What This Strange Book Taught Me About Wanting to Live

I recently finished reading I Who Have Never Known Men, and genuinely have not stopped thinking about it since.

If the book is still sitting in your TBR pile, maybe stop reading here and come back later.

Spoilers ahead. ⚠

The story follows a group of women (40 of them, to be exact) who have spent years trapped in an underground cage, guarded by men they do not understand. Then one day, unexpectedly, they escape.

Once outside, they discover a world that is seemingly empty. No cities. No other people. They have an endless supply of canned and frozen food. For the first time in a long time, they have complete control over what they want to do.

But slowly, over the years, many of them stop wanting to live.

Their routines become repetitive. Their days blur together. Some die from illness, others from old age, but beneath it all is a fading interest in continuing.

Except for the protagonist. 

Now, here's what struck me the most. After spending almost her entire life trapped in a cage, finally stepping outside into freedom, she remained curious. She wanted to explore, plan expeditions, and understand why they were caged. She wanted to learn how to read, how to count, and understand mathematics. She kept searching for meaning even when there were no answers left to find. And I think that continuous sense of wonder — even more than her youth — was the reason she lived the longest.

John and I talk about this a lot.

His dad is 85 now and still incredibly strong. He works, fishes, travels, keeps busy. He never really stopped moving through life. And maybe that’s part of why he’s still so strong — not just physically, but mentally too.

We’ve also noticed how differently people respond to life here in New Zealand, especially other Filipinos like us. A lot of people we know end up wanting to move back to the Philippines because life here can feel too quiet. Shops close early. There aren’t endless malls or constant activity unless you live in the bigger cities. The pace can feel slow, almost uneventful.

But somehow, it works for us. Maybe because we learned how to enjoy quieter things. Long walks. Swimming. Reading books. We are genuinely interested in our new found hobbies. Tiny moments that would’ve sounded boring to a younger version of me, but now somehow feel like the entire point of life. 

And as I reflect on all of this, how do we continue wanting to live? Because simply being alive is very different from truly living a life. Back in the Philippines, I never really had the time to think about questions like this. My purpose then was survival. I woke up every day so I could work, so I could earn money, so I could put food on the table. Keep going. Repeat.

But when survival becomes less urgent — when you finally have a little more time, a little more peace, a little more financial breathing room — the question changes. What now? What makes a life meaningful once you are no longer constantly trying to stay afloat? Now that we have better pay and more time: what becomes my reason for living? I always say it’s to make my spouse happy (and I think he is). But I don’t think another person can carry the entire weight of your reason for living. That’s too heavy for anyone.

So now I think my purpose might be smaller. Maybe even selfish.

I want to make myself happy too.

I want to keep becoming a better version of myself because growth excites me. I want to learn new things. I want to experience more of the world. I want to read books that change me. I want to walk unfamiliar trails. I want to laugh harder. Love people better.

I want to stay curious.

Because maybe that’s the real secret.

Maybe people don’t stop living because life becomes hard. Maybe sometimes we stop living because we stop wondering.

And I think as long as I still have the ability to be curious — about the world, about who I can still become — then I will always keep wanting to live life.

No Rhyme, Just Reason is a Taupō, New Zealand–based blog by Ariane about books, good food, long walks, and unapologetic naps.