The word ambition comes from the Latin term ambitio, used in Ancient Rome to describe political candidates who roamed the streets in search of approval and support from members of society. In German, ambition translates to ehrgeiz, a compound word combining "honour" and "greed" to mean the "greed of honours". The ancient Greeks called it philotimia, or "the love of honour", which Aristotle used to critique someone with the urge to be excessively ambitious; to be superior. To him, ambition was a flame: warm in moderation, destructive in excess.
Nowadays, however, ambition is no longer debated or doubted. It has become an unspoken necessity, as natural as breathing. To lack ambition today is almost a moral failing, a declaration of a lack of drive, purpose, and direction. It essentially relegates oneself to the bottom of the social totem pole as it relinquishes their ability to afford a higher standard of living.
Ambition, of course, is a core human trait, and is to some extent, intrinsic in us all. But if ambition is a flame, then capitalism is the fan that intensifies it.
Under this system of capitalism, it becomes a cog in the machinery of growth, productivity, and profit. The ambitious worker climbs the ladder, takes on more, sweats harder. The ambitious consumer buys more, procures that next fleeting symbol of success—the gleaming Benz, the view from a condo high above the world. Productivity rises. Profits swell. And the system churns on, as if it has always existed, as if it will never end.
Like unquenchable fire, this thirst fuels industries, feeds economies and boosts economic outputs. Without it, demand falters, economies cool, and financial progress slows down. But capitalism is a machine that drives itself, and inside that machine is where we reside. Its crisp metal walls reflect the same imperative back at us like an echo chamber of constant societal conditioning.
Our peers on social media present a sanitised version of their lives, sharing only the best parts of it; the immaculate success, the latest signifier of wealth. But can we blame them? Why would anyone want to share the bad parts and open themselves up to scrutiny?
Tenacious reinforcements of ambition are perpetuated in films because filmmakers themselves are ambitious people, and filmmaking itself is an ambitious act. Is it the filmmakers’ fault for making these films? Or rather, is there a higher power above compelling them to make them? Of course not. Art is simply a reflection of the times. But this is just a taste of how the cycle continues, how the script remains unbroken.
This isn’t to vilify ambition or anyone who possesses it—it demands a certain level of resilience, discipline and work ethic to reach it, all of which are admirable. The trouble lies in the internal voice it fosters, the one that whispers: You must do more. Be more. Have more.
This is where the root of our ambition really starts to matter. As Aristotle suggests, the desire for ambition can be virtuous if it is pursued in moral goodness, in wanting to make the world a better place, to live a meaningful and fulfilling life. If this is where our ambition is coming from, then it can serve us well. Ambition only starts becoming a trap when pursued excessively—when we allow it to define our self-worth, seek external validation, or feed the fear that we are unlovable unless we achieve success.
In a system where structural barriers often limit upward mobility for the masses, some people respond by confronting it head-on, fighting even harder to achieve success within its confines. Others seek to dismantle the system entirely. Both approaches are valid, but there is another path, one so deeply radical that it involves stepping outside this framework entirely. The act of doing the internal work of finding success and self-worth independent of any external system. That, to me, feels like the antidote to our capitalist, consuming, transactional world.
Yes... the irony of using a film to illustrate my point is not lost on me, but movies like this are one in a million. Its protagonist, a janitor in Tokyo, spends his days cleaning toilets, one after another. By all accounts, he is an unambitious man. He doesn’t chase wealth, status, or material objects. Yet, he takes pride in his work, meticulously scrubbing every surface with care and precision. Even then, he refuses to let his job define who he is. He listens to cassette tapes of Lou Reed on his way to work, Patti Smith on his way home. At night, he reads Faulkner before bed.
Throughout his days, he finds moments of stillness and beauty around him: the colourful silhouettes cast by passersby on reflective surfaces, the hypnotic swaying leaves of trees, and the shadows they cast on the concrete as he enjoys a sandwich alone on a park bench. His world is small, but his days are unhurried and full, and he is content.
There’s a moment in the film when he and his niece come upon a river flowing into the sea on bicycles when she asks, “Wanna go [to the ocean]?” He replies, “Next time”. Unsatisfied, she asks when this next time is. To this, he simply says, “Next time is next time, now is now,” before they turn away from the river and continue pedalling ahead.
So many of us spend our days living anywhere but the present. We anchor ourselves to nostalgia, reaching for a past that has already slipped away. The future becomes a basket in which we place all our eggs with the promise of a happiness that may never be fulfilled. When we stake too much self-worth on achievements and financial status, we end up waiting for happiness, waiting for life to happen. Meanwhile, life—the real, tangible, imperfect life—passes unnoticed, like a river flowing into the sea.
True worth, value and the ability to live a meaningful life do not have to depend on what we accomplish in the eyes of the system. This isn’t to dismiss ambition or dreams but to question the framework in which they’re pursued. There is something to be said for stepping back, for questioning what it is we truly want.
Is it so terrible to want to drift for a while, to let the current carry us, to listen to the trees and the wind and the sound of our own breathing? To neither desire failure nor achievement, chase nor flee, but simply to be? If that is unambitious, then perhaps I, too, am unambitious. And perhaps that is enough.
