Whenever I’m stuck, walking has proven to be a guaranteed way for me to make at least some progress of getting unstuck. It’s particularly effective when the challenge at hand is ambiguous or if it’s some sort of creative task. Paradoxically, the busy I am, the more I benefit from taking time to go on a walk. I think it’s because walking provides space to process what’s going on and gain perspective. When I go on a leisurely stroll, it allows the brain to slow down and look at things more clearly. It signals to the body there’s no need to rush, and that there’s time to make the right decision. That’s powerful in and of itself.

Spotify recently dropped the end-of-year “Wrapped” playlist. Many of my top songs are neoclassical since that’s what I listen to the most while journaling in the morning (​Ludovico Einaudi​ has been my top artist for the last 10 years!)—I prefer music without words when I write. The rest of the list is mixed: lots of Sia, Latin Pop/Reggaeton, and electronic/techno remixes. Some R&B, soul/pop, and Chinese. Then, a few random Japanese, German, and French songs in there.

As year-end approaches, I thought doing a quick “Wrapped” for my writing in 2024 might also be fun. Re-reading what I wrote this year feels both familiar and distant: familiar as it’s my voice, but also distant since I am no longer the same. One benefit of writing is that it crystallizes a permanent snapshot of me. These snapshots become concrete proof for me to look back later on and say, “Ah, this is where I once was.” It’s a pretty grounding experience to know where I’ve come from. The downside is that I must also confront my own naive thoughts and immature writing from the past. I often facepalm myself while reading an old piece, “That was what I wrote?” I suppose that also means I’ve grown.

The stories I enjoyed writing the most this year were the personal ones, like how I got my driver’s license (Part ​1​, ​2​, ​3​), ​conversations with my barber​, ​my middle school basketball game​, and ​losing my wallet​. When I first started writing, I avoided personal stories: Writing about myself felt self-centered, and the stories didn’t seem extraordinary. But a few of my friends told me they quite enjoyed them, and now I feel more relaxed to try. What strikes me is that the process of writing surfaces details I didn’t know existed in my subconsciousness. It allows me to make sense of an old story with a new perspective.

Writing, I’ve also come to realize, is about attuning to the details: Small things make the story. In that sense, it’s similar to photography. Sometimes you go to a cool place—this year I was fortunate to have visited ​Sedona​, ​Yosemite​, ​Macau​, and ​Bangalore​—and taking interesting pictures is easy. But it’s not necessary to go to a new place for good photography. The extraordinary stuff is often right under my nose—​the trees​, ​the squirrels​, and ​the flowers​—but I just am not aware enough to see them.

I thought about ending this project a few times. I did stop for a few weeks because too much was going on, and I thought that might be the unceremonial end of it. But after ​resetting​, I picked it up again. I am still not entirely sure what makes me come back time and again. One hypothesis is that this project is a rare space for me to work on something not as a means to an end, but as an end itself: the point of writing is to write. That stands in contrast with most other endeavors in my life, where the point of doing something is in exchange for something else. Another hypothesis is that it creates space to process what matters to me, rather than following an agenda dictated by others.

I also had fun reading other people’s stories. I dug deep into the stories of how ​a Japanese guy created the Game Boy​, ​how Bruce Lee created his own brand of martial arts​, and ​how mixing ideas often create interesting results​. But the stories that brought the most relief were the ones about how people handled ​losses​. Phil Hansen’s ​journey​ of becoming a versatile artist despite a tremor in his hand was inspiring, and so was ​Beethoven’s story​ of losing his hearing at the apex of his career as a performing pianist. As I age, I’ve come to appreciate that losses are inevitable. It’s helpful to know how others handle them.

All in all, I’m happy I kept up with this project. It’s wonderful to consistently practice a craft and have something I can point to at the end and say, “I’m slowly becoming better.”

The first thing I noticed as I reclined in the dental chair was the new artwork on the wall—red and black strokes depicting a rock band in performance. As I stared at it, a thought struck me: Dr. Bastani had been my dentist since my first job after college. The thought brought a slight sense of comfort as I braced myself for the instruments that would soon descend into my mouth.

Dr. Bastani is a mild-mannered Persian man with two daughters, whom he occasionally takes to Disneyland. His office used to be near the 19th Street BART station in Downtown Oakland, but the landlord evicted him to make way for an apartment development that never materialized due to COVID. He ended up relocating a few blocks away in Chinatown, where he’s been ever since.

I asked him how he’d been. “Same old, same old,” he said with a warm smile, though his tone carried a familiar hint of resignation. “How’s work for you?”

I told him about my realization. “Yes, time flies. I feel the same when I see my patients,” he said. “When I meet them, it often reminds me that yet another half a year has passed.”

After ten uncomfortable minutes, Dr. Bastani examined my dental X-rays. “Looks like you’ve survived another year!” he said. Indeed, that’s a good way to put it. He patted my shoulder, signaling the visit was over. “Try Sensodyne,” he said as he turned off his headlamp. “See if it helps.”

I asked if he planned to take time off during the winter holiday. “It’s more like we are forced to these days,” he said. He explained that his office used to be busy during the year-end break since patients had more time then, but now, with more people working remotely, it’s easier for them to visit during the work week. “The holidays are quiet now. The trend has shifted,” he added.

His assistant asked if I’d like another appointment in six months.

“Same time,” I replied. “First thing in the morning, please.”

---

The only other reason I go to Oakland Chinatown these days is to see my barber, David. I visit him at least every other month, which means it’s been more than a hundred times in the thirteen years since we first met. It’s startling that I meet my hairstylist more frequently than almost all of my family and friends.

David knows quite a bit about my personal life; he even did the bridal hair for Y for free on our wedding day. Comically, he still doesn’t know my name after all these years. I must, however, frame this fun fact in context: David used to follow the Golden State Warriors a few years ago when the team was the star in the NBA. The only player he knows by name is Stephen Curry. He calls him Curry jai (咖哩仔)—jai being a Cantonese term of endearment for a young man—and I’m quite certain he doesn’t know Curry’s first name. Other players are referred to by their jersey numbers, like “Number 11” for Klay Thompson. My point is, you first need to be as famous as the world’s best three-point shooter for David to know half of your name.

David has recently faced some serious medical conditions. Earlier this year, he fell and broke his right hand in the shop. He has worked on countless remodeling projects due to three relocations over the years—framing drywalls, wiring electrical, pouring concrete, trimming baseboards, and hanging cabinets—all without a major accident. Then, one regular workday, he just slipped while not doing anything dangerous. A doctor had to operate on him and placed permanent metal plates and screws in his right wrist.

Later in the year, he was diagnosed with liver tumor. His tumor removal surgery lasted over ten hours. “The doctor started at seven in the morning and didn’t finish until five-thirty,” he told me. “They said they’d make at least four holes. In the end, they made six.” Last month, he showed me the recovering holes across his chest and torso. Thankfully, they weren’t too large—each about the size of a small coin—since the surgery had been “minimally invasive” with robotics.

When I walked into his shop this week, David was working with a commercial electric drain snake in the bathroom. “Need to fix the plumbing—very stuck.” he said. “Too much hair with everyone working,” he added, referring to the few other hairstylists who rent seats in the shop.

I pointed out that plumbing work with machinery seemed intense for someone who had recently undergone two major surgeries. “I asked my younger brother to help, but no one showed up for days,” he said. “It’s not like he has work or anything. Plumbing can’t wait.”

I asked if his hand still hurt. “Cutting hair isn’t an issue,” he said, “But moving heavy things is hard. At the end of the day, though, I got to figure it out myself. I can’t rely on others—not even family.” He is the oldest of five siblings.

We went quiet as I sat in the chair. A few minutes later, David turned off the hair clipper and said, “Still, I feel very lucky.”

I asked him why.

“My mother had the same thing [liver tumor] as I do,” he replied. “She passed away young when she was forty-eight. Back then, the healthcare technology wasn’t so advanced.”

David turned sixty a few months ago—his birthday was August 2, 1964, the same year as my parents. His eldest son is my age.

“I’m still alive,” he said, looking at me in the eye through the mirror. “I stay busy, I stay strong.”

Two things happened this week. A friend of mine abruptly lost a close family member. Separately, a colleague lost her 15-year-old cat. During a Zoom meeting with my colleague, her cat made loud noises in another room, and she thought her other pets might be bothering him. After our meeting, she checked on the cat and realized he was in pain and could no longer walk. She took him to the vet right away, and the vet said there was very likely a blood clot. The vet asked my colleague to touch the cat’s back limbs and confirm they were cold—there was no blood circulation.

“[The name of the cat] has lived with me through some of the most difficult moments of my life,” my colleague told me a few days later. She described how the cat was full of energy and often acted like a dog, guiding guests to where the treats were.

This week’s events make me think about probabilities. The probability of a tragedy happening to a given person on a given day is minuscule, like 0.001%. But when a low probability is applied to a large number, say the world’s population, it means a tragedy is happening to some people somewhere every day—most of which we will never know (or, perhaps, care) about. It also means that when applied to a large number of days in our own lives, a loss can hit us when we least expect it.

Losses are always sudden, even if we know they can happen. No one teaches us how to deal with them, so we are often left to cope as best we can. Some losses leave a delicate mark but eventually recede into the background with time. Others change you forever.

As I get older, I’ve come to realize that it’s increasingly rare to reach a state where you worry about nothing. Work, family, other aspects of life… something is bound to be challenging. The list of concerns grow over time. There are things you can control, but there’s also only so much you can do. After you’ve done everything you could, all that is left is to wait and see what happens.

Sitting with uncertainty is agonizing. It’s a challenge for me. I suppose it’s a test of patience. Can I proceed with my day and focus on my work while I sit with these difficulties?

My dad dropped me off at an outdoor basketball court on a muggy, windless summer evening. It was unclear whether he would park his motorbike or turn around and head home. Part of me wanted him to stay and watch the game. I was thirteen then, and it was my debut in the summer league, facing unfamiliar opponents. We left it unspoken as I handed him my helmet and walked towards my friends from school.

The players from the opposing school were running drills. They looked bigger than us even though we were all seventh- and eighth-graders. Their point guard executed a smooth layup, followed by another kid sinking a mid-range jumper. There was also a tall player who could jump and touch the rim. I wiped my sweaty palms on my jersey as the coach asked us to listen.

The referee tossed the ball in the air to start the game. I waved at my teammate for his attention, but he passed it to another player, who missed the shot.

Should have given the ball to me, I thought. I was wide open!

When the ball came my way, I didn’t think twice—I dribbled, jumped, and released.

It was an airball. The other team ran a fast break and scored two easy points.

It’s okay, I told myself. I just haven’t warmed up yet. My eyes surveyed the court, and my stomach tightened.

I saw my dad in the audience. I wondered if he saw the airball.

The game continued. As the ball moved around, I pictured myself sinking multiple three-pointers amidst cheers from the crowd. I pictured the man beside my dad—whomever he might be—astonished, confirming, “That is your son?”

My teammate passed me the ball. As a defender closed in, my mind raced to strategize, but my body awkwardly took another shot. With the ball out of my hands, I prayed for a good outcome.

At least touch the rim, please.

The ball hit nothing again.

The defender smirked. One of my teammates raised his arms and looked disappointed—disgusted, rather. He didn’t look at me or say a word, but he was clearly upset by another attempt with no chance of scoring. The coach called a timeout and told me not to rush, but I wasn’t listening.

I don’t normally shoot like this. What is going on?

The second half began. My eagerness to impress morphed into desperation. Determined to recover from the deficit, I ran towards whoever possessed the ball and signaled them to pass it to me. My teammates looked the other way.

The ball was finally in my hands. I must not repeat the same mistake. I made a clumsy fake to misdirect my defender, but he didn’t bite. I leaped in the air and launched a shot, but it was too hard. The ball hit the back rim and bounced out.

The coach called for a substitution and pulled me out of the game. Sweat streamed down my cheek, and I gasped for air. Two minutes later, I asked if I could go back in. “Take a break,” my coach said. “Let’s wait and see.” He never let me in again.

I was devastated when the referee blew the final whistle, not because my team had lost the game but because of my dismal performance.

My contribution was zero points and six airballs.

Six airballs.

My dad approached me after the game.

“It was all your fault,” I said before he could speak.

“I told you not to come. Are you happy now that we’ve lost the game?”*

My mother arrived after the game as planned to join us for dinner at a nearby diner, but I walked rapidly past her without acknowledging her. My dad tried to catch up with me, leaving my mother wondering what had happened.

---

My parents and I laugh whenever we recount this story. To this day, they still tease me about the line I threw at my dad.

“I told you not to come. Are you happy now that we’ve lost the game?”

I recently asked my dad what he thought of the story twenty years later. He chuckled.

“My own dad—your grandpa—never showed up to anything for me. He didn’t even know what grade I was in when I was a kid,” he said. “I just thought I would show up and support you. I was dumbfounded by how angry you were. It was a bit sad but also so ridiculous that it was almost funny.”

My dad said he understood my psychology: it’s natural for children to want to impress their parents, but that can turn into performance anxiety. Of course, he would be pleased to see me do well in the game, but he didn’t really care either way.

“Our interaction was fascinating because this incident could have only happened between you and me,” he said. “In no way would you have dared to say something so obnoxious to anyone who was not family. You couldn’t be that rude or irrational to the coach, right?”

This story was memorable to me for a few reasons. I walked away with life lessons—exercising patience, handling pressure, and confronting disappointment. It also inspired me to become a better shooter—a craft I still enjoy learning today.

Above all, I love this story for its bitter-sweet irony. I wanted to make my dad proud, but that drive paradoxically made it more difficult. When I failed to meet the unrealistic bar I had set for myself, I blamed the person I hoped to impress. Yet, in the end, a temporary painful experience became a treasured piece of family lore.

---

*The exact words in Cantonese: 「最衰都係你， 叫左你唔好黎睇。宜家輸左波你開心啦？」

While sorting through a pile of mail, I see a bill I should have paid online two weeks ago. Instinctively, I open the drawer and reach for my wallet.

It isn’t there.

I am not concerned. The wallet must be elsewhere in the house—probably in the jacket I wore to dinner the night before.

I search the jacket, the dirty jeans in the hamper—the butt area has some bird poop I sat on yesterday—and the entire closet.

The wallet isn’t there, either.

My hands scan the cracks along the fabric couch, where the TV remote always falls. I dig through a pile of clean laundry I started folding the night before. I return to the closet again. I check my credit card records and see no weird transactions.

Could the wallet be in the backpack I used on a hike yesterday morning? Unlikely, since I paid at the restaurant later in the evening. I look through the backpack nonetheless. Something square-ish is in one of the deep pockets. It turns out to be a folded brochure for “Mike’s free landscaping estimate!”

My heart sinks after looking at the same places three times.

The wallet is not at home.

Should I call the restaurant? It’s early, so they are not open yet. Could I have dropped the wallet between the mall and the parking lot? Possible, but that means the chance of recovering it would be slim. Does the mall have a lost-and-found?

I leave the house for a walk. My mind assesses the possible damage: My wallet has five payment cards, a driver’s license, a Clipper transit card, and at least $80 of cash. It also contains several membership cards—AAA, car insurance, health insurance, and Costco. Why haven’t I removed the cards that need not be there?

My head hurts thinking about the potential phone calls and trips to the DMV—are they still as inefficient as before? Also, what number should I call if the loss report numbers are printed on the cards themselves?

It hits me that there’s another possibility: I haven’t searched the car yet. Y has driven the car to an appointment. I text her to see if she can check the car for me. But she may not see the text message for a couple of hours.

So I wait. There’s nothing else I can do. The rest of my day will be ruined if the wallet isn’t in the car. But I don’t know yet.

---

I don’t think there’s an English term for this specific flavor of waiting; I will call it consequential waiting.

Consequential waiting is a state of vacuum: you are at a crossroads, awaiting an outcome with considerable repercussions. The result dictates the course of the future. Your path ahead is contingent on what fate or someone else decides. You are in limbo—nothing to do but to wonder what will happen. You can plan out scenarios and potential actions, but the outcome is too variable for the planning to be useful.

The absence of an answer gnaws your attention like a leech sucking blood out of you without letting go. There’s no peace until closure; you can’t exit the ambiguous, suspenseful situation. You have hope, yet the hope is dangerous since it can also crush you.

Many years ago, I was eager to leave my job for a new one. None of the dozen applications came back with any news. A friend of mine referred me to a position at his company, and with that introduction, I went through multiple rounds of interviews. The opportunity gave me hope, but the fact that it was my only promising lead bothered me. If that job didn’t materialize, I would have no clear prospect for at least a few months.

The wait for the callback was excruciating. I frequently checked my email for an update, but the company was silent for over two weeks. I debated whether to check in with the recruiter but didn’t want to sound desperate. I could prepare for more interviews or apply to other jobs, but I was unmotivated. It would have been easier if they had said no so I could move on. Instead, they left me hanging.

Consequential waiting is distinct from another flavor which I will symmetrically call inconsequential waiting. Inconsequential waiting is much more bearable: The wait is defined, the outcome is predictable, and you have a sense of control. It comes with little uncertainty. Most importantly, your life ahead is about the same regardless of the result.

An example of inconsequential waiting is the line at the grocery store. Even if the checkout line is ridiculously long, the wait is tolerable. You can observe the number of people and estimate the wait time. You will likely pay and be on your way home soon. If you want, you can remove yourself from the situation: abandon the cart, visit another store, or shop another time. It’s not a big deal one way or another.

As we age, the waiting we do is increasingly the consequential kind.

---

I head to the basketball court to clear my head. I normally leave my phone behind, but it’s in my pocket today. I plug the wireless headphones into my ears so I will immediately know when Y calls or responds.

It’s a beautiful day at the park—the sun is warm, the sky blue and cloudless. The ball makes a satisfying swish sound as it passes through the net. But I pay little attention. My mind is elsewhere.

Consequential waiting takes a mental toll on you. The brain hates the lack of clarity. But the harder you resist the uncertainty, the more it dominates the mind.

I check the phone again. My message still says delivered, not read. And only 15 minutes have passed?

Time crawls when you want a specific outcome.

I think of the people who are waiting right now. Someone is waiting to hear back from a school, a job, or a grant application. Someone is waiting to see if their visa is approved today so they can reunite with family after years. Someone is waiting for lab results to decide whether they need to start chemo. Someone is waiting outside the operating room to see if their loved one’s risky surgery is successful. Someone in a war zone is waiting to see if help is coming.

I suppose, in comparison, what I’m waiting for is far less critical.

Still, reframing the situation this way doesn’t offer much relief. My patience runs low. I send Y a follow-up text.

“Pls call me when you see this.”

---

I go home and take a shower. Ideas to distract myself are running out.

The phone finally rings. “What happened? Is everything okay?” Y says in a concerned voice.

I feel bad for startling her—she must not have seen my initial texts while at her appointment. My wallet is missing, I explain, and I hope she can check the car.

“Let’s see…” she says as I hear the sound of rustling. “Nothing at first glance.”

“How about the storage compartment or the area you charge the phone?” I ask.

Silence for a few seconds.

“Nothing there. And there’s no way it’s in the glove compartment…”

It looks like my fate is sealed. My mind goes to my next steps. What else should I have expected?

“Wait, there seems to be something… Give me a second,” Y utters.

I won’t get my hopes up. Fate has disappointed me before.

“I found it. It must have fallen through the crack. I had to move the car seat back to see it.”

A sense of relief floods me. It’s surreal that the outcome is in my favor.

Psychologists have a theory called loss aversion. The theory suggests that humans hate losses roughly twice as much as the equivalent gains. Said another way, losing a dollar gives us twice the pain as the pleasure of gaining a dollar. This theory explains how I feel: I am in the exact same spot as I started the day, yet I feel much happier, even though the loss has simply reversed itself.

But the outcome could have gone the other way.

I was in Macau for a few days after India. This was my first visit home post-covid. Some readers seemed to have enjoyed ​last week’s letter​, so I thought I would write another travel post.

After I landed in Hong Kong in the morning, I took a bus and crossed the new 55-km ​Hong Kong–Zhuhai–Macau Bridge​, the world’s longest sea crossing. The bridge reminds me of the San Francisco Bay Bridge, but it’s ten times longer and has a long underwater tunnel halfway.

When I arrived at the bus terminal, I found myself amid a dizzying array of new constructions. This unfamiliar area used to be the ocean, but the government created new land by filling the seabed. Since the city has limited space, land reclamation is a common practice for new development.

As a teenager, I used to pride myself on knowing the best car route to anywhere in the 10-square-mile city. But now, with all the new roads, I can no longer do so.

The tiled street signs are a visual cue that I am home. In the old days, the Portuguese street name was on the left and the Chinese on the right. But when Portugal handed the city over to China in 1999, the government replaced every sign so the Chinese names would be on top instead.

I played tourist and walked around the historic center.

Several new casinos have opened on the Cotai strip. There’s the Venetian, the Parisian, the Londoner, and the Lisboeta. I wonder what theme is next.

All the license plates in Macau used to start with the letter “M,” so they went MA, MB, MC, etc., followed by four numbers. As a kid, I used to get excited when I spotted a new letter on the street. It looked like all the letters had been exhausted, so the new license plates now start with “A.”

Food is a big part of my visits home.

There’s a noodle shop five minutes from my house. Despite inflation in the last twenty years, they still charge the same price of about $2.5 USD per bowl today. The shop remains immensely popular even though the owner is rude, the seating is uncomfortable, and you often have to share a table with strangers.

Everything here is homemade. The broth is made with shrimp head and fish. The handmade egg noodles are satisfyingly chewy. The dumplings come with a generous amount of shrimp and mushrooms. The curry sauce is irresistible.

I met up with my high school friends and had the African-inspired chicken dish I ​wrote​ about a few weeks ago. I handed some money to my friend who had paid for the group. He laughed at me and said, “Put it away—no one uses cash anymore!” Most transactions are now done via digital payment.

Seafood is integral to Macau’s cuisine, given its proximity to the ocean and its history as a fishing village.

A trip to Macau won’t be complete until egg tarts are served. This puff pastry confection with a beautiful caramelized top—called po tat (“Portuguese tart”) in Cantonese—is very similar to the pastéis de nata in Portugal.

This pastry symbolizes Macau’s gastronomy, but funnily, it was brought to the city by an Englishman named Andrew Stow, who worked as an industrial pharmacist in Macau in the 1970s. While on a honeymoon to Lisbon and Sintra in Portugal, Stow enjoyed pastéis de nata so much that he thought, “How come there’s not something like this in Macau?”

In 1989, Stow opened an unassuming roadside bakery in a quaint village on the city’s outskirts. Since he didn’t have the original recipe, Stow experimented and created his version. The shell of a po tat is made using the traditional French lamination technique like the Portuguese version, but Stow used margarine instead of butter. He filled the pastry shells with a custard mixture of eggs, milk, cream, and sugar (and skipped the cinnamon) and baked them for half an hour. The result is the perfect marriage of a flaky, crispy, and crunchy shell and a luscious, silk-like, wobbly custard filling.

I enjoyed two egg tarts, which left me with little room for lunch. No regrets, though.

At my parents’ suggestion, I also explored a few hiking spots. Travel was heavily restricted during the covid years, so many people explored new outdoor areas. I didn’t know these beautiful places even existed!

Four days went by quickly. Soon, it was time to leave.

I am on a work trip in Bangalore this week. This is my first time in India, so I thought I would share some photos! Overall, it’s been an eye-opening experience filled with sensory stimulation. People have been warm and hospitable.

The first thing that surprises me is how visually stunning the airport is. The gold theme contrasts nicely with the lush landscaping.

I arrived a day early to explore the city.

The street vendors offering fruit and vegetables remind me of Mexico.

The streets can be chaotic with people, bikes, cars, motorcycles, auto rickshaws, and…

…cows.

I definitely feel that I receive more persistent solicitation than the locals. The cab driver tries to take me to a shop set up for “tourists.” A woman insists I take a photo with this cutie outside a temple and offer a donation.

The food is amazing and very rich. One challenge is I don’t understand 95% of the menu, though Google reviews come to the rescue. Also, staying awake after lunch with four types of curry is a challenge.

Lastly, I flipped through the Sunday Times and saw an interesting ad.

Have a great weekend!

1.

In 1930, economist John Maynard Keynes predicted that, within the next 100 years, technology would advance economic productivity so much that people would barely have to work anymore. Instead, they would face another problem: how to use their freedom to occupy their leisure.

He suggested, “Three-hour shifts or a fifteen-hour week may put off the problem for a great while.”

A century is approaching, but Keynes’s utopian prediction has yet to pan out. Even though the global economy has multiplied tenfold over the past few decades, work hours have remained mostly the same, and definitely more than 15 hours a week. I’m still waiting for the “excessive leisure” that Keynes promised.

Why aren’t we working significantly fewer hours with all the productivity gain?

Is it income inequality, uneven resource distribution, or the simple reason some prefer to work for the purpose and meaning it brings?

All of the above play a role, but I think another main reason is that Keynes underestimated the power of a critical factor: expectations. What used to be acceptable in the 1930s is no longer the case in the twenty-first century. When expectations increase, we work harder to meet them. We produce more, but we also consume more.

The rise in expectations has driven incredible innovation and created many good. On average, people live longer, healthier, and have a higher quality of life. We have better cars, bigger houses, and the magical Internet. Most daily chores have become easier.

But the perpetual rise in expectations is a double-edged sword. On one hand, it requires more environmental resources and human costs to meet the demands. And there’s another paradox: Even though we live in a time of greater abundance than ever, we don’t necessarily feel better off. Our perception of the current state is relative to today’s expectations. But if the goalpost moves again tomorrow, even the most significant improvement can leave us feeling the same, or sometimes weirdly, worse.

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2.

Whenever I ate a mango growing up, my dad would inevitably point out how fortunate I was to enjoy a whole mango by myself. Back in the day, he shared a mango with at least three of his seven siblings. He often fought for the pit since he liked to chew on it to enjoy the juice.

He would also predictably talk about eating rice with lard or soy sauce for dinner when money was sometimes tight.

“Kids have it so good these days. They have no idea!” he said.

I pretended to understand and offered him my mango pit.

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3.

Sociologist Alexis de Tocqueville once observed people’s expectations tend to increase faster than the rise in their living standards. As society’s condition improves, people also become more aware of all the things that haven’t improved. What remains imperfect leads to more frustration.

“When all conditions are unequal, no inequality is so great as to offend the eye,” he wrote, “Whereas the slightest dissimilarity is odious in the midst of general uniformity.”

One way we see Tocqueville’s perspective in modern life is this: If we are used to Amazon’s same-day delivery for everything we need in one order, we become more attuned to all other companies’ inefficiencies. If the competitors can’t match the expectations, they instantly look less attractive.

Columbia Law professor Tim Wu once wrote a brilliant essay on how our increased expectation of convenience has become a hidden but powerful force shaping our daily choices. “Convenience has the ability to make other options unthinkable,” Wu wrote. “Created to free us, it can become a constraint on what we are willing to do, and thus in a subtle way it can enslave us.”

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4.

The human body is a fascinating machine.

When a body’s temperature rises, it sweats to cool down. If the bloodstream has too much glucose, the body releases insulin to regulate the sugar level. If the body is overworked, it makes us yawn and go to sleep.

Biologists call this mechanism homeostasis. It’s an incredibly complicated set of processes that the body uses to maintain physical and chemical equilibrium, and it does all this automatically.

The mind works in a similar way: it seeks to revert the level to neutral whenever we are over-stimulated or under-stimulated.

Once, I was at a trash processing facility. It smelled terrible at first, but after half an hour, I stopped noticing it. The brain reduces its sensitivity, so disgust becomes less pronounced.

This effect also applies to positive experiences like pleasure. A new car or a great view at a hotel feels amazing on the first day, but it normalizes after a while. Through mere exposure over time, the brain resets the baseline and raises the bar. The initial excitement fades.

As historian C. Northcote Parkinson puts it, “A luxury, once enjoyed, becomes a necessity,”

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5.

I often share a lane with another person at my local public swimming pool. We would stay within our half of the lane in parallel without interfering with each other. I usually swim at a pretty relaxed pace.

The pool was packed last Sunday. I had to swim in circles with two other people in the lane for the first time.

The dynamic completely changes. Expectations rise all of a sudden.

Whenever I hit one end of the pool and turn around, I ask: How much space do I have left with the swimmer behind me? Am I too slow? Should I go faster?

My pace relative to other swimmers is now apparent. I find myself speeding up because I compare. Swimming harder gives me a better workout, but there’s also more pressure.

Of course, if my fellow swimmers are too fast, I can switch to another lane or let them pass. But the comparison happens instinctively before the conscious brain even registers it. Judging myself versus the people around us is automatic. It takes attention to become aware of it.

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6.

A core idea in Einstein’s theory of relativity is that measurements of time, space, and even gravity are not absolute but depend on the observer’s speed and motion.

Human psychology is similar: expectations shape our mental frame of reference. Our perception of the world is often a function of what we experience relative to what we expect. If we feel dissatisfied, we have two variables to play with: We can strive to improve our condition and adjust our expectations.

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Inspirations for this post:

• ​Economic Possibilities for our Grandchildren, John Maynard Keynes
• ​The Tyranny of Convenience, Tim Wu (NYT Op-ed)
• ​Homeostasis, Wikipedia
• ​Tocqueville effect, Wikipedia

1.

This week, I had a hard time leaving bed in the morning. I’ve stayed up later than usual to watch TV. When the morning came around, it was challenging to resist staying wrapped by the thick, soft fleece blanket like a burrito.

“Am I ready to touch the cold floor with my feet? Is it time to face the world?” I asked myself. “No, I’m good. It’s nice and toasty here.” Zzz…

I’ve aspired to leave bed immediately in the morning for most of my adult life. In my first semester of college, I had this 8 a.m. class where the professor would lock the door shortly after class began so the late students couldn’t enter. I struggled to show up on time despite living only 15 minutes away. One morning, I was approaching the classroom at precisely 8:05. The open door gave me hope, but the professor saw me running from afar and quickly closed the door with a big grin.

After college, I would take a bus to cross the Bay Bridge for my job in San Francisco every day. Even though the bus stop was right outside my apartment complex, I often missed the bus by a minute or two. The few minutes of snoozing ended up costing half an hour or more. As I watched the tail of the bus fade away, I vowed to show up early every time. I would, of course, repeat the same mistake in a few weeks.

The tension of today vs. tomorrow—that’s the theme I’m exploring this week.

2.

In my first year of living in America, I was pleasantly surprised by how abundantly available candies are during Halloween. One day, I took a handful of free candies home from school. A piece of chocolate blew me away.

I read the orange packaging to see what I ate: “Reese’s Peanut Butter Cup.” That was the most delicious chocolate I’d ever eaten.

My roommate went to Costco that weekend. He brought home a “party size” bag of Reese’s with at least 50 pieces. He and I devoured half a dozen together—by that, I mean he ate one, and I ate five.

Overeating chocolate can’t be good for me, I thought. I should stop there.

I emptied the entire bag by myself within the next twenty-four hours. It was delightful in the moment, but I felt awful after. I avoided Reese’s for the following three years.

If a psychologist selects me for the famous “marshmallow test”—the experiment that studies the effect of delayed gratification on future life outcomes—I won’t do very well.

3.

My family had a white Pekingese for almost 15 years. Like most dogs, ​Xing​ was very easily distracted, especially by food. He would be playing with a toy in the living room, but once he sensed any vague opportunity for food—the sound of plastic packaging or the microwave’s “ding” sound—he would immediately drop the toy in his mouth, listen attentively, and decide whether he should run towards the kitchen.

Despite his love for food, he never seemed to worry about where the next meal would come from. When he was hungry, he ate. When he was full, he walked away from the bowl of food.

That’s one of the biggest differences between humans and the rest of the animal kingdom: animals are locked in the present. Humans plan for the future.

4.

An Aesop classic:

In the warmth of summer, Ant worked tirelessly to gather food.

“Why not come and chat with me,” said the Grasshopper as he danced, “instead of toiling and moiling?”

“I am gathering food for the winter,” said the Ant, “You should do the same.”

Grasshopper sang and danced.

“Why bother about winter?” said the Grasshopper. “We have plenty of food right now.” But Ant continued working.

The seasons changed. Ant’s home was filled with provisions, but Grasshopper was cold and starving. Regretting his lack of preparation, Grasshopper sought help.

Ant was kind enough to welcome him with warmth and shared her food.

5.

Recently, a friend asked me what I thought about Nayib Bukele, the recently reelected President in El Salvador. Once calling himself the “world’s coolest dictator”—and more recently a “philosopher king”—Bukele gained public support in recent years with an 80% approval rating. His astronomical rise stemmed from his success in cracking down on gangs and lowering homicide rates. People now feel safer walking on the streets.

Over the last few years, Bukele consolidated power and effectively turned the country into a police state: Soldiers can whisk citizens off the streets and into prison without stating the reason. Tens of thousands of people have been arrested. Government critics and political opponents fear prosecution. Journalists are spied on.

My knowledge of El Salvador is extremely limited, but the reelected president’s practices remind me of China. Authoritarian regimes often establish a similar social contract with the people: The leader promises to provide immediate benefits like security or economic growth. Its policies are swift and effective since the one-state government is unencumbered by gridlocks typical in a democratic system. In exchange for the benefits, an autocracy demands unwavering loyalty. The people pay the cost of reduced privacy, due process, and freedoms like speech, protest, and journalism.

The book What We Knew features interviews with German civilians after World War II to understand why people supported their leader during one of the darkest times in human history:

In the last few decades, China lifted hundreds of millions of people out of poverty. El Salvador’s murder rate dropped by ​70%​ in 2023. If a citizen has no food on the table or worries about his family getting killed today, choosing a draconian leader offering “protection” is reasonable.

The benefits, however, come with risks in the future. When a person has absolute power, his ultimate concern is to preserve his power above all else. China removed the two-term limit on the presidency in 2019. El Salvador’s constitution used to have a one-term limit on presidents, but a court of judges appointed by Bukele lifted the ban for this recent election.

History shows power tends to corrupt. A dictatorial leader’s agenda often diverges from the people’s interest over time. The system is thus inherently unstable with an unpredictable outcome.

Will El Salvadorians’ lives be better off under Bukele? It’s not for me to judge. The people, however, will bear the risks tomorrow for the gains today.

6.

If we don’t live in the present now, when?

If we don’t plan for the future now, when?

“Absorb what is useful, reject what is useless, and add what is essentially your own,” the San Francisco-born, Cantonese-speaking martial art icon Bruce Lee once famously said.

In many ways, “Little Dragon” Lee—his screen name more commonly known in the Chinese-speaking world—had defied expectations by following his advice. After discovering a love for martial arts at a young age—initially because he hated being bullied by bigger kids—Lee studied the seemingly unrelated subject of philosophy at the University of Washington. Unlike the kung fu traditionalists who viewed martial arts as closed, exclusive clubs, Bruce Lee welcomed students of all races and backgrounds when he opened his martial arts school in Oakland’s Chinatown in 1964 (the traditionalists challenged him to a fight and sloppily lost). In that same year, he married an American woman when interracial marriage was still frowned upon in America. Shortly after, Lee invented his own martial arts philosophy Jeet Kune Do (截拳道 or ”the way of the intercepting fist”), by blending his primary martial art form of Wing Chun (詠春, or “singing spring”) with Tai Chi, taekwondo, boxing, fencing, jujutsu, Zen Buddhism, and Taoist philosophy.

Despite a short life of 32 years and only five released films, Lee broke the glass ceiling in Hollywood, transformed the world’s perception of Asian cultures, and paved the way for the proliferation of mixed martial arts.

One theme threading through Lee’s life is “emptying your cup,” an idea he repeatedly explored in his private journals. The origin of this idea came from a Zen story he once heard, as his surviving daughter Shannon Lee—who lost her father at the age of four in 1972—records in her part memoir, part biography Be Water, My Friend:

A learned man once went to a Zen master to inquire about Zen. As the master talked, the learned man would frequently interrupt him with remarks like, “Oh yes, we have that too,” and so forth.
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Finally, the Zen master stopped talking and began to serve tea to the learned man; however, he kept pouring, and the teacup overflowed.
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“Enough! No more can go into the cup!” the learned man interrupted. “Indeed, I see,” answered the Zen master. “If you do not first empty your cup, how can you taste my cup of tea?”

Bruce Lee’s story has inspired this week’s theme: “Emptying oneself.”
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Finding what one is not looking for

In 1928, Scottish physician and microbiologist Alexander Fleming had been studying a type of bacteria called staphylococci before he went on a two-week vacation. He left behind in his lab at St. Mary’s Hospital in London an array of Petri dishes containing bacteria cultures. Fleming should have placed the dishes in an incubator but inadvertently left them on the lab bench.

When he returned, Fleming found that most of the dishes were mold-contaminated. Amid the mess, one dish piqued his curiosity. This dish showed a zone where the bacteria seemed unable to grow, suggesting the possibility that a particular kind of mold had stopped the bacteria from spreading. It would take another decade of hard work before Fleming and his colleagues discovered penicillin as an antibiotic treatment for bacterial infections that had killed millions, but the discovery began with Fleming’s openness. Instead of throwing away the ruined experiments, he saw an opportunity knocking.

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Student photographer

When I took my first photography class 20 years ago, the teacher gave the class an exercise of taking 30 photos of an object of our choice. The assignment’s point was to develop a photographer’s eye.

“It’s easy to assume that you already know the subject and that there’s only one or two ways to take the photo,” the instructor said. “But when you really practice and study the subject closely, you discover many angles: top-down, sideways, bottom-up. Each gives you a different set of lighting, shadows, and backgrounds. Combine that with the various settings of your camera—aperture, shutter speed, zoom—the possibilities are endless. And don’t forget your feet. You should move closer, away, and around.”

I took away two lessons from that class. First, a great photo requires many bad ones. Second, a photographer must study the subject and its surroundings, observe with a beginner’s mind, and let go of any preconceived notion of what a photo should look like.

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Lobster shell

Rabbi Dr. Abraham Twerski once read a curious article about how lobsters grow while waiting his turn at a dentist’s office. He explains that lobsters live inside rigid shells that don’t expand well. As a lobster grows, the shell becomes tight and holds the lobster back. The stress the lobster experiences signals growth, but growth requires emptying itself from the shell that once felt cozy. Since the new shell needs time to form, the lobster faces a vulnerable period with less protection, so it goes under a rock formation to protect itself from predatory fish, casts off the old shell, and produces a new one. As the lobster’s tender flesh absorbs sea water, the new casing hardens, and the lobster becomes stronger and heavier. The lobster will repeat this process many times throughout its life.

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Caterpillars

This week, a magazine that came in the mail featured an article about how caterpillars transform into butterflies.

“The metamorphosis begins when the caterpillar spins a little silk pod called a chrysalis.” the article goes. “Once the body is entirely wrapped in the silk pod, the caterpillar’s body digests itself from the inside out until all that remains is liquid goop.”

What used to be a body is broken down into “imaginal cells”—undifferentiated cells that can now become any kind of cell. Some cells turn into wings and legs; others become antennae and organs. It’s fascinating that a caterpillar must completely dissolve itself before transforming into something new and beautiful.

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Cup from the potter’s oven

Lastly, Bruce Lee’s idea of “the usefulness of a cup lies in its emptiness” reminds me of a snippet from Khalil Gibran’s Prophet (Chapter 8):

Is not the cup that holds your wine the very cup that was burned in the potter’s oven?
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When you are joyous, look deep into your heart and you shall find it is only that which has given you sorrow that is giving you joy.

When you are sorrowful, look again in your heart, and you shall see that in truth you are weeping for that which has been your delight.
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Some of you say, “Joy is greater than sorrow,” and others say, “Nay, sorrow is the greater.”

But I say unto you, they are inseparable.

Only when you are empty are you at standstill and balanced.

Earlier this week, I chatted with a friend on the phone for an hour. We’ve known each other since fifth grade but didn’t become close until high school. Many of our formative, adolescent days were spent on light-hearted antics—playing video games under the desk in class, pulling pranks on the unsuspecting physics teacher, and shaking Mentos candies in giant Coke bottles and watching them explode. At least twice a week, we would walk towards one of the two all-girls schools nearby (ours was all-boys) during lunch break to find a place to eat. Countless times, we dared each other to ask the girls at the restaurant for their phone numbers, but for years, it was all talk, no action.

We went our separate ways after graduation. I moved to America, and he continued his studies in Europe. Since then, our exchanges have been limited to infrequent text messages and phone calls. We would go without talking for years, but whenever we do, we pick it up right where we left off.

After seventeen years, our lives look very different: he’s an orchestra conductor based in Vienna, has two kids, and is on a two-year assignment in Southern France. I once watched a video of him performing with the Budapest Philharmonic Orchestra. Dressed in a polished black-tie suit, he swayed his head with intensity as his baton danced through the air like Harry Potter casting a spell on dozens of musicians. It’s amusing to see your childhood friend deeply engrossed in an artistic pursuit while recalling all the silly things you’ve done together as teenagers—there’s a sweetness to it.

The phone call triggered a few thoughts on friendship this week.

Brownian Motion

With over eight billion human beings on this planet, even if you have a thousand friends, you still only know 0.0000125% of the world’s population. Sometimes, when I walk through the city, I look at the hundreds of people on the streets whom I will never know. We bounce around like particles colliding with each other, yet almost none of this collision yields a meaningful relationship.

The fact that you and I have met—and I call you a friend if you are reading this—is quite special. We have yuanfan (緣分), as the Chinese would call it, or “fateful coincidence.”

Initial Barrier

Friendship requires taking risks, especially at the beginning. “Stranger danger,” we have been taught as children. By default, we maintain a distance from each other. Now and then, a spark pushes us and makes us want to connect with another person. We want to say hi, but we hesitate because we fear rejection. But a friendship will never form unless one person becomes vulnerable and initiates the first conversation. The flip side is that even if one initiates, the other person may not accept the invitation. It takes two to dance.

Similarities or Differences?

At a friend’s wedding last year, two people at my table shared that they had met the bride online—Twitter, of all places—because of their love for the Korean boy band BTS. The group quickly bonded, met in person, and traveled together multiple times. “Our tight-knit group shares a common interest—BTS,” one of them said, “But we quickly discovered how diverse we all are. Some of us have kids; others don’t. We live in different cities. It’s a group of eclectic backgrounds and life experiences. It’s awesome.”

Similarities attract, but the differences make the friendship interesting.

Convergent, Parallel, and Divergent

I often picture friendship as two lines representing the two people in the relationship. The lines converge, remain parallel, or diverge over time. Several factors determine the trajectory of the two lines: physical proximity (how close you live), core values (what you believe in), interests (what you care about), shared experiences (what you’ve gone through together), and effort (how much work you put in). With so many factors at play, knowing how a friendship will turn out is almost impossible.

Walk Beside Me

One time, a friend shared a problem with me. I turned on my solution mode and provided several ideas for addressing the issue. I was surprised that my response didn’t help at all.

“Actually, I just need to vent. Can you just listen?” my friend said.

“Don’t walk in front of me; I may not follow. Don’t walk behind me; I may not lead,” Albert Camus writes. “Walk beside me; just be my friend.” Doing nothing but walking with a friend can be challenging, but sometimes that’s the best thing we can do.

After dinner last week, a few friends and I walked around Lake Merritt in Oakland to find a place to hang out. Within a block was an unassuming establishment with no signs on the outside. We descended a few steps and realized it was a bar filled with books on floor-to-ceiling shelves. The chronologically arranged collections included all genres. Even though Clio’s Bookstore and Bar had only opened for less than a month—the menu said “welcome to our 9th evening”—it had only one open table this Friday evening. “Perusing the store is like a history/culture lesson,” an online reviewer writes. “And some other surprises you have to find for yourself.”

The magic of this place stems from combining two previously unconnected ideas: a cozy boutique bookstore and a casual bar with fun drinks. “It’s like going out and staying home. I wish I could give it six stars,” another reviewer says. “This place is truly one of a kind.”

Mixing ideas to generate surprising results—that’s the theme I’m exploring this week.

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Third Culture

For the most part, Southwest Berkeley isn’t a particularly noteworthy neighborhood. At the quiet intersection of 8th and Carleton Street, however, you will find a line of eagerly waiting customers during the day. In 2016, Indonesia-born chef Sam Butarbutar and Taiwan-born Wenter Shyu started ​​Third Culture Bakery​​. Their signature offering is an invention called mochi muffin, a fusion of Japanese mochi and American muffins. The distinguishing characteristic of a mochi muffin is its texture: slightly crunchy on the outside from the caramelized butter and satisfyingly chewy on the inside thanks to a blend of sweet rice flour (mochiko) and a batter mix of coconut milk and pandan—a tropical plant often used in Indonesian desserts for its sweet taste and aroma. Sam and Wenter’s aptly named bakery aims to offer “pastries reflective of their childhood in Indonesia and Taiwan.” By integrating dessert ingredients from two cultures, Third Culture creates a delicious product the world has never seen.

Galinha à portuguesa

Thinking about food reminds me of my hometown. Two centuries of ​​Portuguese colonization​​ have left Macau with more than churches and cobblestone roads amid Buddhist temples and high-rises; Macau’s gastronomy has also become eclectic. If you walk into a local diner—called a “tea restaurant” in Cantonese—you will find curious dishes with a mix of Chinese and Portuguese influence. The most classic dish is “​Portuguese Chicken​ (葡國雞),” which, ironically, you cannot find in Portugal. The chicken with rice underneath is submerged in a delicious, creamy, coconut-milk-based sauce. The dish’s olives, chorizo sausages, and bay leaves are Portuguese. Dried coconut flakes and coconut cream are likely a Malaysian influence. The egg-fried rice at the bottom and the baked crusty finish at the top are unmistakably Cantonese. We also have another chicken rice dish called “​​African Chicken​​ (​​非洲雞​​ or ​​嚤囉雞​​),” likely inspired by piri piri chicken the Portuguese traders enjoyed in Africa and subsequently modified with a mix of Indian, Malay, and Chinese spices.

The Louvre Museum

When I first visited Hong Kong as a kid, its skyline of skyscrapers with shiny corporate logos impressed me. Someone pointed out that the tallest tower was the 70-story ​​Bank of China​​ building, designed by I.M. Pei, the architect who had also rebuilt the Louvre Museum. I’ve always wondered: why would the French government pick a Chinese guy for the job? I finally read about it a few months ago. The ​story​ was fascinating, and I enjoyed the drama around its controversy.

The most contentious aspect of the Louvre renovation was its design: a 21-meter-high pyramid constructed of metal and glass. When Pei unveiled the plan in 1984, the design shocked the French people. For two years, Pei had to explain his vision and convince various community groups, a challenging feat given he barely spoke any French. His design intended to emphasize the building’s historical and cultural significance while conveying its modernity. The pyramid shape is stable as its board base allows even weight distribution, while glass reflects the sky, blends with the surroundings, and provides natural light to the interior.

“The Egyptian precedent was about mass and impenetrability, but this pyramid was about lightness and transparency,” Pei explains. “It signifies a break with the architectural traditions of the past.”

The Louvre Museum remains controversial today: Some people love it, some hate it. But few can argue that mixing ancient Egyptian architecture with modern materials in the city center of Paris isn’t a head-turner.

AirMax

Speaking of hated French buildings, another architect came to mind for a different reason. After working as a corporate architect at Nike for four years, ​​Tinker Hatfield​​ participated in an internal company shoe design competition. When he won first place, Nike told Tinker to “forget about the architecture stuff” and made him a shoe designer. At the time, Nike explored a cushioning component by encapsulating gas inside an airbag. While working on his first design, Tinker thought of the ​​George Pompidou Center​​ in Paris, a controversial building he had visited years ago. Many Parisians hated the building’s aesthetics, especially the exposed skeleton of brightly colored tubes, pipes, and ducts placed on the exterior. Some pointed out that it looked like guts flipped inside out.

But the building gave Tinker an idea: Why not do the same to a shoe? How about cutting a hole on the side? The exposed airbag cushion would allow people to see what was inside the shoe for the first time. It would also be a powerful testament to Nike’s commitment to innovation. Against this backdrop, Nike introduced the Air Max 1 in 1987—an iconic moment in sneaker history. All it took was an architect to switch career paths yet still noodling on an “ugly” building.

Isomorphic Substitution

My friend Joe, an environmental engineering professor, once explained a fascinating chemical phenomenon called isomorphic substitution. I will probably butcher this, but my layman’s understanding is as follows: When minerals form, a chemical element can replace another similar-sized component without significantly changing the shape of the crystal—same (“iso”) shape (“morph”). Isomorphic substitution, which primarily occurs in nature, alters the physical and chemical properties of the crystals, including their color, hardness, and texture. Like humans create alloys by combining two metals—say, copper and zinc to make the tarnish-resistant metal brass—nature also constantly mixes elements to form new combinations, adding to the world’s colorful spectrum of materials.

Inuksuk

The Inuit people in the Arctic region of North America have a tradition of piling stones to form a landmark called an ​​Inuksuk​​. These markers indicate significant travel routes, fishing places, and camps. Today, the territory of Nunavut in northern Canada still uses an image of Inuksuk as the centerpiece of its ​​flag​​. In the Inuit language, Inuksuk means “that which acts in the capacity of a human.”

Reading about Inuksuk this week made me ponder the paradox of self-interest and altruism. While the first Inuksuk might have been built by someone for his navigation purposes, the mark endured and became helpful for everyone else. Whether intentional or accidental, the first Inuksuk started a movement: It encouraged others to reciprocate and leave behind something that benefits the people to come, or, as the Quaker philosopher ​​Elton Trueblood​​ once put it, to “plant shade trees under which he knows full well he will never sit.”

Shades for people we don’t know—that’s the theme for this week.

National Parks

One of my favorite things about America is its National Parks. I don’t get to visit them often, but whenever I do, I’m in awe of the park’s natural beauty and the park rangers who have thoughtfully built, designed, and maintained the facilities. Once, we were hiking in a canyon in Utah. The trail was unmarked, but piles of stones were along the way to guide us. Even though Utah is thousands of miles away from the Arctic region, it was fascinating to see that people across geographies naturally embrace the same spirit of Inuksuk. As a result, all the visitors can explore the trail knowing that they are heading in the right direction.

Blood Donation

My team once did an icebreaker activity during an in-person offsite to share an interesting personal fact. A colleague of mine said that he was born in the 30th week. As a result of his premature birth, he was in and out of the hospital throughout his first six months as a baby. Throughout those difficult months, his family thought many times he would not make it. Now in his late 30s, my colleague is healthy at six feet tall and has a two-year-old. That experience, he reflected, shaped who he was and taught him to be strong. Since he was a young adult, he has donated blood every month. “I received a lot of help in the first year of my life,” he said. “Now it’s only fair that I give what I can. That’s the least I can do.”

Wikipedia

For nearly 200 years since 1768, Britannica was the most sophisticated encyclopedia on the planet. However, Wikipedia has taken over in every way shortly after its advent in 2001. With tens of millions of articles in hundreds of languages, Wikipedia’s coverage is Britannica’s dream. While Britannica has hired thousands of paid staff over the last two centuries, Wikipedia’s content has been created entirely by unpaid volunteers within the last two decades. Funded by donations and gifts, Wikipedia remains one of the few peaceful places on the Internet without ads, unstoppable pop-ups, and dreaded 30-second countdowns.

The power of Wikipedia lies in its openness: Everyone can add or suggest edits, while the community enforces rules to ensure the facts are as accurate as possible. Even though their efforts remain anonymous to most of the world, tens of thousands of undirected contributors write about topics they care about. Over time, individual entries snowball into a massive treasure of knowledge.

In 2014, an interviewer asked Jimmy Wales, Wikipedia’s founder, if funding Wikipedia as a for-profit company like a regular Silicon Valley company would give the organization more money to do bigger things. “No, no, because if we were in that situation, we wouldn’t care about languages,” Wales ​​replied​​. “If we were supported by advertising, we would care about entries that get another million users in the US but not what might be of interest to another million readers in India.” A big part of Wales’ Wikipedia vision was for the platform to be “a temple for the mind” on the open Internet. “I’m not anti-commerce, but I don’t think it belongs in every aspect of life,” he said.

Little Free Library

If you walk around where I live in Berkeley, you will notice miniature libraries around the residential neighborhood. These tiny structures resemble small sheds (examples ​​1​​, ​​2​​, ​​3​​, ​​4​​, ​​5​​). Anyone can take books from these mini libraries or add to them. I have enjoyed New Yorker magazines, children’s books, and travel guides that my neighbors no longer find useful. Curiously, the libraries are always at least half full.

In 2009, a man named ​​Todd Bol​​ from Hudson, Wisconsin, built the first-ever Free Little Library. As a tribute to his mother—a teacher who loved to read—the initial design was a one-room schoolhouse model. Todd filled the wooden box with books and put it on a post in his front yard. Neighbors and friends loved it, so he built a few more for them.

Within 12 years, more than ​​150,000​​ people worldwide have registered their Little Free Library sharing boxes. What a marvelous movement for people around to read for free!

Last week, Y and I had planned on swimming, but she felt exhausted with a sore throat. The at-home COVID antigen test showed a pale line—so faint that I wondered if I had just imagined it. The repeat test was similar, so Y went to the clinic for a lab test. The result came back a few hours later. “ABNORMAL,” the email read in prominent red font. After staying unscathed for the last few years, the time had come: “COVID DETECTED.” We scrambled to isolate at home.

I went on a walk around the house the same day. If it weren’t for COVID, I would not have developed the walking habit. The shelter-in-place order was initially a hard adjustment. While it sounded great to go unshaven and wear pajamas all day, I was going stir-crazy at home. All my regular routines were off. I felt like a caged lion: The more I stayed indoors, the more anxious I was. I knew I had to leave the house and do something. But even the basketball court was closed; walking was the only choice.

The streets were eerily quiet at the onset of the pandemic. Most of the traffic was gone. Many of my walks were filled with questions, ranging from less consequential ones like, “Does working remotely work?” and “Should I buy the scented toilet paper from the Mexican supermarket since nothing else was in stock?” to the more serious ones like “How many people will die?” and “What if my family back home becomes ill?”

Perhaps the biggest question was, “When will the pandemic end?” The prevailing narrative in March 2020 was that it might last a few months, like regular flu season. I took a more conservative approach and predicted the end of summer. Of course, everyone was profoundly wrong.

I strolled down the streets I had walked over hundreds of times. It struck me how quickly I’d moved on from those worrying thoughts. Over the last year, I have barely thought about the most significant pandemic I would likely encounter in my lifetime. The last time I seriously thought about COVID was probably ​​November 2022​​. But this week, the families who have lost their loved ones came to mind—they wouldn’t have forgotten about the pandemic. The scars will stay with them for as long as they live.

Another reflection was on the availability of knowledge: If Y had contracted COVID in 2020, our experience would have been entirely different. We feel okay because we know what we are dealing with and have tools: Vaccination has proven to mitigate risks. In contrast, humanity was in the dark not long ago when there were no tests, usable data, or established protocols. We only had disturbing news stories and charts that looked like hockey sticks. The situation was terrible. Now, we are in a different place. Vaccination is widely available. Most people now shrug about COVID. Knowledge, data, and science do make a difference. Visibility comes with peace of mind.

Thankfully, Y is recovering well. Some symptoms remain, but they look like the end of it. I’m grateful.

This week, I collaborated with two graphic designers on a presentation. The junior designer—let’s call her Kate—was my primary partner on the project. She was excellent at creating beautiful Google Slides to illustrate complex ideas in a simple way.

Sometimes, Kate would ask the senior designer—let’s call her Olivia—for suggestions. One interaction between them struck me.

“I can’t get this graphic to work! It’s awkward. I’m stuck. :’( Can you help?” Kate left a note for Olivia on a slide.

Olivia replied a while later with a new design on a second slide:

“No problem! I created another version. Watcha think? Does it work?”

This interaction reminded me of a workshop I attended a few months ago. The workshop—curiously named The 5 Dysfunctions of a Team—explored why some teams thrive and some don’t. Here’s a model the facilitator used (with slight simplification):

The point of this model is that trust must be in the foundation before teams can function. If people don’t feel safe with each other, they can’t resolve conflicts, demonstrate commitment, and keep each other accountable. Results will suffer.

While it’s easy to say, “We should trust each other!” reality is not so simple. The workshop facilitator argues that trust needs vulnerability, which means being authentic about what we think and how we feel. That requires us sometimes to say, “I don’t have the answer,” or “I can’t do something.” Other times, it means “Things happened, and I am sad,” or “There’s too much. I am overwhelmed.”

But being vulnerable is risky. If we are open about our thoughts and feelings but others don’t respond thoughtfully—or worse, they ignore or ridicule us—we can feel hurt, betrayed, or taken advantage of. We will be discouraged from sharing in the future. A vicious cycle follows: people stop communicating, issues arise, and problems fester until they explode.

The interaction between Kate and Olivia was the opposite. When Kate felt stuck, she told her partner and asked for help. Olivia responded with respect, kindness, and helpful suggestions. Interactions like this start a virtuous cycle: They will likely lean on each other if one of them needs help in the future. The outcome will improve.

Trust isn’t core only to work relationships; personal relationships require it just as much. While chatting with a long-time friend last week, I hesitated whether to share a difficult experience. After some thought, I decided to do so. My friend listened attentively, thanked me for being candid, and shared a similarly challenging experience. That conversation was meaningful to me: It allowed me to appreciate my friend’s hidden journey. I walked away feeling less alone, and it gave me another lens to make sense of my story. While the content of the conversation wasn’t exactly enjoyable, the catharsis it brought reminded me how wonderful it is to share a relationship in trust.

Trust takes a long time to build through repeated trials, but it takes only seconds to destroy. Yet, since trust is the foundation of every human relationship, vulnerability is also a risk we must learn to take wisely.

Long before he became a storyteller and a novelist, Matthew Dicks worked in McDonald’s to make ends meet after he left home for college. ​​Seven McDonald’s over 13 years​​, to be precise.

“The days felt endless,” Dicks said. “It was the same routine over and over again. Taking orders, flipping burgers, and handing out fries. There was no excitement, no spark, no challenge.”

To make his job less painful, Dicks would invent challenges and see if he could upsell his customers with extra items. No one asked him to do it, and selling more products wouldn’t change his hourly pay. He recalled:

Some days I’d decide it was BBQ Sauce Day. For the rest of the day, I’d add a mini sales pitch to each order I took. The customer would order a Big Mac and fries, and I’d ask them if they’d like any sauce with that. If they said no, I’d smile and say, “Well, I’d really recommend the BBQ sauce–there’s nothing that beats that.” Usually at this point, they were a little taken aback, and they’d say, “Ok then, I’ll take the sauce.” If they still didn’t bite, I’d say, “That’s ok, but you’re really missing out. My last customer was reluctant but when she tried the sauce she knew she’d made the right decision.”

These mini-games energized him. His off-script sales pitch would occasionally delight his customers. On some days, Dicks even looked forward to his shifts. Working at the fast food restaurant remained uninspiring, but he created a way to play and enjoy himself.

This story makes me realize I have recently invented a game for myself in my day job. My game is to use the fewest possible words with anything I write, like memos and emails. A few weeks ago, I was tasked with updating a document only a few people would read. The previous version was acceptable but unorganized: The long paragraphs of plain text were circular and difficult to read. I rewrote the whole thing with bullet points, bolded subtitles, and consolidated multiple paragraphs into a table with four columns and 50 words.

Even though this task was rather unimportant, I found the effort—the game—rather rewarding: I slashed the document length by half without saying less, and I know whoever reads the file in the future will find it more pleasant than before.

“Nothing fires up the brain like play.” Dr. Stuart Brown ​​said​​ in his TED talk, “Play is more than fun.” Brown founded a curious organization called the National Institute for Play, which promotes the benefits of play to kids and adults. His studies of thousands of people show that play can benefit health, relationships, and innovation. Above all, it engages our brains and makes us happier.

Greg McKeown, who wrote about Brown’s research in his book Essentialism, sums it up beautifully:

When we play, we are engaged in the purest expression of our humanity, the truest expression of our individuality. Is it any wonder that often the times we feel most alive, those that make up our best memories, are moments of play?

As adults, though, we don’t always get to do the clearly fun things like sports or board games—we must also do the work we don’t enjoy. Most people wouldn’t associate working at McDonald’s with play. What to do then? Dicks’ story suggests a trick: approach a job with less seriousness, find an unexplored angle, and design a new game no one has thought of or cares about.

Weirdly, this approach reminds me of the Holocaust survivor Viktor Frankl, who wrote in his book Man’s Search for Meaning:

Everything can be taken from a man but one thing: the last of the human freedoms—to choose one’s attitude in any given set of circumstances, to choose one’s own way.

While Frankl’s poignant writing was about his agency amid extremely limited choices in a concentration camp, his description surprisingly matches Matthew Dicks’ story. During that period of his life, Dicks had to work at a place he didn’t enjoy to make a living, but he chose to exercise his freedom amid the less-than-ideal conditions: Make it a game, and focus on the BBQ sauce.

“A little nonsense now and then is cherished by the wisest men.” —Roald Dahl

Last week, I was on a United Airlines flight back to San Francisco, sitting a few rows from the tail. As the uncomfortably warm plane slowly taxied on the runway, the man behind me asked a flight attendant whether she could dial up the air conditioning.

Annoyed, she explained the plane had just disconnected from ground power, so the cool air would take a while to kick in.

The man asked, “I see some open seats in the front. Can I switch to those seats?”

“What’s wrong with your seat?” The flight attendant asked as she raised her voice. “If it’s hot, the seats in the front won’t help. Everywhere on the plane is hot. EVERYONE is hot!”

Her response stunned the mostly packed cabin.

“The seats up front have more space,” the man responded. “Can I move?”

The flight attendant ignored the man’s question. She turned around, shrugged, and stormed off towards the front of the plane while fanning herself with her hands.

The cabin became quiet as the passengers observed the unexpected drama. A couple of passengers put on their headphones. My mother didn’t fully catch the conversation in English but noticed the discomfort in the air.

“Why was she so angry?” she asked in Cantonese.

Shortly after take-off, the purser came by, presumably to address the man’s complaint. He explained the situation.

“Sir, I understand. I wasn’t here earlier, so I don’t know what happened exactly, but I need you to relax,” she said. “We’ve got a long flight ahead… I know you’re coming all the way to Cincinnati with me on another flight, and you being angry is not going to fix this problem. I will make sure another flight attendant will serve you for the rest of this flight. The only other thing I can offer you is the seat you requested. Do you want to move up there?”

The man grew more frustrated.

“That flight attendant’s attitude was unacceptable. I asked a reasonable question, and she was so mad. Something is off here.” he said.

The purser responded, “I used to be in the military, so I know how to run my crew. As I said, I can offer you the seats by the exit door with additional legroom and compensation miles.”

After the pair repeated themselves a few times, the man realized escalating further would be futile. The conversation concluded, and the purser walked away.

While he was offered the exit row, the man remained in his original seat. He turned to his female companion and spoke rapidly in a foreign language. It was clear he was still fuming. I turned to him and said, “I saw what happened. She was very rude.” Raising his hands with all his fingers widely spread out, he said vehemently, “Yes!!! Thank you!!!”

While the man initially sought comfort—better air conditioning, more legroom space—in the end, he wanted basic respect and acknowledgment of the unfair treatment.

As I pondered what contributed to this unpleasant exchange, an announcement was made over the PA, as it had on countless other flights since United ​introduced​ its slogan in 1965.

“Let us know if we can do anything to make your flight more comfortable. Welcome to the friendly skies!”

Over the last few months, I’ve been swimming on average twice a week, sometimes on Sundays, but mainly during the week after work.

It surprises me that visiting the pool has become a routine. If you had asked whether I enjoyed swimming in 2005, my reaction would have been bitter. At the time, like most of my teenage peers, I looked forward to spending my entire summer holiday playing online video games. It was also the last thing my mother wanted.

Auntie Han, my mother’s friend who lived five minutes from us, frequented a new swimming pool, which had opened to the public a year earlier after the East Asian Games, a regional Olympics-like event, had concluded. My clever mother made a deal that I must go with Auntie Han twice a week throughout the holiday to earn the right to the computer.

Enjoying the ​million-dollar facility​ at the government-subsidized cost of $1 was a fortune I was too young to appreciate. On many dreaded mornings, I would swim half-heartedly for 20 minutes, then drift to the smaller diving pool while wishing Auntie Han would finish early, which, unfortunately, had never happened. My prime entertainment was locating the most robust return jet along the pool wall. As my calves received a free massage, I wondered why people would spend their precious summer days doing laps in a confined, rectangular box.

And here I am, 7,000 miles away and 18 years later, voluntarily expending effort for a workout I once avoided, even though a free ride is no longer available. Instead, I drive through half an hour of Bay Area traffic during rush hour to pay eight times the price for a more modest facility. Yet, this access is a privilege and a much-needed refuge.

A few years ago, my friend Louis decided to move south to Santa Barbara. He wanted to live closer to the ocean so he could fish and dive more often. “There’s nothing quite like being in the water. It’s a different world,” he said.

Jumping into the pool is entering a new world. The combination of physical exertion and rhythmic motion brings great comfort, especially in the evenings when I’ve loaded up personal and work problems from the day. Forty-five minutes feel barely enough for the chaos to settle in my jumpy mind. While the heart rate is up, my heart is paradoxically still. My favorite moment, however, is the exit. When I emerge from the water, I return to the old world with a new perspective. The knots in my muscles have loosened. The intractable issues have become out of focus and look solvable.

While doing freestyle this week, the writer John Steinbeck surprisingly came to mind. When writing his book The Grapes of Wrath, he kept a journal, which he later published as a separate book. Throughout his journal, Steinbeck documented his doubts about his project but encouraged himself to keep going and put in the day’s work.

“It will get done poco a poco,” he wrote.

Poco a poco. Little by little. That’s what lap swim is, moving forward inch by inch. Unlike my weekend basketball games, lap swimming is not a competition. It’s what the late history professor James P. Carse would call an “infinite game.” There are no agreed-upon rules on how one must swim. Anyone can enter and exit the game at any time. Each person defines what a win is. I can go slow, accelerate, or alternate the pattern. Each stroke itself is the point.

That simplicity is delightful.

Yesterday, I got a car wash and met the business owner, Oscar, for the second time. I asked how his Thanksgiving went. He said it was fun, but dieting was challenging during the holiday season. He had been working on becoming healthier. He proudly said he had lost 40 pounds over the last six months—a substantial amount for a guy at 5’6″—through exercise and limiting himself to one serving.

“No seconds!” he said.

He turned around and asked how my break was, and I told him about our short road trip to Southern California.

Oscar didn’t seem to be in a rush—it didn’t seem like another customer was waiting—and I wasn’t either. As the questions flowed, I was surprised we ended up having a pleasant 20-minute conversation.

He divulged a few details of his other small businesses with his wife and father-in-law: They have a cleaning business and have been dabbling in house flipping, though struggling to secure permits with the city on their current project.

Oscar told a few other personal stories: A disgruntled employee once stole $1,500 of equipment from his storage. Another is suing him. He didn’t get into his dream college and wanted to play pro baseball when he was younger. He even shared his parenting philosophy with his 11-year-old and 8-year-old: “My goal is to give them the opportunities my parents never gave me. What they do with them is their choice. I will have done my part.”

I am often fascinated by how ready Americans are to converse. I have come to enjoy this aspect of living in this country: It allows me to listen to random stories from people I don’t normally interact with. Where I grew up, people are far more suspicious towards strangers.

The downside is that you can also easily run into conversations you can’t wait to get out of. Once, my seatmate on a cross-country flight was eager to tell me his detailed life story that I had no interest in. When he finally took a breath after a long rant, I swiftly put on my headphones. I was immensely grateful to have brought them along. The noise-cancellation feature turned out to be a worthwhile investment.

Oscar was different, however. Even though we barely knew each other, within seconds, I sensed the genuineness in his smile and open gestures. What struck me is that sometimes, we feel more comfortable sharing stories with a stranger we may never meet again. The knowledge that there is no agenda, no strings attached, keeps the conversation light. There is less worry about judgment or repercussions when I know I can walk away unscathed if the conversation ceases to be mutually enjoyable. There’s something unique when two people listen and appreciate each other’s presence, not trying to solve each other’s problems but merely acknowledging we are humans trying to make sense of this complex, imperfect world.

Once we are done, we return to our parallel lives.

Most photo apps on our devices today have built-in facial recognition. It even allows you to search for photos with specific people in them.

This feature has been around for a few years, but I haven’t used it much until yesterday. When I discovered this function, I played with various combinations of myself and the people important to me. The photos on my phone date back to 2013, so these searches returned thousands of frames. Suddenly, I was watching a movie in reverse chronological order.

Oh, I was there for Christmas in 2016?

It was surreal to relive a decade within a few minutes. The app revealed a story of where I was, how I spent my time, and whom I spent the time with.

My phone has about 30,000 photos, so it represents only a tiny fraction of the moments lived. If each second were a frame in a movie, ten years would be 315 million frames.

What struck me was that while each second in our life does not seem like much, the frames will eventually string together to form an overarching narrative. This observation made me realize two things happen over an extended period:

Most things will become inconsequential… Most of the people we meet will fade into the background. In a few years, we will laugh at most of the problems that make us anxious today. Whether a given day goes well doesn’t matter much in the long run.

…yet a few things will shape the story arc. A small group of people will define our most meaningful relationships. A handful of events will transform our worldviews. The effect of a few decisions we make consistently—what and who we prioritize—will compound and magnify.

This insight makes me wonder: How will the story play out if I get another 315 million frames? What will my photo album look like in 10 years?

A few years ago, I visited a smog check station near my house. The owner, Jose, took twenty minutes and said the car had passed the test. When I paid and thought that was the end of a routine exchange, Jose started scribbling on the back of the receipt. He said I should watch out for a few things in the coming months: I’d soon need new tires. The back brakes had about 10% left, so if I started to hear serious screeching, it would be time to replace them.

He handed me the receipt with his barely legible notes, wished me a good day, and returned to work.

His gesture earned my trust. It showed he had inspected the vehicle beyond what was required by law. I appreciated how neutral he was when he offered advice. He didn’t care when or where I would get the future repairs. His actions said, “If I were you, I would fix these things, but it’s up to you.” It is refreshing when a business considers my perspective and seeks to solve my problems, regardless of whether that means extra revenue for them in the short term.

Over the years, I have patronized Jose’s shop for oil changes and minor repairs. Although their shop is often busy, they always get me in and finish the work quickly.

Earlier this week, my 2004 Camry started to make a loud noise while accelerating. Jose’s son Chris took a look and said he had to replace the alternator and the bearings (I don’t technically know what all that means).

The following day, Chris called and said my car was ready. When I arrived two minutes later, Chris was still working on the vehicle. Curiously, he was rubbing the battery with a tool. Surprised I showed up so quickly, he smiled and said, “I saw some rust around the battery. It’s better to clean it up. I will get your paperwork in the office in a minute.”

No wonder this business has a 4.9 rating with 1,000+ reviews!

Going the extra mile costs Jose and Chris little, but clearly, the customers notice the difference. This father-and-son business is a living statement: We will care for you if you are here. While their services seem like ordinary auto repair, Jose and Chris are artists in my book: their work ethics prove that it’s possible to have an honest business while taking pride in their craft and caring for the people in the community.

Hi friends,

I finished the book Night by Nobel Laureate Elie Wiesel this week. The memoir was a poignant account of his experience during the Nazi occupation in the 1940s.

Like most Holocaust survivors, Wiesel faced extreme hunger, sickness, and cruelty. He saw his dad beaten and starved to death.

The most profound impression I had from the book was the first night when Wiesel arrived at the Auschwitz concentration camp. He was shocked by how many men, women, and children were sent to the crematorium and burned alive.

He refused to accept what was happening. He wrote:

I pinched myself: Was I still alive? Was I awake?… All this could not be real. Soon, I would wake up with a start, my heart pounding, and find that I was back in the room of my childhood with my books.

In the same chapter, Wiesel wrote the most striking paragraph:

Never shall I forget that night, the first night in camp, that turned my life into one long night seven times sealed.

Never shall I forget that smoke.

Never shall I forget the small faces of the children whose bodies I saw transformed into smoke under a silent sky.

Never shall I forget those flames that consumed my faith forever. Never shall I forget the nocturnal silence that deprived me for all eternity of the desire to live.

Never shall I forget those moments that murdered my God and my soul and turned my dreams to ashes.

Never shall I forget those things, even were I condemned to live as long as God Himself.

Never. (emphasis is mine)

I wondered why I chose to read another Holocaust book. Stories like this aren’t pleasurable reads, but I think they help me make sense of the difficulties in my life—not to negate them, but to put them in perspective.

When I was younger, I had a naive understanding that if I could remove pain and discomfort, I would be happy. But as I age, I realize this thinking is flawed in two ways.

First, it’s impossible to eliminate all pains. Regardless of our current circumstances, life can go wrong when we least expect it and in ways we can’t imagine. No amount of contingency planning or material abundance can prevent that.

Second, the absence of unhappiness is not the same as the presence of happiness. It took me years to understand this idea, but seeing difficult moments through this lens has been helpful. A lack of problems is not the same as happiness; a painless existence doesn’t guarantee joy.

Happiness and sadness aren’t mutually exclusive. Instead, the two can—and often, must—coexist. This means we can be happy amid difficulties.

From this perspective, happiness is a choice we must make repeatedly: Will I choose to be happy with what I have now even though the circumstance is not what I wanted?

This question is the hardest to answer when we face tremendous difficulties. When I read Wiesel’s traumatic narrative, I thought, “Give this guy a break already!” How is it possible for someone like him to be happy ever again?

As these thoughts swirled, I came across another passage from the Book of Joy. South African archbishop Desmond Tutu said:

Discovering more joy does not, I’m sorry to say, save us from the inevitability of hardship and heartbreak.

In fact, we may cry more easily, but we will laugh more easily, too. Perhaps we are just more alive.

Yet, as we discover more joy, we can face suffering in a way that ennobles rather than embitters.

We have hardship without becoming hard. We have heartbreak without being broken.

Hi friends,

The other day, I was driving in Pacific Heights in San Francisco. My partner and I were on our way to pick up a to-go order at a restaurant. As I surveyed for parking, the car slowly rolled to an intersection.

A black motorcycle abruptly emerged from the corner of the intersection. It was going fast and made a surprisingly wide turn. Out of instinct, I steered the car towards the sidewalk to avoid a collision.

Thankfully, it was a near miss.

But that wasn’t the end of it.

The shiny Yamaha approached. The rider stopped beside me, looked me in the eyes, and yelled. His voice was muffled through his helmet and the car window, but I didn’t need to hear the words to know he was furious.

He gave me a harsh look and a finger as he drove off.

It took me a second to realize what had just happened.

My anger built as I continued driving. While my car had slightly leaned towards the motorcyclist’s side of the lane, his wide turn at high speed also contributed to the near miss.

It was a glorious day in the city. My partner and I had just taken a peaceful walk along Crissy Field with a spectacular view of the Golden Gate Bridge under a blue, cloudless sky. We planned to pick up lunch and enjoy the afternoon at a park nearby.

I asked, why was I angry? His rudeness. The aggressive verbal attack.

Then I asked, why was he angry? I believe it came from fear of injury (and death). His response was to avoid harm and deter threats to protect himself.

After fuming for a few minutes, the philosopher Epictetus came to mind, “It’s not what happens to you but how you react to it that matters.”

So I asked myself one more question: how will I choose to react now?

Will I remain enraged, or will I recover and enjoy the beautiful afternoon as planned?

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“He who is slow to anger is better than the mighty; And he who rules his spirit, than he who captures a city.”—Proverbs 16:32

“Choose not to be harmed—and you won’t feel harmed. Don’t feel harmed—and you haven’t been.”—Marcus Aurelius

Lately, I’ve been thinking about rules—not rules others impose on us, but the rules we create for ourselves.

A couple of months ago, I needed onion and garlic to make a stir-fry dish one evening, so I went to my local grocery store Berkeley Bowl. An hour later, I was still at the store. My half-full cart, however, didn’t have onion or garlic. Instead, it had a colorful collection of chips, popcorn, and pineapple sparkling water.

When I got home, I was tired. I didn’t start cooking until 7 p.m. Dinner was late, and by the time I cleaned up the kitchen, it was too late to watch TV (I have a rule of no TV after 9 p.m. on weekdays).

I was looking forward to Better Call Saul, and I was frustrated!

My weakness while shopping in person is the tendency to browse the entire store. I’m often curious: what good stuff do they have in the next aisle?

Grocery stores are designed to maximize revenue by encouraging shoppers to travel longer distances. That’s why they put essential items like eggs and milk in the back, so we have to walk past the chocolates and the ice cream.

Knowing the grocers’ tactics, however, doesn’t help. Once I’m in, I am a kid at the candy store. The problem, of course, is that I’m also an adult with a credit card. This means I can do serious damage.

I set a new rule for myself this month: I will only look for things on my shopping list when I shop for groceries. This rule is a forcing function: I need a shopping list before I even set foot in a store.

Throughout the week, whenever I think of an item, I write it down in this top-bound spiral notebook.

I picked this notebook because it can stay open—I don’t need to flip a page to jot down an item. The size is compact while having enough space on each page.

Since no single shop has everything I need, I have tabs for different stores: Trader Joe’s, Costco, Asian grocery stores, etc. I also ensure a couple of pens are next to the notebook. I know I have to make the process frictionless.

I have been carrying this notebook for the last few weeks whenever I go shopping, checking off items as I go. Even with this rule, I’m still tempted to wander. But having the shopping list in hand forces me to ask every few minutes: Are you looking for what’s on the list?

Do you choose to break your rule?

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Rules are simple if-then statements. It can be positive: If I’m in X situation, I will do A. It can also be negative: Whenever Y happens, I will not do B.

Other rules I currently have:

• Upon waking up, meditate and journal for a few minutes
• When conversing with another person, put the phone away
• No tea after 3 p.m.
• Go on at least one walk daily (doesn’t matter how long)
• Swim on Tuesday nights (if work permits)
• Share a short piece of writing with friends on Fridays
• Buy only packaged foods with ingredients I can pronounce

When there is a conflict between how we act and who we want to be, it’s an opportunity for a rule. New rules challenge the status quo. They lead us to examine the current situation and ask: If I were to start from scratch, what would I choose?

Rules sound restrictive, but they can paradoxically be freeing. Effective rules eliminate hundreds of unnecessary decisions. They set boundaries so our mind doesn’t have to wonder about every possibility in a busy world filled with distracting options. 

Instead of shopping for two hours, I can simplify my decisions and go home early.

Unlike rules others put on us—which may or may not be in our best interest—rules we create for ourselves are statements of who we want to become. They serve as guardrails when we are not at our best, especially when we are tired, hungry, or emotional. Personal rules are like signs on a hiking trail showing us whether we are heading in the right direction. 

And if we are off track? All we have to do is get back on it. 

Last weekend, my wife and I visited the Charles M. Schulz Museum in Sonoma County, which I had been looking forward to visiting for a while now. It was fantastic! In this post, I am sharing a few highlights with you.

I first encountered Snoopy when I was eight. My mom gifted me this yellow comic book with a curious cartoon dog on the cover. The book had the original comic strips in English with Chinese translation on the side. I loved the comic, so my mom bought me a few more.

First Impression

We arrived at the museum in Santa Rosa after driving for an hour on Sunday. I knew I had come to the right place when I saw these.

As I entered the main building, a large mural caught my attention. Japanese designer Yoshiteru Otani was a long-time admirer of Sparky (as Charles Schulz is known among his family and friends). Otani has worked on creative projects based on Peanuts characters since 1993. For this mural, he hand-selected 3,588 ceramic tiles—or ten years’ worth of daily strips—to recreate a large scene of Lucy holding a football for Charlie Brown.

Morphing of Snoopy

In the hallway was a 7000-pound sculpture named Morphing of Snoopy, created by the same Japanese artist as the mural. This project, which used 43 layers of maple veneer, took Otani two years to complete.

The Schultz family brought a black and white dog home in 1934 and named him Spike. This sculpture illustrates how Spike has evolved into the Snoopy we now see.

After a two-year stint in the military in the early 1940s, Sparky took a job at a school in Minnesota while developing his career as a comic creator. In June 1947, he published his first series of one-panel jokes called Li’l Folks, which would later become the Peanuts.

When I was younger, I somehow assumed that Charlie Brown and Snoopy were magically created on a particular day, and that’s how they have always looked. In reality, however, all the characters have been refined through thousands of iterations over the decades.

There were loads of fun displays throughout the museum. This wall was one of my favorites: Charlie Brown is so happy when Snoopy returns home from the hospital after being sick.

There is also Sally’s famous booth if you need psychiatric consultation.

Unlike the small comic books I read 25 years ago, the museum exhibits feature large prints, which make it easier to appreciate Sparky’s drawings. It’s amazing how these simple lines have created a lovely cast of human and non-human characters with distinct personalities.

Everything is material

While reading through Sparky’s life journey, I was most struck by how he drew inspiration from simple daily observations.

His childhood days in Minnesota inspired sledding, hockey, and ice skating in the stories. The elusive red-haired girl was based on a real girl named Donna, whom he met in school in 1961.

He also enjoyed baseball, golf, and football, so the characters often play those sports (though they never win).

Sparky also recalled being a poor student, failing most subjects in his younger days—a predicament reflected in Sally, who likewise struggles academically.

Sparky said in a documentary that he got many ideas from watching his children as they went on with their day or argued with each other. His first three kids inspired Linus’ safety blanket, for example.

Sparky produced an astounding volume of work throughout his life: 17,897 Peanuts Strips in total.

In his memoir ​My Life With Charlie Brown​, Sparky once wrote, “I’m often asked where I get my ideas…They come from sitting in a room alone and drawing seven days a week, as I’ve done for 40 years.”

Since the newspapers needed daily submission, Sparky kept a fairly regimented routine during weekdays. He would rise early, drop off the kids at school, and work out of his studio for several hours, with a lunch break in between at the nearby Warm Puppy Cafe (still open on site). On the weekends, he would enjoy a variety of sports and spending time with friends and family.

His recreated studio was in the gallery on the second floor.

The museum intentionally left crumpled papers on the floor beside the trash can in the studio. Sparky used to warm up at the beginning of the day by doing spontaneous pencil sketches in his notebook. He discovered countless ideas from this process, though he often threw the initial doodles away.

His secretary would sometimes rescue the rough sketches from the garbage, take them home, and iron them flat again.

Now, we get to see these raw sketches.

The Fun Stuff

On the same floor was a surprisingly entertaining education center with materials for kids to do all sorts of artwork.

We opted for making an origami Snoopy’s house. The instruction was a bit hard to follow. Fortunately, a volunteer was there to do a demo for us. Otherwise, there was no way I could have figured it out!

Here are the final products—they are now sitting on my work desk.

Lastly, here are a few thought-provoking quotes sprinkled throughout the exhibits.

Final thoughts

Overall, this museum was a gem. The exhibits were well-​curated​. There weren’t too many visitors, and I had space to appreciate the work slowly.

This visit was also a walk down memory lane: It reminded me how Snoopy was my informal introduction to learning English and a shared interest with my mother. I also thought of my family’s ​dog​ as I walked the aisles.

Another lesson I learned is that achieving any given goal on the first attempt is unnecessary. A product that appears inevitable on the surface is always a culmination of hundreds of iterations behind the scenes.

I highly recommend checking out the museum if you like the Peanuts. If you are looking for a day trip idea to Sonoma, this will do nicely!

This week, my manager at work was about to meet with a vendor who is also a customer. He asked me to create a one-page document on everything he should know in advance of the meeting.

I didn’t know much about this vendor/customer, so I went in all directions: I talked to IT, finance, and sales. I searched our internal systems for past transactions and project updates.

Since I didn’t know what my answer should be, I explored and gathered data from all possible sources. My focus was on getting more information.

I diverged and collected.

Soon, dozens of memos, spreadsheets, and presentation slides emerged. I felt I had enough to start, so I stopped gathering.

My focus shifted to identifying insights.

I read through the various documents and underlined the main issues. A few themes emerged: our current relationship with the company, in-flight projects, and product feedback.

Based on my notes, I wrote a one-page briefing in my own words. My summary had five key points in bolded headers and a few supporting bullets under each section.

I converged and curated.

As I worked on this project, an insight dawned on me:

Knowledge work is creative work.

Collect, then curate

If you are reading this post, you likely work with data, ideas, and concepts.

The problem today is that everyone faces information overload. It used to be okay to copy and paste a large body of text and hit send. Now, if I send out a 20-page document, no one will read it. And I will be in trouble.

So, how should we create?

Creativity requires collecting raw materials.

In the beginning, divergence is a great strategy. When it’s unclear where the answer lies, gathering more data helps. Broadening our perspective helps us build a mental map of the subject.

At this stage, it helps to park all the ideas and inputs in one place and let them sit.

At some point, however, we must march towards producing an output.

We need to transition to step two: curation.

The transition demands turning inward. It’s time to stop collecting. Instead, we turn our attention to what we have already gathered.

As we revisit the notes in our collection, we must ask ourselves: what is essential? Is the information converging to a theme? What insights matter?

A museum curator may own 1,000 pieces of artwork, but she must only pick the best ones for her exhibit. Less is more in most cases.

How we need to approach work today is the same.

We must be curators.

We must present the most important ideas in a clear way.

We must leave the rest — even the “pretty good stuff” — behind.

Curation is an art rather than a science. It’s an art because there is no manual to follow. How do we know what’s essential for our audience? What is the best way to present the “great stuff”?

These are creative decisions we must make.

But curation is also the fun part. It feels like treasure hunting to me.

Curation is a skill we can improve on. Every time we practice, we develop our taste through trial and error and the feedback we receive.

Going beyond work

While I have focused on work so far, other aspects of life can also benefit from this “Collect, Then Curate” strategy.

For example:

• Travel planning: I am planning a trip to Southern California. A travel website suggests a few areas of Los Angeles. I see six decent options and stop searching. I highlight the top three based on location, reviews, and price. I book one and move on.
• Cooking: I need to figure out how to cook a piece of fish. I bookmark five recipes in a browser folder. I pick the one that looks the best and give it a try.
• Reading: I read a book on my e-reader and highlight the sentences that resonate. I review the highlights after I finish the book. I curate the best ideas and experiment with them in my work. (This was the process I used to write this article. A book called Building a Second Brain by Tiago Forte inspired a few ideas in this essay.)

If you see other ways of collecting and curating in your work or personal life, I’d love to know.

Hi friends,

I explored a paradox in last week’s ​​letter​: Commitment reduces our choices, but it propels us to move forward with what we already have.

My friend Mary replied, “A commitment does not have to be gritting teeth and hanging on.” She said a helpful image for her was a garden—where seeds grow into flowers and trees. “Growing beautifully like a mustard seed,” she wrote.

Her reply reminds me of an important lesson I recently discovered.

I had a misconception when I first started writing. I thought writing was all about sitting at the desk: If I stared at a blank page long enough, the output would follow.

One Saturday morning earlier this year, I drew a blank on what to write. I decided to apply brute force. After struggling for ninety minutes, I had five incoherent paragraphs that made no sense.

Frustrated, I wanted to double down and “commit” myself until I finished the piece, but I had a full list of to-dos. Reluctantly, I left home, went to Berkeley Bowl (my local grocery store), and got an oil change for the car. I had dinner and went to basketball in the evening.

When I returned to the desk the following day, I felt refreshed. Observations from my errands helped me write a short article I was happy with.

I learned that writing itself isn’t difficult, but figuring out what to write is. Paradoxically, the best writing ideas come from non-writing. If I am at a loss for words, it doesn’t mean I fail; it means I need more raw material. When that happens, changing activities is wise.

Writing is like gardening: it needs many seeds. A sentence is a small idea, and an essay is an attempt [1] to string multiple ideas together in a new combination. Fortunately, the source of inspiration is endless and can come from the least expected places.

Insights can be in the form of knowledge, but the most valuable ones are emotional—something I feel. It can be awe, surprise, and resonance. Other times, it’s sadness, loss, or anger. I collect these observations by documenting them in my journal or recording a digital note on my phone. It’s often unclear what these insights are for, but whenever I play with an idea, I sow a seed.

I have tended my “garden” this way in the last few months. It has transformed my writing process.

I no longer force myself to write when I feel stuck. Instead, I go through my growing collection of notes like a gardener would inspect his crops, looking for fruits ready for harvest. Interestingly, the seedlings that initially looked promising often don’t grow as expected, while others sprout beyond my imagination.

The gardening approach has made writing much more enjoyable.

One of my favorite biblical passages is from the Book of Ecclesiastes (I shared it with you ​​a year ago​​). Here are the two most relevant lines:

In everything, there is a season… A time to plant, a time to reap.

This quote relates to the idea I explored ​two weeks ago​: There is a time ​​​to everything. While I can’t force a seed to grow, I can plant more of them. The more seeds in the garden, the more likely some will become fruitful [2].

A commitment doesn’t always require pouring blood and tears; a softer approach is often possible. When I catch myself muscling through a challenge with a clenched jaw, I ask: Is there a more effortless way to fulfill this commitment? If something feels unnecessarily hard, how can I approach it differently?

Is there an opportunity to tenderly plant a seed instead?

If we consistently water the seeds, some will still remain dormant, but many will grow. Since staring or yelling at them won’t make a difference, we may as well do something fun while we wait.

Time does its magic anyway.

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Notes:

[1] “Essay” is one of my favorite words in the English language. Originating from the French word essayer, it means to “try” or to “attempt.” When I write an essay, I often remind myself the effort is only an attempt—nothing more.

[2] The best part about “gardening” publicly is that the fruits are widely available. If you see an interesting idea, you can cultivate it and make it your own. Great ideas are free for all and multiply at no cost.

“I promise to be faithful to you in good times and in bad, in sickness and in health, to love you and to honor you all the days of my life.”—The wedding vow I heard last week.

Hi friends,

I attended two back-to-back weddings this past weekend. Beyond the festivities and gaining ten pounds within 24 hours, I wondered, “Why do people get married?”

While repeated many times in history, my friend’s vow above is an incredibly bold statement: I don’t know what will happen, but I will show up no matter what. The future is unknowable, but I have pre-decided my actions and will not waver.

I commit.

Marriage is, of course, only one of many forms of commitment. Another friend recently said she had signed up for the Berkeley Half Marathon. Her goal was to get in shape and challenge herself. She had paid the entry fee and started training with a group. Going from running a 5K to a half marathon would be uncomfortable, but she looked forward to it.

I asked her, “Why?” She said it was time ​​(kairos)​​ to commit.

Commitment is a paradox. We limit our options when we commit, making us seemingly less free. But an intentional commitment shifts our mindset: Rather than constantly searching for alternatives, we focus on making the current situation work.

When conflicts arise, a committed couple asks, “How do we resolve the disagreement?” When training becomes difficult, a committed runner asks, “What must I do to keep going?”

Eliminating options propels us to make a breakthrough.

I started writing a year ago as an experiment, and it has evolved into a weekly commitment. I still struggle and often wonder, Is this project worth it? What is the point? No one asks me to do this.

But then I ask myself: Are you ready to uncommit?

Once I say no, my energy goes to exploring new strategies. Some don’t help, but a few have become my cornerstone habits: I keep track of random ideas in a notebook regardless of how ridiculous they seem. I record voice memos on my walks (neighbors look at me weird). I highlight and copy interesting passages from my reading. I start writing earlier in the week when I can, so I don’t have to rush at the end.

My simple commitment—A letter must go out at 6:30 a.m. on Fridays—imposes a constraint, which forces me to find a path forward by paying attention to insights I otherwise would have missed.

Commitment requires recommitments; it’s never “once and done.” The newlyweds must decide every day if they will fulfill their vows. My half-marathon buddy must decide whether to stretch her distance today. Once I publish this post, I must decide whether to write another next week.

The commitment paradox is a fascinating life riddle. When we say yes to a commitment, we say no to other choices. But the reverse also holds: When we say no to most things, we can commit to a few that truly matter.

Commitment is an exercise of our freedom—arguably the highest form—not because we have to, but because we choose to.

I wrote a piece titled ​Now or Later​ last week, exploring the timing of our actions.

A reader responded, “Later is sometimes better and richer.”

His comment reminded me of three short stories.

The first story—funny enough—is the comedian and actor ​Ken Jeong​. After graduating from medical school in 1995, Jeong worked as a doctor at Kaiser for seven years while casually performing stand-up comedy in his spare time. When he decided to pursue comedy full-time a decade later, many of his jokes were based on his knowledge of working in healthcare.

“Later” gave Jeong the materials to enrich his craft.

The second figure I thought of was the novelist ​Toni Morrison.​ Throughout her 15 years as a book editor, Morrison had wanted to read a novel centered around the most vulnerable people in society—women, children, and Black people—but none had passed through her desk. She decided to write a novel in her late 30s. That book, ​The Bluest Eye,​ became an American literature classic.

“Later” allowed Morrison to see the book she wanted to write.

The third person that came to mind was the Hungarian Holocaust survivor ​Edith Eger​. After surviving horrific trauma at Auschwitz during the Nazi occupation, Eger started a new life in America and became a clinical psychologist. She graduated with a Ph.D. at age 50, started a therapy practice, and wrote two of my favorite books: ​The Choice​ and ​The Gift​.

“Later” called Eger to be a source of healing.

What’s fascinating is that all these “laters” were “nows” at some point: Jeong had to confront at age 36 whether to switch to a risky career. Morrison had to decide whether to take on a large book project as a single mother with a demanding full-time job. Eger had to discern whether to enter graduate school in her 40s.

The Greeks describe time in two ways: chronos and ​kairos​.

Chronos is quantitative, measurable clock time (hence the word chronological). When we say, “I start my job at 9 a.m. and work for 8 hours,” we refer to chronos.

Kairos, on the other hand, is qualitative time. We experience kairos when we are in the flow or feel the urge that now is the opportune moment. Kairos can’t be planned or forced; we can only pay attention and notice it.

Should we act now or later?

No one else can answer that question.

Only you know your kairos.

Last Saturday, my wife and I took a day trip to Bodega Bay, a fishing village an hour north of San Francisco. After a short hike in the morning, we decided to visit the Charles Schultz Museum, which was thirty minutes away.

As we drove toward Petaluma, California, we passed a quaint town called Sebastopol in Sonoma County. We saw a big yellow sign for an outdoor market when we approached a red light at an intersection downtown.

“We should come back next week for this!” Youali said.

The traffic light turned green. The car accelerated. After two blocks had passed, I said, “Why don’t we check out the market today? We are already here. We still have time for the museum after.”

She agreed. We made a U-turn.

The Barlow Market turned out to be fun. The market had cheese shops, wine stores, and live music. We ate homemade food, bought groceries from the market, and appreciated the craftwork for sale (a guy was selling sweaters made of seaweed?!).

What struck me the most, however, was an information sign. The market was open only on the first weekend of each month. Had we returned the following week, we would be disappointed.

This experience reminded me of my trip to Yellowstone National Park in 2011 with my parents. On a drive to a hiking trail, we stumbled upon a stunning lake along the main highway.

It was a beautiful sunny morning with blue skies and fluffy clouds. The water on the lake was perfectly still, reflecting the snow-capped mountains in the back. We pulled over, enjoyed the view, and snapped a few photos, but I urged my parents to wrap up so we could hit the trail soon.

“We can come back later for more pictures,” I said.

The weather remained spectacular throughout our hike, but it took a turn and started drizzling when we finished. As we headed back to the hotel, the sky became progressively gray. The wind was howling.

My mother looked out the window and pointed at where we were photographing that morning. I was stunned: I couldn’t recognize it at all. The calm lake surface five hours earlier was now dark and tumultuous. The reflections were gone, replaced by churning waves.

When Youali and I married in 2018, a priest named Fr. George Fitzgerald presided at our wedding. I had known George for a year, and we had great conversations. I had often wanted to invite him to lunch, but I never got around to it. A few months after our wedding, George went on a trip to—of all the possible places—Yellowstone. He got sick on his trip and suffered pneumonia. He was in the ICU for a few weeks and died shortly after.

George must have celebrated dozens of weddings; little did I know we would be his last.

Granted, whether we spent our afternoon last weekend in Sebastopol or Petaluma hardly mattered. However, it reminded me of a choice I must confront daily: Do I seize the opportunity now, or do I wait?

It is tempting to assume the exact condition will remain in the future.

It may be true. It may not.

Last weekend, my wife and I were at a local car dealership to negotiate on a car (our old car had reached the end of its life). After haggling with a salesperson for an hour, the finance manager came to speak with us.

The woman asked if we wanted an extended warranty. Here was how she pitched it:

Cars these days are full of electronics, and they are expensive. Material and labor costs continue to rise every year. If a piece of electronic breaks down in the future, it could cost you thousands of dollars, so this extra warranty is a great protection.

The 8-year coverage she offered was about 10% of the car’s value.

Before walking into the dealership, I made a plan: If I were to walk out with a car that day, the price would be no more than the manufacturer’s suggested retail price (MSRP) [1]. I would reject any markups, accessories, or additional packages.

I said no to the woman.

She clicked around on her computer. Then she turned to me, looked me in the eyes, and asked, “Would you consider it if I lowered the price?”

I said no again.

She looked disappointed and said, “Really? Most people would get it.”

Her comment struck me. I remained silent while she worked on the paperwork, but I second-guessed myself.

Can she be right? If “most people” get the extra warranty, am I a fool to decline?

This experience reminded me of a fascinating book called ​Wanting: The Power of Mimetic Desire in Everyday Life​. Luke Burgis argues we make many daily choices based on what others do. We even desire something simply because others appear to prefer it—he calls this phenomenon ​mimesis​ [2]. According to Burgis, mimesis is not inherently good or bad, but it is a powerful, invisible force that subconsciously shapes our decisions.

This book opened my eyes, and I began to see mimesis everywhere. Why did I want to get a particular piece of furniture? I saw it in someone’s home. Why did I go to this restaurant instead of that restaurant? Restaurant reviews convinced me. Why did an online e-commerce site say, “300+ other people bought this last month”? It was a subtle persuasion: If everyone else believed in this product, why shouldn’t you?

When most people used to live in small communities like tribes and villages, conforming to others’ opinions was a matter of survival. If a person didn’t fit into a culture, the tribe could consider him an outcast and abandon him. Our society may have evolved, yet our psychology hasn’t: The desire to be accepted is universal.

For years, I worked at a company where my co-workers often discussed sports. While I didn’t care much about spectator sports, for two years, I set the browser homepage on my work laptop to the sports news website ESPN (even though I never read it). It felt like I should mirror what my colleagues did—I didn’t want to stand out and be left behind.

Ultimately, I walked out of the car dealership without the extended warranty [3], but the experience taught me a lesson. I had a budget in mind. I was intellectually aware of the psychological games associated with buying a car. Despite all the knowledge and preparation, a five-word comment—”most people would get it”—almost swayed me emotionally.

The urge to conform is incredibly powerful.

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Notes:

[1] Car supply has increased since the peak of COVID but remains low where I live. I requested quotes from 10+ car dealerships across Northern California. Going below MSRP for the car we were considering was virtually impossible.

[2] Burgis’ work was inspired by ​René Girard​, a French-American polymath and philosopher who used to teach at Stanford (he died in 2015). As part of his ​mimetic theory​, Girard argues:

Man is the creature who does not know what to desire, and he turns to others in order to make up his mind. We desire what others desire because we imitate their desires.

[3] An extended warranty is an insurance policy. Whether it’s worthwhile is a personal choice. Based on my online research, car dealerships often pitch extended warranties when you buy a car. In reality, there is no urgency. An extended warranty can be bought anytime before the original warranty expires. It’s also possible to shop around and get a better deal elsewhere.

This week, I read a short story about an actor who won the Academy Award twice. Despite a successful career spanning decades, ​Henry Fonda​ still had stage fright. At age 75, he would throw up backstage before a performance. He would then clean up, march on stage, and act like nothing had happened.

This story reminded me of a public speaking experience when I was 16, the year before I came to America. At the time, I was actively working on my English by watching Prison Break (on pirated DVDs) and ABC World News with Charlie Gibson (free on Apple Podcasts). One day at school, I saw a flyer promoting a city-wide English speech tournament. I thought it might improve my oral English, so I signed up.

On the tournament day, I was backstage with eleven other high school students. The most memorable fellow contestant was the girl who went right before me. Based on her accent, fluency, and confidence level, she clearly went to an international school and spoke English at home.

My heart sank when the audience clapped at the end of her speech.

“Diu (The f-word in Cantonese)…there’s no way I can beat her,”* I said to myself.

It was my turn. I stepped forward and ascended to the podium. What immediately shocked me was how bright the stage lighting was. I searched for familiar faces in the dimmed auditorium, but I was practically blind. I saw only blobs of dark shadow, yet I could feel the audience’s eyeballs. My temple was pounding. My palms were sweaty. My stomach was tied in knots.

Me versus 200 people I couldn’t see.

Will I break the silence?

I took a deep breath, mustered every ounce of courage, and uttered the first sentence. My voice shivered at first, then it steadied. I gradually picked up a rhythm and finished my three-minute prepared speech. The delivery was fine, except I completely forgot to smile as planned. Instead, I looked dead serious (I only realized that when I watched the tape after the event).

My mind was fixated on what was yet to come. The second part of the tournament was what I dreaded the most: impromptu speaking. The panel of judges would give a previously unannounced prompt, and I had two minutes to speak on the topic—like how they do it at Toastmasters meetings.

Before the tournament, I practiced my prepared speech more than 200 times to make it sound smooth and effortless, but there wasn’t much I could prepare in advance for the impromptu portion. I feared it would reveal that I was a fraud, that my English was not as good as I pretended it to be.

The exact prompt from that day has by now escaped me. The question was along the lines of “If you were to promote taxi driving as a profession in the city, what would you recommend?” Thankfully, my brain tends to bury embarrassing memories. I remember mumbling nonsense and praying for the torture to end, but not much more.

After my speech, I found space alone in the third row of the audience to decompress. My mind was still racing as I collapsed into a velvety auditorium chair, but I felt relieved. I savored my newfound freedom.

As I watched from the comfort of my well-cushioned seat, I noticed something odd: I barely listened to the next guy on stage. Ten minutes ago, I was up there just like him, feeling the weight of every word coming out of my mouth as if my life depended on it. Yet, as an audience member, my attention was on something other than the speaker. My brain was replaying my own performance and thinking about where to go for lunch.

This perspective made me wonder: How many people in the audience were paying attention? Were the stakes nearly as high as I imagined if most people were busy in their thought bubbles? What was the worst thing that could have happened?

With twice the age today, I conclude hardly anything from that day matters anymore. Who said what, who stuttered, who won—no one remembers. And fear? That hasn’t changed for me, either. If I were to go on stage now, I would feel the same as I did seventeen years ago, just as Henry Fonda would vomit into a basin behind the curtain before a show.

But one thing did matter: I showed up. It was scary, but I did it.

The pride from that decision is mine forever.

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Note: This post is dedicated to ​Stanley Braganza​. Stan is a fellow alum from my high school and was my English tutor for a year. He guided me to turn my shitty first draft into a workable speech. A charming public speaker—with a delightful British accent, I must add, though diluted over the years since he listens to too many NPR podcasts—Stan could have written a much better speech than mine for me if he chose to. Instead, he let me struggle and encouraged me to discover my own voice.

Stan also challenged me to do the most uncomfortable thing ever. A week before the tournament, he took me to the historic district of Taipa in Macau and asked me to rehearse in the middle of a heavily trafficked plaza. “Here? Are you joking?” I asked, “Practice an English speech in front of random Chinese uncles and aunties?” He replied, “Yes, of course. You will pretend no one is here. You must do your hand gestures, too, as if this practice is the real thing.” I can’t overstate how awkward that exercise was, but perhaps because of that, I managed to pull myself together on stage. Thank you, Stan, thank you.

*The actual words were:「屌，實無得贏。」

Our 2003 Honda Civic started leaking oil at the bottom a while back. The owner at the car repair shop kindly advised it would cost more than the car’s worth to fix the car. “It may be time to move on,” she said. I admired her honesty.

Over the last few weeks, we’ve been on a journey looking at car options: new, used, everything. Wow—it’s clear I have lived under a rock for the last 15 years. Cars have evolved and gotten way cooler while I wasn’t looking.

An option we are considering is electric vehicles (EVs). Certain models now come with a $7,500 incentive in the US. While the cars on the market are interesting, the most fascinating aspect of this process is my psychology: I find myself trying very hard to convince myself to do whatever it takes to get the $7,500 rebate.

One EV we looked at is within our budget, but I see six issues with the car. Yet my internal dialogue goes, “There is a $7,500 discount, though…” Another car is a decent fit but 40% over budget, and I say to myself, “BUT YOU GET $7,500 BACK!!!”

This experience reminds me of my first-ever visit to IKEA. On my second day in America—August 18, 2007—my cousin Jo took me to get some furniture. When I reached the food court after checkout, I noticed a deal on the menu that seemed too good to be true: A cinnamon bun was selling for $1, but you could get six for $3. My mind was blown.

Why would anyone get only one bun if half a dozen is 50% off?

I went home that afternoon and planned to eat the buns as a snack. A chill went through my bones as I bit into the first one.

I forgot I hated cinnamon.

A few weeks later, a friend took me to another quintessential American experience. My first visit to Costco was a culture shock: everything was so big… and so cheap.

The $5 rotisserie chickens were appealing, but it was the junk food I couldn’t walk away from. I was a fairly frugal student then and didn’t plan on spending money that day. Still, I managed to stuff my friend’s trunk with big boxes of Rice Crispies Treats (I fell for the samples), Oreos (I loved those since I was a kid), Nutella with bread sticks (those were expensive in Asia), and party size Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups (I finished the whole bag on my own in two days—and didn’t touch chocolate with peanut butter again in the next two years).

The hunt for a car continues. Have I learned my lesson?

I was cleaning dishes the other day when I flipped a bowl over in the sink. I saw a signature at the bottom that I hadn’t noticed in a long time.

EAC, a friend, gifted us two hand-made bowls when she used to live close by. She was active in pottery workshops and had a collection of cups and bowls in a display case at her house. I can’t recall the occasion of her gift—it might have been a birthday or a parting gift before she and her husband moved to another state.

We have used these bowls almost daily for the last six years (primarily for yogurt and fruit). EAC herself has likely forgotten about these bowls by now, but her effort a few years ago continues to benefit us today.

This observation reminds me of a podcast I listened to a few months ago. Author Austin Kleon described books as ​”stored energy.”​ Here’s how he explained it: An author expends effort and stores her energy as text. The energy remains dormant until a reader comes along. If a reader chooses to engage and his energy matches the author’s, then unlocking occurs—and a connection is formed. The creator’s work changes the reader asynchronously.

If you have read a beautiful passage that moved you, you’ve experienced that magic.

On the contrary, if the energy between the author and the recipient doesn’t match, there is no change—the reader moves on and thinks the writing is uninteresting.

The same principle applies to other works of art—movies, paintings, or performances of any kind. Kleon’s theory explains why a particular piece of work appeals to some but not others: everyone’s energy is unique. Everyone likes something, but nothing appeals to everyone.

I’d argue that this “stored energy” concept applies beyond creative work. What we say alone could have a lasting impact. If a friend tells me I’m ugly and dumb, I will likely remember that for a long time, even if I don’t hold grudges. Conversely, if a person asks a thoughtful question at the right time, her act of kindness will stay with me.

Energy circulates through our words and actions. We can choose the type of energy we bring to the world, but we don’t get to decide what it does or how far it goes. The energy may do nothing, ruin someone’s day, or make someone feel loved and important in the years to come—and we may never find out.

You have the right to work, but for the work’s sake only. You have no right to the fruits of work.—Bhagavad Gita 

I just finished a book called Hell Yeah or No by Derek Sivers. What struck me the most was a section where he explored how to discern the things worth doing.

Sivers observed that the traditional soul-searching questions we ask are What do I love? or What makes me happy?

These questions often work poorly.

If we have a long list of interests, it may be hard to narrow them down. What pleases us is not the same as the right thing to do. Most often, we simply don’t know the answers.

Sivers suggests an alternative question, what do you hate NOT doing? What makes you feel depressed or annoyed like your life has gone astray if you don’t do it?

Earlier this week, I had a day filled with work meetings and personal appointments. I typically start my morning by writing down a short list of the most important things to do for the day, but I made the mistake of jumping in without a loose plan.

When I was in a Zoom meeting, I realized I was overdue to call the insurance company to follow up on a claim. While waiting to be connected on the call, I started drafting a document for work. The insurance agent picked up, and as we were talking, I browsed new Instant Pot cooking recipes. While in another meeting, I checked traffic to see how long it would take to get to my doctor’s appointment.

I must have checked my work email 50 times in between.

The constant context-switching frustrated me. I felt like I had wasted my day. Sure, I sent emails and did admin tasks, but I didn’t do anything meaningful.

Years ago, I read another insightful book called ​Quiet​ by Susan Cain, a lawyer-turned-writer. The book made me realize I am more of an introvert (and, more importantly, it’s okay to be one). A telltale sign is that I prefer to recharge quietly: reading, journaling, and listening to music with my noise-canceling headphones.

Having introverted tendencies doesn’t mean I don’t like talking with people (I do). It does mean that changing tasks tires me out more quickly than my extroverted buddies.

Conversely, it means I do my best work when I’m alone and focused.

This observation explains my frustration earlier this week: I hate NOT focusing. I become miserable when I don’t have quality time dedicated to an important task or project.

This simple observation took me years to discover. Once I noticed it, though, I experimented with structuring my days to get focus time earlier in the day. Now I aim to read, write, or take a walk first thing in the morning. I tackle the essential but more difficult tasks earlier in the day when it’s quiet. I push meetings and in-person activities to the afternoon when possible since I don’t need to be in my optimal state.

Knowing what’s ideal doesn’t mean we always get to do it. Some days are more challenging than others. But knowing what, if absent, will deprive us is helpful.

Then it struck me. Why not put “what makes me happy” and “what I hate not doing” on a 2×2? Here’s my version—it was a fun exercise (I may turn this into a t-shirt). I’d love to see yours (here’s a ​blank template​)!

This week, I read an article about celebrities getting into trouble for involvement in the now-defunct cryptocurrency exchange company FTX. The company, valued at $32 billion in January 2022, is now worthless and under investigation.

The list of celebrities includes household names and ranges from pro athletes and musicians to actors and entrepreneurs. Many lost money; a few were sued for promoting the crypto company as spokespersons.

This reminded me of another story.

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A 17th-century Dutch Obsession

In 1593, a botany professor from Vienna brought to Holland a collection of unusual plants from Turkey. The Dutch were fascinated: they had never seen flowers with such intense, saturated colors. The professor sensed an opportunity and tried to them at a high price. One evening a thief broke into the professor’s house, stole the bulbs, and made a handsome profit.

Over the next 30 years, tulips became a darling in Holland. Many tulips were infected by a nonfatal virus, which gave the petals colorful, flame-looking stripes. The more exotic the tulips looked, the more popular they were.

As the flowers gained public interest, professional growers would predict the trends for the upcoming season as fashion designers would today. Merchants bought extra stockpiles anticipating a future price increase, further driving up prices. Even the French and the English became obsessed.

As trading volume increased, moving the tulips around became a hassle, so some traders and speculators invented new forms of financial contracts. This type of instrument is known today as an option contract. Essentially, it’s a piece of paper that gives the option holder a choice to buy tulips at a fixed price over a period of time. These paper contracts could change hands up to five times a day without any parties touching the flowers.

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Got Tulips?

The tulip fever turned into high gear between 1634 and 1637. Tulips became a status symbol: it represented great taste and a smart investment.

Some people thought this was crazy; they didn’t believe the tulips could be worth that much. But as they saw their friends and families make a fortune, they felt left behind, so even those who initially resisted jumped in.

As author Charles MacKay wrote in Extraordinary Popular Delusions and The Madness of Crowds, “nobles, citizens, farmers, mechanics, seamen, footmen, maid-servants, even chimney sweeps, and old clotheswomen dabbled in tulips.” Ordinary people bartered their personal belonging, such as land, jewels, and furniture. Everyone imagined this was the new normal: the passion for tulips was here to stay.

At the height of the tulip mania, some bulbs sold for ten times the annual income of a skilled artisan. Another account showed that a special bulb called the viceroy was traded for the following: 1,500 kilograms of wheat, 3,000 kilograms of rye, four fat oxen, eight fat swine, 12 fat sheep, two barrels of wine, four tons of beer, two tons of butter, one thousand pounds of cheese, a bed, clothes, and a silver drinking cup.

All for one bulb!

This period was filled with comical anecdotes, too. An amateur botanist from England saw what looked like an onion root in a conservatory that belonged to a wealthy Dutchman. He took a knife, peeled off its coats, and cut the root into pieces. As he examined the root, the owner returned and asked furiously what he was doing. The Englishman replied, “Peeling a most extraordinary onion.” The Dutchman grabbed him by his collar. The Englishman was shocked and escaped to the streets, followed by a furious mob. Only when in the court of law did the Englishman realize the “onion” he destroyed was an extremely valuable type of tulip; he ended up in prison.

During the three months between November 1636 and February 1637, the price of certain tulips increased 100-fold.

Eventually, prices became so ridiculous that people started to sell their bulbs. Soon others followed suit. As supply flooded the market, prices fell like a snowball rolling downhill, triggering more fear. Panic ensued and reinforced the vicious cycle. Many now held beautiful flowers nobody wanted; all they could do was watch the tulips wilt.

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400 Years Later

This story sounds ludicrous today: Who will trade ten years of salary for flowers that don’t last?

But several remarkable speculative mania have already happened a quarter into this century. In early 2000, Internet companies with no revenue but a promise to change the future were trading at sky-high valuations, resulting in the 2001 dot-com bust.

In the mid-2000s, banks and mortgage lenders rode the housing boom driven by low-interest rates and made tremendous profits from selling loans and complex financial instruments. A person without income in the US could get a loan without a downpayment, buy a half-a-million house, and flip it for tens of thousands of dollars more. The music eventually stopped; the subprime mortgage crisis followed in 2008.

As cryptocurrency gained traction over the last decade, a software engineer created the now-infamous Dogecoin in 2013 as a joke. The crazy thing? Dogecoin is alive today. Last I checked in July 2023, it traded at 1 DOGE to 0.066 USD.

These financial mania have their own causes and nuances, but the underlying theme is the same: the promise of quick profits.

FTX is another cautionary tale. It reminds us that we will encounter more pitches of “life-changing investment opportunities” endorsed by people we trust. Many will jump on, and we may feel like a fool for not.

My personal take: If I can’t afford to lose, it’s not a game I should play.

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“Many who, for a brief season, had emerged from the humbler walks of life, were cast back into their original obscurity. Substantial merchants were reduced almost to beggary, and many a representative of a noble line saw the fortunes of his house ruined beyond redemption.” — Charles MacKay on Tulip Mania

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Reference:

• ​Extraordinary Popular Delusions and The Madness of Crowds, Charles MacKay
• ​A Random Walk Down Wall Street, by Burton G. Malkiel (Chapter: The Tulip-Bulb Craze)
• ​Tulip Mania, Wikipedia

In October 1911, British Navy Officer Robert Falcon Scott and Norwegian explorer Roald Amundsen set out in a race for an unprecedented feat.

Their goal: to be the first in history to reach the South Pole.

While Scott and Amundsen shared the same vision, they differed in every other way.

Backed by a powerful empire, Scott led a team of 62 people and a mix of animals. Scott was intense, proud, and ambitious. His strategy was to go as hard as possible. Since day one, he pushed his team to “keep up a steady grind hour after hour.” He believed visible distress was the only proof that a day’s work had been done.

He improvised how much to travel each day based on feel. On a warm day (as in -20°C), he pushed his team extra hard, traveling for more than ten hours. The weather initially favored him, and he expected it to persist to his benefit.

Scott was desperate to win.

On the other hand, Amundsen came from a small, humble country. His team was 19 people; they used only sled dogs for transportation.

Amundsen was methodical, reserved, and careful. He set a consistent daily goal of traveling a quarter of a degree in latitude, translating to about 15 miles. He planned to stick to the daily target at -25°C or -55°C. The only exception was severe blizzards, in which they would rest the entire day. He estimated bad weather in one out of every four days.

He set expectations with the crew up front: they were to travel around six hours a day and spend the remainder of the time resting. After sprinting, the animals were to take a break every hour to preserve their stamina.

If all went well, Amundsen thought, they could arrive by the end of the year.

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Who won?

Scott had a strong start, but his team began to show concerning signs after a couple of months: frostbite, malnutrition, hypothermia, ankle sprains, and dislocated shoulders. Even his animals started to die from hunger and fatigue. The road to glory was more challenging than expected. Tension and conflicts arose among the crew, which, combined with Scott’s explosive personality, impaired his judgment. The mood turned progressively sour.

Amundsen’s team did not have smooth sailing, either. They encountered more extreme weather than Scott, though not exceeding Amundsen’s initial estimates. His crew settled down to “rhythm and unexciting regularity.” One of Amundsen’s teammates felt that resting in a sleeping bag for 16 hours was too indulgent and urged Amundsen to speed up to 25 miles a day, but he resisted.

Remember the plan, Amundsen said, 15 miles a day, no more, no less.

On December 13th, Amundsen’s team reached 89° 45’ at a 10,000-foot altitude. “Our finest day up here,” wrote Amundsen in his journal, “calm most of the day, with burning sunshine.” After months of incredible hardship, the Pole was only 15 miles away. The team debated whether they should go for it on the same day.

Amundsen responded: we will pick it up tomorrow.

The next morning, Amundsen’s team was excited but nervous. Could Scott have beaten them already? Would they see a Union Jack?

It was three o’clock in the afternoon that day when Amundsen cried, “Halt!” He verified they had arrived at 90°.

No signs of a British flag. No signs of Scott.

They had won the race.

On January 17, 1912, or 34 days later, Scott’s team, drained and dispirited, arrived to find a Norwegian flag and a letter from Amundsen waiting for them.

In the meantime, Amundsen’s team was on their way back. Their pace? You guessed it: 15 miles a day. They made it back to the base camp in late January. Amundsen had even gained weight from the expedition.

Conversely, Scott’s team was in a horrible state on the return journey. Supplies had dwindled to close to nothing. Five crew members, including Scott, died from exhaustion and extreme cold in March 1912.

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How this story resonated with me

I first read this story when I had just turned 30. At that time, I was struck by how much I was like Scott in my 20s.

I would get extremely excited about a project, like writing a blog (again), exercising (again), or picking up the guitar (again). On day one, I would go from zero to full speed: write a “perfect” essay, do 50 push-ups, or play the guitar for five hours. For no logical reason, I expected myself to keep up the pace day after day.

I was impatient. I wanted to give it all. I craved results right now.

But inevitably, I was exhausted after a week or so. The immediate progress I had hoped for didn’t come. In the meantime, other work and life demands cropped up, leaving me with limited time and energy. My motivation fizzled, so I gave up. This happened dozens of times.

Einstein once said, “The definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over and expecting different results.” That was me for ten years!

Amundsen’s story revealed an alternate path: slow down and play the long game. His story led me to confront an uncomfortable question: If a pursuit truly matters, is it better to set a low but consistent bar and keep at it regularly instead of bursting for a few days before quitting?

Recently, I started lowering my bar to comically low levels. My daily health goal now is to walk for five minutes outdoors. My journaling goal is to write three sentences.

I usually go for longer once I start, but I do only my minimum on rough days and rest without guilt. My bar is set to be achievable on an off day amid bad weather, illness, and moderate emergencies. The only remaining question: will I do it?

Here’s my approach now: Do less than the max. Rest often. Hit the minimum today, and keep going tomorrow.

“Amundsen had a proper humility before Nature, accepting a rough justice in her dictates. He knew that if it snows today it will be hard crust tomorrow; that after the storm skiing is good; that a blizzard is a time to rest.”

Roland Huntford, The Last Place On Earth

If you ask me how my week was:

Actually, that wasn’t quite right. Here’s a more accurate version.

I was under the weather most of this week. I was fatigued. My stomach felt weird. I did a covid test at home, and it was negative, so I don’t know what it is.

I went to bed early on Monday.

I remained in the same position long after sunrise the next day.

I can’t think of the last time I slept for more than 10 hours!

I was going to run an errand. I started my car, and something felt wrong right away: the whole car was shaking!

I got out of the car and saw this.

While this week was far from fabulous, it reminded me of one thing:

How wonderful “normal” is.

To wake up feeling healthy. To have the energy to do what I want to do. To have an appetite. To go to the bathroom at a regular frequency. To drive a car with all the tires working.

It’s easy to forget how great the simple things are.​

“Don’t it always seem to go, that you don’t know what you’ve got till it’s gone.” — Joni Mitchell

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“Every artist dips their brush into their own soul and paints their own nature into their pictures.” –Henry Ward Beecher