

I chased the false summit of my MBA, believing a salary bump and a corner office would resolve my restlessness. They didn’t. What the degree gave me instead was a nudge of the compass: toward creative work, integrated living, and meaningful impact. That alignment has been infinitely more valuable than the paycheck I once thought would secure my worth.

This is the fourth face of the Myth of Arrival: we confuse external markers with internal bearings. The myth says fulfillment comes when you finally “get there.” The compass says fulfillment comes when your daily steps align with your deepest values.

Living in the Gap: Breaking Free from the Myth of Arrival

This is where Life in the Gap comes alive. The gap is not an error in the design. It is the design.

Faith traditions have always named this space:

• The Israelites wandering between Egypt and the Promised Land.
• The disciples straining against the storm before Jesus calmed the waters.
• Paul’s words: “We see through a glass dimly” (1 Corinthians 13:12).

The gap is the wilderness between promise and fulfillment, between the “already” and the “not yet.”

Psychology echoes the same wisdom. Tal Ben-Shahar (2007) reminds us that joy comes not from erasing the gap but from inhabiting it with curiosity, compassion, and resilience. Southwick and Charney’s (2012) resilience research shows that adaptation happens not at arrival but in the struggle itself.

This is the fifth face of the Myth of Arrival: believing the gap is a problem to solve. It isn’t. The gap is holy ground. It’s where resilience is forged, faith is tested, and joy quietly rises beneath our feet.

T. S. Eliot once wrote, “The end of all our exploring will be to arrive where we started and know the place for the first time.” That is gap wisdom: not that we finally arrive, but that we learn to see differently along the way.

Reflection for the Trail

If you find yourself restless at the summit, know this: you are not failing. You are simply encountering the Myth of Arrival.

Here are questions to walk with:

• What horizon have I been chasing, believing it would fix me?
  
• What doors stayed closed and what unexpected ones cracked open instead?
  
• Where can I pause today to honor progress, not perfection?
  
• How might I reorient my compass toward autonomy, competence, and connection instead of arrival?

And here are trail practices to carry with you:

1. Name false horizons. When you catch yourself saying “if only I get there, then I’ll be happy,” pause and name the myth.
   
2. Build cairns of gratitude. Journal small wins, not just big achievements. Each one marks the path.
   
3. Ritualize summits. When you finish something significant, create a practice of closure—celebrate, reflect, release. Don’t linger in the silence unprepared.
   
4. Choose a compass bearing daily. Ask: Am I cultivating autonomy, competence, and connection in today’s steps?

The horizon will move again tomorrow. But the trail beneath your boots is steady, holy, and alive.

You don’t need to arrive to be alive.
The gap is not your enemy. It is your teacher.

So walk it with courage. Walk it with grace. Walk it knowing that the joy you long for isn’t waiting at the horizon. It’s already rising beneath your feet.