What Happens When the Kitchen Drawer Is Incomplete and James Bond Disappears?

In January, I ordered a kitchen drawer from a major furniture store’s online shop. In our newly renovated home, the drawer was meant to be the final harmonious touch to a feng shui kitchen dream.

Just click & collect, and daily life would glide straight into the pages of an interior design magazine. The clicking and the collecting were smooth.

But then came a small surprise at home: the drawer front was missing. It turned out to be an optional extra. Perfection was not included as standard.

Now, nearly six months later, the gap exposing rolling pins and an eclectic mix of kitchen tools has become a permanent feature. An empty space in an otherwise finished kitchen—and a handful of leftover screws.

At first, it was frustrating. Then funny. Eventually, it became normal. The open end of the drawer is no longer just a place to peek in at utensils, but something else entirely: a quiet reminder that what’s been planned doesn’t always go according to plan.

And usually, it’s not supposed to.

The drawer revealed something familiar. How inner life, too, is often presented as a complete set—a mass-produced package with instructions, parts, and a clear objective: happiness, wholeness, enlightenment.

There are ready-made practices, programs and online courses that promise insights—instantly, of course. Clarity, connection and inner peace, delivered to your inbox. Sometimes the package also includes a vibration chart, manifestation workbook, chakra test, and various exercises with one guaranteed result: confusion.

Everything seems to be there—and still, something doesn’t click. Because life is not a finished series or a flawless IKEA manual (and let’s face it, neither are they). Sometimes it forgets to include the front panel.

More often, it leaves it out on purpose.

When Bond Goes Off Script

I watched the James Bond movie Skyfall.

Some Bond films are true classics. Others are a little awkward. Hairstyles and ideas from different eras can entertain or make you cringe—but one thing remains: nothing ever comes easy, and there’s always someone or something making it almost impossible to save the world.

Usually, the hero survives the opening scene with his suit and dignity intact. But the 2012 film Skyfall takes a different turn. Bond gets shot and falls off a train into a river. He’s presumed dead but actually vanishes—and drinks himself into silence. What follows: cyberattacks, personal collapse, and the total breakdown of the system.

Eventually, everything that made Bond “Bond” is stripped away. No gadgets. No physical edge. No safety net. Just him—a shadow of himself, an old cold stone house, and a long dark shadow from childhood.

Two hours later, things are resolved—but through a very un-Bond-like storyline. Instead of regaining control, the entire Bond myth is dismantled. And yet, the world is saved. Not because he had the right tools or superhuman abilities—but because everything is taken away.

That’s exactly why the film felt more real — and maybe more human—than all the others where the suit never wrinkles and the witty remarks never run dry.

Maybe that’s why it stayed with me. Because beyond the movie screen, life often follows a similar script: it doesn’t unfold according to plan. It zigzags, breaks down, strips away assumptions—and forgets to include instructions. Sometimes it omits the front panel—sometimes the whole drawer.

You can lose control from the very start. But sooner or later, you’ll lose it anyway.

Even Bond—in his prime and perfect tailoring—is never calmly sipping a latte in a flawless kitchen renovation, drawer gliding shut with a whisper.

At the very least, one drawer is off by a millimeter—or its rails are about to give in.

The Expectation of Happiness—and a Quiet Misunderstanding

We live in a world where happiness is no longer just a wish—but an expectation.

Smiles in social media photos. Yoga mats doubling as runways to inner peace. Podcasts, online courses, and morning routines promising that if you just tweak something in yourself, you’ll feel the light again.

And happiness can always be bought—in retreats, apps, coaching packages, or smoothies.

Happiness has become a quiet norm — a measure to check whether you’re on the “right path.” And if you’re not happy, the doubt creeps in: did I do something wrong?

As sociologist Eva Illouz has pointed out, happiness has become part of the modern project — an achievement and a duty.

It’s like a drawer we want to keep intact and under control—until the spatula slips out, and we convince ourselves something in us must be broken.

But maybe the misunderstanding lies there. If life doesn’t make us happy in the way we hoped, we assume we did something wrong—or that we need fixing.

We rarely stop to ask whether the premise was ever true.

I didn’t either, for a long time. I believed I had just missed a crucial step—or done something wrong. Or, most of all: done too little.

But deep down, many of us recognize that moment when nothing goes according to plan—and somehow, that’s when something softens. When assumptions fall apart and we stop fighting back, an unfamiliar calm rises within.

Like something we no longer needed to carry simply slipped away, unnoticed.

And the moment doesn’t have to involve Bond saving the world amid smoke, shrapnel, and villains stroking white cats.

Sometimes, all it takes is the wrong bus. A forgotten lunch. Bluetooth headphones that connect to the neighbor’s TV—or a kitchen that didn’t turn out perfect. Or simply that moment when you don’t care quite as much as you did yesterday—and realize it doesn’t matter.

A Moment Without a Script

Maybe what we call happiness is often a moment without a script—without thoughts or expectations.

It doesn’t come from something being fulfilled, but from something—a story, a goal, an idea—stepping aside. Like realizing the room isn’t peaceful because of what’s in it, but because of what’s not. The essence lies in the empty space, not in how it’s filled.

And yet we often seek happiness in content—in prewritten stories that promise a linear path forward.

But even the best guides and practices might serve a different purpose: to lead us forward just long enough for the question to change.

Until we’re no longer wondering how to get there but quietly sensing there might never have been a “there” at all.

In that moment, the landscape changes. Stories grow quiet, replaced by another kind of whisper that resists words. And the setbacks—the things that once seemed like flaws—become something essential.

Then life no longer feels like a series of obstacles. It’s still unpredictable—but no longer an enemy.

Sometimes, all it takes is a drawer missing its front panel. Or Bond, stepping off script for a while.

Maybe everything real only begins

when we stop trying to be on our way.

...

If something in this kept breathing inside you, perhaps we're walking the same path. You can also find Stillpoint.zone on Instagram. The newsletter doesn’t rush—it pauses. You can sign up below.