When the Path Closes, Find the Principle

The Closed Corridor

A constraint can block one particular way of reaching something without necessarily blocking what we were seeking in essence. That is the point that can be difficult to see when an important possibility closes. We may discover that we can no longer pursue a particular activity, that a goal we had been working towards is no longer within reach, or that the path we had chosen simply does not continue. The constraint may be entirely real. The problem begins when we turn that specific limitation into a much broader conclusion and assume that, because we cannot continue along that path, we can no longer reach what we were actually seeking.

This is why I find it useful to think of life as a labyrinth. When we reach a closed corridor, we can accept that there is no way forward in that direction. But being conscious that we are inside a labyrinth changes how we interpret the problem: that corridor does not represent the entire structure. There are other paths, other junctions and other parts of the labyrinth that we cannot even see from where we currently stand. Finding them may require retracing part of the route, returning to an earlier junction and trying another direction. The idea of the labyrinth is useful precisely because it reminds us that a closed path can represent a real limitation without therefore representing the limit of all our possibilities.

In life, this distinction matters because we tend to associate what we want with a particular manifestation of it. We may want to pursue a certain profession, practise a particular activity, develop a particular project or reach a goal that for years we have imagined in only one form. Over time, that specific form can begin to merge in our minds with the objective itself. When it becomes impossible to realise it, we can easily conclude that we have also lost what we were seeking through it. Yet that conclusion contains an assumption we have not examined: that this form was the only one capable of giving us what we truly valued.

This is where, in my view, the most interesting part of the problem begins. The first response to a closed corridor should not be to deny the wall or to keep insisting indefinitely on moving through a place where movement is no longer possible. But nor does it necessarily require resignation and the abandonment of everything that lay behind our aspiration. Before doing either, we need to understand what we were actually looking for.

Extracting the Principle

The capacity for abstraction allows us to make that distinction. To abstract, in this context, means to stop looking only at the concrete activity and ask which properties made it meaningful to us. An aspiration may attract us because of the level of excellence it demands, its difficulty, the mastery it requires, the autonomy it provides, the intensity of the experience, high-level competition, recognition, or the possibility that our work may reach other people. Each individual may extract a different combination, even when looking at exactly the same activity.

I have always been interested in Formula 1, but it is particularly useful here because it takes this distinction to an unusually visible extreme. It is an extraordinarily selective category. Enormous numbers of people may love motor racing, follow it throughout their lives and even participate in some form of competition, while only a minute fraction will ever have a realistic possibility of competing in Formula 1. For almost anyone who has ever felt that attraction, actually becoming a Formula 1 driver will be a closed corridor.

If we remain at the literal level, the reflection ends there: I cannot be a Formula 1 driver. But abstraction allows us to ask a different question: what exactly is it about Formula 1 that attracts me? In my case, I see excellence, difficulty, selectivity, high-level competition, mastery, intensity and international exposure. Someone else could answer very differently. They might be fascinated primarily by the engineering, by the constant pursuit of optimisation, or by the extraordinarily demanding combination of power, precision and control.

That difference matters because each answer opens different possibilities. Someone for whom the engineering dimension is central may discover something similar in aerospace development or in other fields where people work close to the limits of what is technically possible. Someone who is especially drawn to excellence, mastery or competition with other extraordinarily capable individuals may find those same principles in activities that, on the surface, appear to have no connection with motor racing at all.

A Formula 1 driver and an economist who reaches the highest level of recognition in the discipline do materially different things. One drives a car at extreme speeds; the other may spend decades developing ideas, models or research. Yet if we move to a higher level of abstraction, certain common properties begin to appear: extraordinary mastery of a craft, years of preparation, competition with highly capable people, sustained demands, selectivity and the pursuit of a level of performance that very few achieve. The connection is not in the visible activity. It lies in the principles that both can embody.

That, for me, is the real value of abstraction. It allows us to detect a structure that was not evident while we remained attached to the concrete form. Formula 1 remains Formula 1, and driving one of those cars remains an experience that no other profession can reproduce. There are elements of any activity that are irreplaceable. Abstraction does not seek to erase those differences. It allows us instead to distinguish which part of our desire belonged exclusively to that experience and which part responded to principles that may also exist elsewhere.

Once that separation has been made, the problem changes. It is no longer simply a matter of finding another activity because the first one has moved beyond our reach. The question becomes where else the principle that made the original activity valuable can live. The form may disappear while the essence remains available.

When Another Path Appears

This logic can apply to much more ordinary situations. Someone may have associated professional development for years with reaching a particular position, only to discover that the path does not in fact open up. The relevant question is then not merely which other position might be available. It is worth understanding what that position represented: perhaps greater autonomy, decision-making capacity, recognition, intellectual depth or the opportunity to work on more important problems. A company may encounter something similar when a product, an industry or a business model no longer offers the path it originally expected, while the capabilities it developed in order to compete there retain value in another form.

In both cases, there is a difference between finding a replacement and finding a new manifestation of the principle. A replacement understood as a consolation prize leaves the original hierarchy intact: what we truly wanted was lost, and now we must settle for something inferior. Abstraction opens a different possibility. A new activity may share enough essential properties with what we were seeking and may even be a better fit for our capabilities, interests and way of being.

This is why, when a corridor closes, it may be necessary to move backwards not only in action but also in reasoning. Before asking what else we can do, it is worth returning to an earlier question: what was I actually looking for? If we move too quickly from one lost possibility to another, we may simply change corridors without understanding why the first one mattered. Once we extract the principle, however, the search stops being a mechanical substitution and becomes a deeper exploration of what we value.

And here a consequence appears that I find particularly important. A limitation may end up revealing something we could not previously see. Sometimes another manifestation does more than preserve part of what we were seeking; it expresses it better. It may connect more deeply with our capabilities, allow us to reach a higher level of performance, or bring us closer to a way of life that, in retrospect, we discover represents us far better than the original objective did.

This does not mean that every constraint can be overcome or that every loss has a satisfactory equivalent. Real limits exist. Age, physical capabilities, talent, resources, time or particular circumstances may close possibilities permanently. Recognising those constraints is part of understanding reality correctly. What we do not need to do is automatically extend their reach. The fact that one particular form has ceased to be possible does not demonstrate that all the principles we valued within it have disappeared as well.

This is why the image of the labyrinth becomes useful again at the end of the argument. From inside it, we see only our corridor and the walls that define it. We may reach the end and feel that our search has ended there as well. But if we remember that the corridor forms part of a larger structure, the wall takes on a different meaning. It forces us to retrace our steps, reconsider why we chose that path and search for other junctions.

Sometimes one of them will lead us, by a different route, towards something very similar to what we originally wanted. On other occasions, something more interesting will happen: by searching for another place where the principle we valued can live, we may discover that for years we had confused the path with the destination. When the path closes, therefore, we do not always need to find another path immediately. First, we need to find the principle.