Why the Journey Matters More Than Endings
It is good to have an end to journey toward; but it is the journey that matters, in the end. — Ursula K. Le Guin
A Destination That Doesn’t Diminish the Road
Le Guin begins with what sounds like common sense: having an end point is useful. A destination can organize effort, give direction, and keep hope intact when the road is long. Yet her sentence pivots on “but,” reframing the end as a tool rather than the treasure. From there, the quote gently argues that goals are scaffolding for experience, not substitutes for it. The end clarifies where we’re going, but it cannot contain what we became while getting there—skills earned, relationships formed, and inner landscapes changed. In that sense, the endpoint matters, and still, it cannot compete with the lived reality of the journey.
Time as the True Measure of a Life
Because most of life is spent in motion rather than arrival, Le Guin’s emphasis feels almost mathematical: we inhabit the middle far more than the conclusion. Even a cherished achievement—graduation, publication, retirement—often occupies a brief moment compared to the years that led up to it. Consequently, her line challenges the habit of postponing meaning. If significance is deferred until the finish, then ordinary days become mere obstacles. By contrast, treating the journey as central makes daily choices morally and emotionally weighty; the “in-between” stops being filler and becomes the substance of a life.
Process Over Prize in Stories and Myths
This idea echoes through storytelling traditions where the plot’s real transformation happens along the way. Homer’s Odysseus spends years wandering in the Odyssey (c. 8th century BC), and the epic’s power lies less in the fact that he reaches Ithaca than in the trials that expose his pride, cunning, and longing. The homecoming is a resolution, but the journey is the revelation. Similarly, J.R.R. Tolkien’s The Lord of the Rings (1954–1955) makes the destination—Mount Doom—clear early on, yet the narrative weight rests on the companionship, moral tests, and gradual erosion or strengthening of character. Le Guin, herself a master of speculative fiction, taps into this deep narrative logic: endings close a door, but journeys open the self.
A Philosophical Case for Becoming
Philosophically, Le Guin’s point aligns with traditions that prioritize “becoming” over “having.” Aristotle’s Nicomachean Ethics (c. 340 BC) frames a good life as the practice of virtues over time, not a single trophy of success. Virtue isn’t acquired by arrival; it is cultivated through repeated choices—through the journey. In a different register, Buddhist teachings on the path emphasize practice and awareness rather than a one-time attainment. Seen this way, the end can inspire, but it cannot replace the slow formation of wisdom. Le Guin’s sentence, though simple, insists that what we repeatedly do on the way is what we ultimately are.
The Psychology of Chasing Milestones
Modern psychology helps explain why arrivals can feel strangely small. Research on hedonic adaptation suggests that people often return to a baseline level of happiness after positive events (Brickman & Campbell, 1971), meaning the glow of achievement fades faster than expected. If fulfillment is pinned only to the endpoint, disappointment is almost built in. By contrast, enjoyment and meaning often come from engagement—what Mihaly Csikszentmihalyi calls “flow,” a state of absorbed activity described in Flow (1990). Le Guin’s claim fits this: the journey matters because it is where attention, struggle, creativity, and connection actually occur, while the end is frequently just a brief punctuation mark.
How to Live the Quote Without Abandoning Goals
Importantly, Le Guin doesn’t reject destinations; she calls them “good to have.” The practical lesson, then, is to treat goals as compass points while investing emotionally in the daily practice—learning, drafting, training, parenting, repairing, forgiving. In ordinary terms, you still book the ticket, but you stop acting as though the airport is the only place life happens. A useful way to apply her insight is to ask not only “Did I reach it?” but “What did the route teach me, and who did I become on it?” When that question becomes habitual, setbacks look less like failures and more like chapters, and the end—whenever it comes—feels like a conclusion to a meaningful story rather than the first moment that mattered.