In Russia, even the kettles suffer existential crises.
You wake up at six in the morning because the radiator is hissing like an offended grandmother, and outside the window the sky looks as if God forgot to switch on the colour settings. Somewhere in the neighbour’s flat, a man coughs with such philosophical despair that you immediately understand: yes, civilisation is going downhill—but slowly, steadily, and only after tea or coffee.
And here where life begins: not in motivational books or Silicon Valley, and certainly not in almond milk. Life begins in the kitchen. Always the kitchen. A Russian kitchen is not a room. It is parliament, confession booth, psychiatric clinic, theatre, battlefield, and occasionally a place where pelmeni are boiled to death. There, between the smell of burnt onions and plastic bags, humanity has been trying for centuries to solve the main equation:
Striving for superiority + social interest = our life.
Not mine, but Alfred Adler's (psychology). Simple formula. Terrifying formula. A formula that explains why your cousin opened a crypto startup after three vodkas and why your aunt still feeds every stray cat in the district despite claiming she hates everyone. You see, humans are deeply ridiculous creatures. A cat at least has dignity. It hisses honestly. But humans? Humans spend half their lives trying to become important and the other half pretending they never wanted importance at all. This is what the psychologists call “striving for superiority or a will for power". What in reality means: "Look at me. I also wish to matter before I die."
That’s it.
A child stacks blocks higher than another child and suddenly feels like Napoleon. A businessman buys a seventh watch despite possessing only one wrist. A woman posts a photo holding coffee near a window with caption: “Healing.” Meanwhile she is one unpaid parking ticket away from eating hand soap. Everybody climbs invisible mountains. Even old Galina Petrovna from apartment 42. Especially Galina Petrovna. That woman weaponised superiority. Every morning she watered plants on the balcony with the expression of an empress inspecting conquered territories. If somebody bought a new refrigerator, she bought curtains. If somebody bought curtains, she developed chest pain more sophisticated than theirs.
One day she said to my mother:“Some people live carelessly. But I, personally, have standards.” She said this while wearing slippers shaped like hedgehogs. And somehow she still won the conversation. Because striving for superiority is not always evil. Sometimes it is pathetic. Sometimes beautiful. Often both. A man learns violin because he wants applause. Then one evening he plays for his exhausted wife in the kitchen while soup boils quietly nearby, and suddenly his vanity accidentally becomes tenderness. This happens constantly. Human beings aim for greatness and accidentally produce love on the way. That is where the second part of the formula enters the room carrying potatoes. Social interest. In Russian families, social interest is never discussed directly.
Nobody says:“Today I shall demonstrate healthy communal empathy.” No. Instead your aunt silently puts extra ??????? on your plate and insults your haircut while doing it. This is love. Russian love specifically. Very advanced form. Difficult for foreigners.
A British person says:“I respect your boundaries.” A Russian grandmother says: “You are too skinny. Sit down. Eat. Why are your ears cold? Are you dying? Why you don't drink. Are you sick?" Different aesthetic. Same basic instinct: I need your life to continue.
Social interest is the strange miracle where humans stop orbiting only themselves. It is the neighbour who fixes your car while complaining continuously. It is the friend who arrives at 2 a.m. carrying beer, duct tape, and no useful advice whatsoever. It is the exhausted nurse who still adjusts a blanket carefully around an old man.
Civilisation survives almost entirely because tired people continue helping other tired people.
And honestly? This is shocking. Because if you observe humanity objectively for five minutes, the entire species appears emotionally undercooked. We panic in supermarkets. We text “haha” while internally collapsing. We join meetings that should have been emails. We microwave fish in shared offices. And yet. And yet. A stranger still holds the door. A taxi driver waits two extra minutes. A child hands another child half a biscuit as if negotiating peace in the Middle East. Tiny acts. But life is stitched together precisely from these microscopic moments where ego loosens its tie slightly. The tragedy is that humans usually want both things at once. We want to shine. And we want to belong (psychologists know: which basic instinct).This creates chaos.
Take my friend Igor. Igor once announced: “I refuse to participate in capitalist nonsense.”Two weeks later he bought Italian shoes so expensive they arrived in their own emotional atmosphere. But then, in the same month, he spent three nights helping his neighbour repair a leaking ceiling. No payment. No Instagram post. Just helping. Humans are inconsistent because the soul itself is inconsistent.
Inside every person lives:
- one exhausted philosopher,
- one screaming toddler,
- one ambitious emperor,
- and one lonely dog simply hoping somebody comes home.
Psychology tries to organise this mess with diagrams. Good luck. Life is not a spreadsheet. Life is more like a drunk accordion player falling downstairs while somehow continuing the melody. And the formula is not a cold equation after all. It is a balancing act. Too much striving for superiority? You become unbearable. The kind of person who says “networking opportunity” at funerals. Too much social interest? You disappear entirely. You become emotional furniture for other people’s lives. The art is in combining them. To become fully yourself — but in a way that enlarges life for others too.
Ah. Now we approach the terrifying part. Because it means your greatness cannot exist alone. A flower blooming in a locked basement is still technically a flower, yes, but what a depressing career. Humans require witnesses. Not audiences. Witnesses.
Somebody to say: “Yes, I saw you. You existed. Your absurd little struggle mattered.”
That may be the hidden engine beneath civilisation. Not money. Not power. Not even survival. Recognition. Connection. The impossible wish to be both exceptional and embraced. And this is why kitchens matter. In kitchens, masks become lazy. People confess things there. The successful admit fear. The cynical become soft. The lonely laugh too loudly. At three in the morning, with crumbs on the table and tea gone cold, humanity finally becomes honest enough to reveal its formula. We rise because we wish to become more. We survive because we do not rise alone. Striving for superiority plus social interest. Not a theory. A survival mechanism. A man builds a bridge to prove he is brilliant. Thousands cross it. A woman writes a poem because she cannot bear silence anymore. A stranger reads it years later and decides not to jump from a balcony. One ego reaches outward. Another soul answers. And it does indeed look like a great formula.
This is life. Messy, funny, tragic, happy.
And meanwhile uncle Kolya still argues with cabbages at the market. Because the cabbages are overpriced. And because he secretly enjoys the argument. And because the old woman selling them has nobody else to talk to. You see? Even irritation becomes companionship...
That is the formula.