“Rome wasn’t built in a day, but Hiroshima and Nagasaki were destroyed in one.”A sentence so brief, yet so devastating in its simplicity: It lands like a parable, deceptively simple, but dense with meaning. On the surface, it contrasts the time it takes to build something of value with the speed at which destruction can occur. But beneath that contrast lies something deeper, something more human and terrifying: the fragile nature of what we create, the unpredictability of life, and the existential tension of being a time-bound creature trying to build permanence in a world where everything is perishable.
We all encounter this tension every day, not in philosophical texts, but in our lived realities of trying to piece together lives of meaning, coherence, and connection under conditions of uncertainty. In therapy, people are not just seeking symptom relief. They’re seeking ground beneath their feet. They are trying to build their version of Rome: a life that stands firm. And even if they do not articulate it consciously, they carry within them the dread that everything they’re building could be undone in a moment. A diagnosis. A betrayal. A loss. A war. An event so sudden that it collapses the architecture of their world.
The Long Arc of Construction
To live is to build. Slowly. Imperfectly. Sometimes desperately. We do not build with bricks and mortar, but with moments, relationships, values, and habits. Our internal “Rome” is constructed across years, sometimes decades, through choices made in freedom, choices that layer on top of each other to form a structure that can hold our sense of self.
We lay foundations in childhood: in attachment, in love, in trauma, or neglect. We raise walls through careers, friendships, family, and identity. We furnish the inner space with rituals, music, art, food, belief, and memory. Often, we’re building without a blueprint, guessing as we go, modelling based on what we saw growing up, or reacting against it entirely.
This process is deeply existential. Viktor Frankl, in Man’s Search for Meaning, writes that human beings are “self-transcending”: we orient ourselves toward causes greater than the self, toward futures not yet realised. And this orientation, this movement beyond ourselves, is what gives life shape and direction. It requires time, patience, and often, repeated failure.
Rome wasn’t built in a day, not simply because it was large, but because anything of actual significance demands duration. It demands responsibility. It requires that we return to the same project again and again, even when it’s not glamorous or gratifying.
Martin Heidegger described humans as “beings-toward-death.” We live with an awareness of our own finitude. We know, whether dimly or sharply, that our time is limited. But instead of paralysing us, this awareness, when fully confronted, invites us into authenticity. If everything is temporary, then every moment matters. To act in the face of impermanence is to live with intention. To create meaning in the shadow of loss.
And it is precisely because the things we build are fragile that they are meaningful. If our relationships, values, or creative efforts were permanent and indestructible, they would lose their urgency. But knowing that Rome can fall is what makes it worthwhile to build.
The Violence of a Single Day
Then we turn to Hiroshima and Nagasaki, two cities reduced to ash in moments. On August 6 and 9, 1945, the United States dropped atomic bombs on these densely populated areas, instantly killing over 100,000 civilians and unleashing long-term devastation through radiation and trauma.
Unlike natural disasters, these events were not accidents. They were the product of human agency: decisions made, plans drawn, calculations performed. They were carried out in the name of strategy, diplomacy, and the pursuit of peace, but the result was devastation.
Jean-Paul Sartre famously wrote, “We are condemned to be free.” This is not a celebration, but a sobering reminder: we are constantly making choices. Even choosing not to choose is still a choice. With that freedom comes responsibility, for ourselves and for the world we co-create with others.
The atomic bombings stand as a brutal monument to this reality. They remind us that our technological power has outpaced our ethical maturity. That destruction can be meticulously planned. That progress and devastation are not opposites, but often entangle.
Rollo May, another existential thinker and psychotherapist, described this paradox through the concept of the daimonic, the human capacity for both creation and destruction. The same energy that fuels great art, innovation, and love can also be twisted into violence, domination, and annihilation. To live authentically means to recognise this force within ourselves, not to fear it or deny it, but to integrate and take responsibility for how it manifests.
And this is perhaps the most painful realisation: Hiroshima and Nagasaki were not simply tragedies. They were achievements of a kind. The culmination of human ingenuity directed toward death.
Therapy and the Fragility of Meaning
People often deal with their own version of an atomic bomb. Their personal Hiroshima. A loss that changes everything.
Sometimes it arrives slowly, like erosion: the long breakdown of a marriage, the gradual disintegration of mental health, the creep of self-loathing. Other times it is instant: a sudden death, a diagnosis, an affair, a revelation. The structure collapses in a moment. The world is no longer recognisable.
The question that follows, spoken or unspoken, is always the same: “What now?”
This is not a question psychology can answer with techniques or ten-step plans. It is an existential question. And existential therapy doesn’t rush to answer it. Instead, it lingers there. It sits beside the rubble, not to tidy it away but to understand what it meant, and what could possibly grow from the ashes.
Irvin Yalom identified the four ultimate concerns of existence: death, freedom, isolation, and meaninglessness. These givens are always present, but often hidden beneath the noise of daily life. When destruction comes, they rise to the surface. The veil lifts. Life becomes raw and honest.
And in this vulnerability, paradoxically, is where possibility emerges.
When the house of self has collapsed, you can choose to rebuild. But this time, maybe more slowly. More intentionally. More authentically. With new materials. With new blueprints.
Time, Choice, and the Ethics of Becoming
Existential freedom is often misunderstood. It’s not about doing whatever you want. It’s about recognising that in every moment, we are choosing. And that every choice contributes to who we are becoming. There is no external script, no divine plan, no cosmic judge laying out a moral map. It’s just us, in the world, with others, making meaning through our actions.
This is where existential thought intersects with ethics. In a world without pre-given values, the question becomes: How shall I live?
Not once. But over and over.
Every day, we face opportunities to build or to destroy. To connect or to withdraw. To comfort or to harm. And often, we do both.
What happened in Hiroshima is not just a historical event; it’s a symbol of what we are capable of when we abandon responsibility, when we privilege power over people, when we dehumanise others to achieve a goal.
But the inverse is also true. Every act of kindness, repair, or honesty is its own form of construction. A laying of stone. A step toward Rome.
Between Rome and the Ruins
So, what do we do with this haunting contrast, Rome’s slow construction and Hiroshima’s instant destruction?
Maybe we accept that we live between them.
We are not gods with total control. Nor are we passive victims of fate. We are human, radically free and radically vulnerable. We cannot control history, weather, or the choices of others. But we can take ownership of our own becoming.
We can choose to build, even knowing that what we build may fall. We can choose to love, even knowing it might break our hearts. We can speak, create, and forgive, even if the outcome is uncertain.
This is what Albert Camus called revolt, not rebellion against authority, but a kind of existential defiance: the courage to live with dignity and purpose in a world that offers no final answers.
And I see this courage in the therapy room every day. When someone dares to speak their truth. When they return to their pain, not to wallow but to understand. When they begin to rebuild, not the same structure as before, but something new, born of insight.
What Are You Building?
So I leave you with this question, not as a conclusion but as an invitation:
What are you building?
What are you building with your time, your relationships, your habits, your words?
Are you building something that reflects your values, even if it’s small, even if it’s fragile?
And what are the bombs in your life? What do you destroy, perhaps unconsciously, out of fear, anger, or habit? What do you sabotage? What do you turn away from?
Existential therapy does not offer easy solutions. It does not promise healing in ten sessions or perfect peace. What it provides is space. A mirror. A relationship. A place where you can sit with the truth of your existence and decide how you want to meet it.
It asks: Are you living by design or by default? Are you building the city of your life with care, or letting it crumble in neglect? Are you acting with the awareness that everything is temporary and, therefore, precious?
Because in the end, it’s not about whether your Rome reaches the heavens or gets featured on some grand map.
It’s about whether you built it with intention. Whether you lived as if it mattered. Whether, when the dust settles, you can say:
“I chose this. I built this. I lived this.”
That is the burden.
That is the freedom.
And that is the work worth doing.
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