You’re sitting at your desk staring at a document titled “Objectives.” It’s filled with neatly organized bullet points, timelines, and labels.
It feels important. It feels like proof of progress.
But if you pause for a moment, look away, and look back again, you might notice something curious: the document isn’t the work itself. It’s just a map of the work to be done.
It’s not step 1.
It’s step 0.
No matter how detailed, no matter how polished, it’s just a plan, a map. And a map can never be the territory it represents.
It seems kind of obvious. Kind of stupid. That kind of wisdom you’d see on a deep-fried meme.
You know that you could draw the most intricate depiction of a mountain, but it will never let you feel the cold wind at its peak or the ache in your legs from the climb.
And yet, modern life has become obsessed with creating endless symbols to represent things.
We don’t talk about people—we talk about “users,” “consumers,” “demographics.”
We don’t experience the world—we experience “content.”
We don’t even do jobs—we “manage workflows” in systems designed to produce… more systems.
We’ve become a species that builds castles out of PowerPoint slides, plants flags in virtual dashboards, and calls it progress.
Meanwhile, the territory—the raw, pulsing, unpredictable chaos of reality—keeps humming along, indifferent to our busywork.
We call our daily routines “responsibilities,” but what are they, really?
Are they acts of considered purpose?
Or patterns we’ve followed so long we don't question them anymore?
When we’re caught in this loop, life can feel strangely hollow—not because it lacks meaning, but because we’ve been too busy reading the map to notice the landscape unfolding around us.
How many times have you been so distracted by Google Maps that you missed your turn?
I once drove down a 2nd Century Roman road in Italy, right off a mountainside, down a deeply riveted dirt track that almost flipped my rental car because I trusted the map in front of me instead of my own eyes.
I had to pay £300 in damages to the car and I learned a valuable lesson that day, one which is the basis of Alfred Korzybski’s work in General Semantics.
It’s a simple, transformative idea:
“The word is not the thing. The map is not the territory.”
It sounds obvious, almost too simple. But think about how often we treat our personal “maps” as absolute truths:
We say, “I have to do this,” without questioning if it’s really true.
We label ourselves—“productive,” “successful,” “behind”—as if those words could ever capture the fullness of who we are.
We follow routines not because they nourish us, but because they’re familiar.
Korzybski’s insight invites us to cultivate what he called “consciousness of abstracting.”
In plain terms: Be aware that every word, every label, every job description is an abstraction.
It’s like looking at a photo of your best friend.
Does the photo laugh at your jokes?
Does it remember that time you both cried over cheap wine and existential dread?
Of course not.
The photo isn’t your friend.
It’s just an image.
We do this with everything—oversimplifying, categorizing, reducing.
And then we forget we did it.
But once you notice the abstraction, you create space.
Space to question. Space to choose. Space to breathe.
Nowhere is the gap between map and territory more glaring than in the world of modern work.
We wake up, log in, attend meetings about meetings, adjust numbers in spreadsheets, and wonder quietly:
“What am I actually doing?”
It’s not that the tasks are inherently bad—it’s that they often exist to justify themselves.
Reports generated because someone expects a report.
Projects created to meet deadlines that only exist because they were set in a previous meeting.
Titles like “Vice President of Strategic Synergies” that sound impressive but dissolve under scrutiny.
The tragedy isn’t just the time spent on these abstractions. It’s the quiet erosion of meaning.
When your day is filled with tasks that don’t connect to anything real, it’s easy to feel disconnected from yourself.
But here’s where the earlier insight helps: If the job is just a map, then meaning isn’t confined to it.
Maybe the work isn’t meaningful, but the way you show up can be.
Maybe the task is empty, but the conversation you had with a colleague wasn’t.
Maybe the system is absurd, but you are not.
So often I see people becoming depressed because they’ve unconsciously decided to mesh their personality with their job role. They say things like “I just want to quit and move to the woods.”. Sounds super dramatic but the act of saying that is incredibly cathartic.
Why?
Because they’ve conflated the map with the territory.
Life is messy, chaotic, and gloriously indifferent to our attempts to categorize it.
In a world that values constant motion, questioning our motives and actions feels like a luxury. But it isn’t.
It’s essential.
Taking the time to reflect, to sit with uncertainty, to ask “Why?” is time well spent.
When we strip away the maps—the titles, the tasks, the endless to-do lists—what remains is the territory itself: your life, unfolding moment by moment.
It’s easy to get caught in the illusion that the maps are what matter most—that productivity defines worth, that busy = valuable, and that ticking boxes is the same as living with purpose.
But maps are only guides. They were never meant to replace the landscape.
What’s really important isn’t hidden in bullet points or buried under deadlines. It’s found in the spaces we often overlook:
In the quiet pause before deciding what to do.
In the depth of a conversation, not just the efficiency it represents.
In the small, unnoticed moments where you feel connected—to yourself, to others, to the world.
Presence is more valuable than progress. Connection holds more weight than completion.
So, the next time you find yourself lost in tasks that feel hollow, pause. Breathe. Ask:
“Is this the map, or am I standing in the territory?”
Because at the end of it all, the metrics won’t matter, but the moments will.
And life—messy, beautiful, unquantifiable life—is happening right now, whether you’re paying attention or not.
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