I’ve always wondered — what does it really mean to be alive?
Until that day, when I saw a flamingo struggling in a salt field, and something inside me quietly broke open. A small light came through.
It was a land so white that it hurt to look at. The flamingo’s legs were covered with mud as it tried to walk forward. To survive, it had to reach the faraway lake of fresh water. These birds were born after a heavy storm that brought life back to the dry, cracked ground. But the sun was too strong, and soon the soft soil turned hard again. The salt crust became a wall of fate the newborn chicks had to cross.
They couldn’t fly yet. Their soft feet were their only way to move. But the salt ground was like a spell, wrapping tightly around their legs. Every step cut into their skin with sharp salt crystals. Every move looked like a dance on the edge of a knife.
I watched one flamingo fall behind. Its steps grew slower, its body heavier. The rest of the flock disappeared into the distance. The air was silent except for the sound of its rough breathing — like a whisper before death.
It stopped. Its head lowered. I thought, maybe it had decided to give up.
But then, it lifted its head again and looked at the endless salt field. And it took another step.
Maybe it was instinct. Maybe it was a power that came from deep inside its blood. In that moment, it wasn’t walking just to live — it was walking to prove something: even if it never reached the end, it could still leave a mark on the earth.
Maybe it would never catch up. Maybe it would never reach the water.
But so what?
Every step it took was already part of its story —
not an ending,
but a declaration that life itself means to keep going.
At that moment, I understood:
The meaning of life isn’t about reaching the destination — it’s about continuing the journey. As long as we keep walking, the story isn’t over.
We are all crossing our own salt fields. The ground under our feet is heavy and messy, but our hearts still hold hope. Our bodies may wander, but our souls need an anchor. Even when the world makes us stumble, as long as we keep looking toward that distant light — lifting one foot, then another — we are still on the road.
When I wrote “The Meaning of Life,” I wanted to explore a simple question that has stayed in my mind for a long time: What does it really mean to be alive?
This piece was inspired by a video I once watched — a flamingo struggling to walk through heavy salt mud. Even though it seemed hopeless, the bird never stopped moving. That moment deeply touched me. It made me realize that the meaning of life is not about reaching perfection, but about having the courage to keep walking even when everything feels uncertain.
I was born in southern China. My great-grandfather was a Yao tribal elder from the deep tea mountains of Dayaoshan in Guangxi. The village elder of the Yao people is not chosen by family inheritance. Instead, he is selected by the whole village.
He is respected for his wisdom and fairness, and known for being honest and just.
He passes down traditions and cultural knowledge, and helps organize farming and daily life.He has lived his whole life in the Great Yao Mountains, and he always says: "People are part of nature."Although I did not grow up inside Yao culture, I think that connection still lives quietly in me — in the patience, rhythm, and peace that come from the mountains.
Now I have lived in the United States for ten years. Sometimes I feel like I’m walking through my own “salt field” — facing challenges, feeling lonely, and trying to find balance between two cultures. This contrast often appears in my writing. The slow, struggling flamingo reminds me of myself, searching for calm and direction in a fast modern world. Even when the road feels heavy, I still keep walking forward.
We live in a fast-paced world where people are always chasing success and trying to reach some kind of “destination.” Sometimes we forget that life’s meaning is not only about where we end up, but also about how we move along the way. In today’s society, slowing down has become a kind of luxury.
I wanted to write something simple — something that helps me listen to my own thoughts. I hoped this essay could remind both myself and others that life is not only about the end. As long as we keep moving, our lives still have meaning.
One of my biggest inspirations is the Taiwanese writer Sanmao (real name Chen Ping, 1943–1991).
She was a travel writer and essayist best known for her book Stories of the Sahara (1976), where she wrote honestly and poetically about her life in the Sahara Desert. Her writing often explores loneliness, cultural difference, and the search for meaning in life.
Sanmao once wrote, “I am not afraid of the long road ahead; what I fear is losing the courage to walk it.” (Sanmao, Stories of the Sahara).
She taught me that writing doesn’t need to be perfect — it just needs to be honest. Like her, I believe that while the body can wander, the soul needs an anchor. (Citation: Sanmao. Stories of the Sahara. Crown Publishing, 1976.)
I am drawn to minimalist art and the simple beauty of nature. Life is never perfectly smooth, but it is real and powerful. The flamingo’s slow steps symbolize hope for me. It reminds me that moving forward — no matter how small the steps — is already a kind of strength.
Writing this piece felt like taking a quiet breath. It helped me find a moment of peace in a noisy world. It also reminded me that even though I live far from my hometown and cultural roots, the values passed down from my ancestors — patience, courage, and calmness — still live inside me.
I hope anyone who reads this piece can see a part of themselves in that flamingo and remember this: as long as we can still lift our feet, we are still alive, and our story continues.
Works Cited
Sanmao (Chen Ping). Stories of the Sahara. Crown Publishing, 1976.
Li Zhang is a student at Houston City College.