If Life Has No Meaning, Why Do We Keep Living? 'Everything Everywhere All at Once' Answers Humanity's Oldest Question with a Bagel

What would happen if you suddenly learned that infinite versions of yourself exist across the multiverse?

In one universe, you never married and became a martial arts movie star. In another, you achieved great success and lived a completely different life. In yet another world, you have no current family, no present-day worries, and never made the choices you now regret.

At first glance, this seems like the ultimate superpower—one everyone would envy. But 'Everything Everywhere All at Once' poses a far more brutal question:

If every possible version of your life actually exists, what makes the one you're living right now special?

The film doesn't answer with cosmic revelations. Instead, it distills this profound dilemma into something absurd—a black 'bagel'.

And within that bagel lies a question humanity has wrestled with for millennia: If life has no inherent meaning, why do we keep living?

The true horror of 'Everything Everywhere All at Once' isn't the multiverse—it's the terrifying idea that nothing matters.

The protagonist, Evelyn (Wang Xiu-Lian), isn't a hero destined to save the world. She's an ordinary woman on the verge of a breakdown.

Her laundromat business is failing, her taxes are a mess, her marriage to Waymond is crumbling, and she doesn't know how to connect with her daughter, Joy, or accept her life choices.

She's overwhelmed by endless problems, too busy to even ask: Is this the life I truly wanted?

Then the multiverse appears, revealing another possibility: She could have been a martial arts master. A movie star. She might never have married Waymond. She could have lived a life far more successful by societal standards.

This should be exhilarating. But when you see too many possibilities, a darker thought emerges:

If every choice exists in some universe, does my current choice even matter?

If I fail here, another version of me might have succeeded. If I didn't take this path, another me already reached the end.

When possibilities are infinite, everything in front of you becomes insignificant.

This is exactly the trap Jobu Tupaki—the alternate-universe version of Joy—falls into. She isn't hopeless because she sees too little. She's hopeless because she sees too much.

Why is the 'Everything Bagel' so central to the film?

The most absurd and important object in the movie is the 'Everything Bagel' created by Jobu. She puts 'everything' into it—every dream, every memory, every possibility, even meaningless trivialities—cramming it all into one place.

But the result isn't ultimate truth. It's a black hole at the center—empty.

This is where 'Everything Everywhere All at Once' becomes brilliant. We usually believe that more—more money, more experiences, more knowledge—will bring us closer to life's meaning.

But the film flips it: What if you've seen everything?

If every dream has been fulfilled by someone, every path walked by another version of you, and every success eventually fades, then you might arrive at Jobu's conclusion: So what?

Life lasts mere decades. The things that keep you awake at night may be forgotten in centuries. Everything we strive for, gain, and lose is negligible on a cosmic scale.

If you follow this logic to its end, you reach a disturbing conclusion: If everything vanishes anyway, why care about anything now?

That's the world Jobu sees.

If the universe doesn't care about you, is life still worth living?

What's fascinating about the film is that it doesn't rush to prove Jobu wrong. It doesn't declare that everyone has a divine purpose. It offers no grand cosmic answer to why we're born, suffer, or die.

Instead, it leaves open an uncomfortable possibility: Maybe the universe never assigned us meaning.

But if that's true, doesn't it also mean—you get to decide what matters?

So 'Everything Everywhere All at Once' fights nihilism not with another grand truth, but with something small: Choosing to care about someone, even in a world where nothing has meaning.

And the one who embodies this most completely is Waymond.

Others wield martial arts, jump between universes, and fight in absurd ways. Waymond, however, does something quietly powerful: He tries not to make things worse.

He seeks communication. He wants to calm people down. He chooses kindness—even when everyone else descends into chaos.

But Waymond's kindness isn't born from ignorance. He knows his marriage is failing. He knows Evelyn is unhappy. He knows he doesn't look like a hero.

Yet he refuses to become cruel just because the world is.

That's why Waymond is so vital. If life has no pre-written script, then kindness doesn't need the universe to validate it.

'I don't know if this will work, but I choose to be kind to you.'

No guarantees. No rewards. No certainty of change. But still, he chooses it.

That might be harder than any grand philosophy.

The quietest, most devastating scene: The rock universe

There's a moment when Evelyn and Joy enter a universe where life never evolved. No war. No jobs. No family. No taxes. No relationships to manage. They aren't even human—just two rocks.

The world is eerily silent. In a way, this is exactly what Joy desires. If living means endless choices, pain, and disappointment, then 'nothing' might feel easier.

No effort. No explanations. No need to be understood. No fear of loss.

But when Joy's rock begins to roll toward a cliff, Evelyn chases after it.

This absurd, almost comical image might be the closest the film comes to an answer.

Evelyn doesn't lecture with philosophy. She acts: 'Even if you think nothing matters, I still want to be with you.'

Sometimes, the reason to keep living isn't grand.

Not because the world needs saving. Not because you're destined for greatness. Not because you've figured out life's meaning.

But simply because, in this vast, chaotic, possibly purposeless universe, someone still chooses to stay with you.

After seeing infinite lives, Evelyn chooses this one

The most moving part of the film is that Evelyn, despite seeing countless versions of herself, doesn't reject her current life.

She knows that if she hadn't married Waymond, she might have become more successful. In one universe, she's a movie star—a life many dream of.

Yet the most romantic moment happens in a universe where they never married. Two people living glamorous lives still reminisce about something ordinary:

A laundromat. Tax forms. Daily chores. And a person who frustrates and disappoints you—but whom you can't let go.

Many ask: What is the meaning of life?

But the question assumes meaning is something to be found—hidden, waiting to be discovered.

So we search: through work, love, family, achievement, money, travel, faith. We believe that once we find the right answer, everything will make sense.

But 'Everything Everywhere All at Once' suggests the opposite.

Meaning isn't found. It's chosen.

A dinner interrupted by arguments. A laundromat full of problems. An imperfect marriage. A family you never learned how to talk to.

On a cosmic scale, these are insignificant.

But to those living them, they are life itself.

Something doesn't need to be eternal to be worth cherishing.