There is no such thing as inner peace. There is only nervousness

The writer and social critic Fran Lebowitz, with her signature wit and piercing honesty, once declared: “There is no such thing as inner peace. There is only nervousness or death. Any attempt to prove otherwise constitutes unacceptable behavior.” Though her words wear the garments of humor, beneath them lies a profound and unsettling truth about the human condition. She speaks not from cynicism, but from recognition—the recognition that restlessness is the natural state of those who live, think, and care deeply. Her voice, sharp as a blade and laced with irony, reminds us that to be alive is to be uneasy, to tremble at the weight of existence, and that inner peace, as we so often imagine it, may be nothing more than a poetic illusion.

To the ancients, this statement would have seemed both scandalous and wise. For while philosophers sought serenity—the ataraxia of the Stoics or the nirvana of the East—Lebowitz exposes the truth known to all who live in the pulse of cities and the fire of creation: that the mind of a human being is not a still pond, but a raging sea. To think is to churn, to feel is to ache, and to hope is to fear disappointment. Her words reject the myth that calmness is the measure of wisdom. Instead, she elevates nervousness—that subtle, constant hum of anxiety—as proof of consciousness itself. The restless spirit is not broken; it is awake.

In saying that the only alternatives are “nervousness or death,” Lebowitz reminds us that unease is the heartbeat of vitality. Those who have achieved perfect stillness, she suggests, have either ceased to care—or ceased to live. The poet Dylan Thomas once wrote, “Do not go gentle into that good night.” In this same spirit, Lebowitz’s defiance mocks the idea that peace is the crown of life. For her, to live passionately, to question, to struggle against mediocrity and falsehood, is to remain gloriously unsettled. In her world, serenity is not a virtue but a sedative, and to seek it too eagerly is to betray one’s own fire.

Consider the example of Vincent van Gogh, whose restless soul burned with intensity until his final day. His life was not one of peace but of nervous brilliance—a fevered striving that birthed colors unseen before his time. The world might pity his torment, but without that sacred agitation, we would have no Starry Night, no art that trembles with the pulse of life itself. Lebowitz’s words could be a tribute to such spirits—the ones who never found peace because they were too alive to accept stillness. Their nervousness was not their curse, but their glory, the very furnace from which their greatness arose.

When Lebowitz says that “any attempt to prove otherwise constitutes unacceptable behavior,” she wields humor like a sword. Beneath the jest lies her rebellion against pretense and hypocrisy. In modern times, society sells illusions of calm—endless books, gurus, and philosophies promising “inner peace” as a purchasable product. To her, such pursuits are a form of denial, a flight from the vibrant, chaotic essence of being human. To pretend that one has found permanent serenity in a world of noise, struggle, and suffering is, in her eyes, a kind of moral falsehood—a denial of reality itself. Better to admit one’s trembling than to cloak it in the language of false enlightenment.

Yet, her words need not lead us to despair. For what Lebowitz ultimately celebrates is honesty—the courage to live truthfully within the storm. She does not tell us to abandon the search for balance, but to abandon the illusion of perfection. The one who accepts their restlessness walks through life with authenticity. Such a person does not seek to silence their mind, but to listen to it; not to flee their anxiety, but to shape it into thought, art, and purpose. It is the restless heart, not the peaceful one, that moves civilizations forward and keeps the flame of inquiry alive.

Lesson and Practice:
Do not curse your nervousness; let it remind you that you are alive. Accept that inner peace is fleeting, and that struggle is part of the human song. Seek not to escape life’s tension, but to use it—to create, to question, to feel deeply. When the world urges you to be calm, remember that the storm within is where your strength resides. Laugh at your unease as Lebowitz did, and turn it into wisdom rather than shame. For in truth, the restless spirit is the eternal spirit—ever striving, ever questioning, never still. And as long as your heart beats with that sacred disquiet, know this: you are gloriously, defiantly alive.