Much of our lives is shaped by goals, or by the absence of them. We grow up being asked, “What do you want to be when you grow up?” This question assumes that life is a project moving towards a future version of ourselves. Even in psychotherapy, a person’s relationship with the future tells us something about their mental state. Depression is characterised by a loss of hope. When a person feels empty, motivation fades.

Ambition, therefore, becomes one of the guiding forces of life. We admire people who are driven. And like them, we also start wanting to earn more, achieve more, and build more. A better job. A stable relationship. A house. Financial security. Ambition seems to be the guide that moves us forward, giving us direction and structure, and, in turn, protecting us from stagnation and helplessness.

Yet an important question remains. Can ambition also become harmful?

At times, striving towards a goal can narrow a person’s world. Other areas of life begin to shrink. The film ‘Whiplash’ illustrates this clearly. Andrew, the protagonist, lives for one goal: to become the greatest jazz drummer. Ambition is no longer a simple motivation. It becomes his identity and his psychological battleground. His value as a person becomes inseparable from his performance.

Under the mentorship of Terence Fletcher, played by JK Simmons, ambition turns punitive. Fletcher humiliates and berates Andrew in the name of greatness. Andrew practices until his hands bleed. He ignores the injury. He absorbs humiliation as fuel. Pain becomes proof of commitment. Suffering becomes intertwined with success. The belief that greatness requires cruelty goes unchallenged.

He ends his romantic relationship because he sees it as a distraction. He distances himself from his family. Ambition isolates him. His world narrows until only performance remains. Connection becomes secondary to achievement.

A similar pattern appears in ‘Black Swan’. Nina, played by Natalie Portman, strives for flawless precision in ballet. Her director justifies cruelty in the pursuit of perfection. Again, humiliation is framed as necessary. Pain is treated as dedication. The artistic ideal becomes absolute.

Nina begins to deteriorate physically and mentally. She starves herself. She picks at her skin. She experiences hallucinations. Her identity starts to fragment. Like Andrew, she becomes isolated. Connection feels like interference. Performance consumes her sense of self. Her body becomes the site where internal pressure is expressed.

There is, however, a difference between the two characters. Andrew’s struggle is largely relational. His conflict is with his mentor and the system around him. Nina’s struggle becomes intrapsychic. Her pursuit of perfection dissolves her inner stability. The ending is self-annihilating. One story suggests domination within the system. The other shows psychological collapse.

These films raise an important question. At what point does striving for excellence cause us to lose ourselves? When does perfectionism justify violence, whether outward or inward? When does discipline quietly turn into self-punishment?

The Japanese film ‘Perfect Days’ offers a striking contrast. In this story, ambition is largely absent. Yet despair is also absent. The absence of striving does not create emptiness. It, instead, creates space.

The film follows Hirayama, a public toilet cleaner in Tokyo who lives a quiet and repetitive life. There is no visible striving for greatness. His self-worth is not built on performance or recognition. His life is modest in scale but psychologically intact. His routines carry intention and care.

Unlike the earlier films, there is no dramatic breakdown. No psychological collapse. Hirayama experiences sadness, but it does not define him. There is melancholy without fragmentation. Emotional depth exists without spectacle.

Andrew and Nina are future-oriented. Their mindset is built around becoming great. Hirayama is present-oriented. His attitude suggests that this moment is enough. His identity does not depend on fame or legacy. There is no urgency to transcend ordinariness. He finds meaning in attention rather than achievement.

This shift feels significant. Many of us are raised to be the best. We are encouraged to stand out, to be recognised, to leave a mark. ‘Perfect Days’ quietly reverses that narrative. It dignifies ordinary life. It suggests that a simple routine can hold depth and meaning. Repetition becomes ritual rather than monotony.

If ‘Whiplash’ and ‘Black Swan’ reflect a fear of insignificance, ‘Perfect Days’ reflects acceptance of finitude. Instead of insisting that one must leave a mark, it suggests that one can experience a single day fully. One worldview fights against time. The other inhabits it.

It is important to note that ambition is not inherently harmful. It can guide growth and achievement. The problem arises when it consumes identity. When self-worth depends entirely on exceptional performance, the cost becomes high. Balance requires that ambition remains one part of the self, not the whole of it.

Hirayama represents another possibility. A person can hold memory, regret, beauty, and solitude without collapsing. The final close-up of his subtle smile and tears captures something universal. A life can contain both sorrow and peace. Complexity does not require crisis.

The film suggests that ordinariness can be complete. Ambition may guide us, but it does not have to dominate us. There are many things beyond our control. Anxiety is often characterised by the fear of the future. When we return our attention to the present, especially with awareness of time's finitude, life becomes more textured. Such awareness also opens space for a fuller experience of our emotional life.

We begin to live with our full range of emotions, whether joy or sorrow. In doing so, we may discover that a meaningful life is not always the loudest, but the most fully inhabited one.