Hiren Deliwala
By Hiren Deliwala
We like to think we live in the golden age of freedom. There are dozens of cereals, flights at every hour, and what feels like 173 shades of beige. Choice, we’re told, is progress. And yet not long ago I spent nearly an hour comparing two almost identical Airbnbs, switching back and forth as though one extra star in the reviews might determine our long-term happiness.
In his book The Paradox of Choice, Barry Schwartz writes, “Learning to choose is hard. Learning to choose well is harder. And learning to choose well in a world of unlimited possibilities is still harder.” I remember underlining that line, nodding in agreement—and then opening three more tabs.
I believe in choice. It gives dignity and agency. No choice is also a choice, and rarely a pleasant one. After all, we come from a country where for decades you took what was available (the only car you could get was an Ambassador and the only TV channel you could watch was Doordarshan), not what was optimal. But I’ve come to suspect that beyond a certain point, choice becomes less a gift and more a burden.
I learned this the hard way when we decided to redo our flooring and repaint our home. What sounded simple turned into a full-scale investigation into beige. Every store had its own universe: warm beige, cool beige, greige, sand, almond, linen… Each option promising to complement our “existing furniture vibe,” whatever that means. We brought home samples and painted test patches, examining them in morning light, afternoon light, evening light, and under artificial bulbs, as if the paint might reveal its true personality after sunset.
My brain, clearly overwhelmed, briefly fantasized about renting an apartment instead of finishing the job. It also sparked one of our more unnecessary but contentious disagreements. I tried strengthening my argument by quoting Schwartz: “The opportunity costs of any decision increase as the number of alternatives rises.” Translation: this beige is as good as this other beige. Let’s just pick one! Quoting the book did not win the debate. Exhaustion did.
Travel planning brings out the same pattern. I tell myself I’m being responsible by comparing hotels across price, comfort, location, reviews, and convenience. I have picked hotels that looked beautiful online but were inconveniently located. I have chosen a group tour that read like a magical European vacation in the brochure but felt flat in reality. When that happens, I replay the decision in my mind: I should have researched more. Read more reviews. Compared one more option.
Sometimes, if I’m honest, all that research is just avoidance. If I keep searching, I don’t have to commit. I move from blog to blog to YouTube shorts, telling myself the next link will reveal the perfect answer.
Even AI tools that summarize and recommend only reduce effort; they don’t reduce abundance. The irony is that in life there are very few true “one-way door” decisions. Most choices are reversible. But in my mind, almost everything feels permanent, and so I hesitate.
Schwartz distinguishes between “maximizers,” who seek the absolute best, and “satisficers,” who look for something good enough and move on. Research suggests maximizers often end up less satisfied, even when they objectively choose better options. I recognize myself uncomfortably in that description. Even after booking a flight, I check prices again. Even after buying something, I scan reviews to see what I missed.
The dissatisfaction doesn’t come from disaster; it comes from the suspicion that something better existed (or a well-meaning friend reminds you about it). That suspicion is exhausting. And yet I know that fewer choices can mean fewer opportunities. I would not want a world without options. Some decisions — your spouse, your home, major commitments — deserve time and reflection.
But most of life isn’t spouse-level serious. It’s cereal-level serious. It is “which brand of atta or what brand of pasta sauce?” serious.
Maybe that’s why I enjoy shopping at Aldi or Lidl. The selection is limited by design. You don’t stand frozen before twenty nearly identical versions of the same product. You pick from a handful and move on.
There is something calming about that constraint. Lately, I’ve been experimenting in small ways: simplifying my morning routine so mornings require fewer micro-decisions, setting informal time limits when booking travel, deciding that once an option meets key criteria, it is enough and letting my wife make all decisions and then complain after. Are some of these choices suboptimal? Probably. But they are made. And made decisions bring relief that endless possibility never does.
Choice is a remarkable privilege. I wouldn’t give it up. But I have learned, albeit slowly and imperfectly, that I sometimes use choice to escape responsibility. If I keep researching, I don’t have to own the outcome. If I don’t decide, I can’t be wrong.
The problem is that not choosing is also a choice, and usually the most draining one. So, while I still believe in freedom and agency, I’m beginning to suspect that choice, at least in everyday life, is overrated. Sometimes the best decision is not the optimal one. It’s simply the one that lets you close the extra tabs, get back to your chai and move forward.
Hiren Deliwala is a Charlotte-based overthinker, closet philosopher, and avid board gamer. He writes about everyday life, Indian upbringing, and finding humor in the chaos. When not philosophizing over chai, he’s usually losing arguments to his wife and, shockingly, learning from them. Contact: hcdeliwala@gmail.com
