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.

​

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

Against all best practices, I used the same password for many websites.

I knew the risks. A few months ago, another major data breach was in the news. After ignoring my online security for years, I dedicated a Saturday afternoon to resetting passwords. I went through the most critical accounts—banking, email, and travel services—but grew tired and gave up after three hours.

There were too many accounts.

This week’s experience is a reminder: adopting a new service has a hidden cost. Signing up for a new account often seems fun and innocent—especially when the website offers a freebie—but my exposure increases every time I offer personal information. The risks accumulate.

Now I pay for my negligence over the years: daily spam calls, constant text alerts about my frozen bank accounts, and voicemails in Mandarin saying the FBI and the IRS are after me.

According to one estimate, Americans receive roughly 50 billion spam and robocalls every year. Emails are worse: over 100 billion spam emails are sent and received globally every day, though most are caught by spam filters. About 4 million records are exposed to hackers daily. 

Sadly, this trend will continue, if not accelerate. Scamming costs little and can be done from a safe distance, while the payoff may be worthwhile for the perpetrator even if only 0.00001% of the recipients fall for the scam. Technologies will solve some of the problems, but a new type of fraud will emerge as soon as the old one stops working. 

It will be an ongoing battle.

I have always had a drawer filled with notebooks.

If you flip through these notebooks, you will notice an oddity: They all have a few used pages, but the remaining pages are blank.

I am most careful on the first page when starting a new notebook. Every letter is upright. Every sentence fits neatly on the lines. If I draw a diagram, the circles are round, and the squares have sharp edges.

Once I get to page five, my handwriting shows early signs of messiness. Perhaps I’m tired. Maybe I only have seconds to jot down what someone said. Or I need to correct what I wrote.

The trend quickly worsens from there. When I reach page ten, my writing becomes unwieldy and unbearable. I hate that I cannot maintain neatness as I had it on page one. 

Destructive thoughts surface at this point. I do one of two things: I either rip the used pages out and start over (which often causes the notebook to disintegrate and fall apart) or I head to the store and buy more new notebooks.

—

I opened my notebook drawer when I picked up journaling again in 2020 after a six-year break. I was perplexed as I went through dozens of partially used journals. 

Who cares if the writing is neat? I don’t even read this. 

On that day, I vowed to use every journal to its last page. I would never tear pages off again. If I didn’t like what I wrote, I would draw a horizontal line and restart underneath.

In August 2021, I completed a journal cover-to-cover for the first time. It might sound silly, but I felt triumphant.

What I wrote in that journal didn’t matter. What mattered was that I let go of an undesired obsession that had governed my life for as long as I could remember. Something in me had shifted.

I am now on my seventh journal.

It’s early Wednesday morning. I’m staring at the computer screen. 

Draft for this week’s Friday newsletter: blank.

Generally, at this point, I would have a decent draft pending the finishing touches. This week, I don’t. I didn’t start as early as usual.

I feel uneasy. I dislike being unprepared. I want perfection.

“But what is perfection?” I ask.

“Flawless work done ahead of schedule. You are running out of time. Why aren’t you focused?”

I have more questions. I want to know what flawless means. I want to know what happens if the work isn’t perfect, but answers aren’t coming.

I keep my hands moving, writing pages and pages. But the harder I try, the further away perfection seems. 

As I struggle, a quote from writer Anne Lamott comes to mind:

Perfectionism is based on the obsessive belief that if you run carefully enough, hitting each stepping stone just right, you won’t have to die.

I let that sink in for a second. Then I conclude: 

Yes, I am behind schedule. No, I don’t know what I’m writing yet. What I write this week will not be perfect, but it doesn’t matter because perfection is impossible anyway.

Gene was on the mountaintop. 

When he took the reins and became the CEO of a major accounting and consulting firm two years ago, over 20,000 people reported to him. His travel took him all over the US and abroad, rubbing shoulders with the most powerful business and political leaders.

Given his busy schedule, his calendar was booked more than 12 months out. Every meeting was prepared ahead of time. Perfection was the norm.

This all changed in the spring of 2005.

Gene’s wife, Corinne, stared at him oddly at one dinner. 

“There’s a droop,” she said as she touched his face. 

Gene didn’t feel anything unusual. As the weekend went on, Corinne noticed tightness around his mouth and sagged cheek muscles. It could be stress-related, Corinne said, and he should get it checked.

Gene received a standard physical exam at the neurologist’s office but a surprising recommendation: he should come in for an MRI the next day.

When Gene saw his MRI result, he was shocked. Compared to the unblemished right side of his brain, the left side looked milky, with dots of varying sizes scattered everywhere. They looked like galaxies.

After further testing, the doctor concluded that he had glioblastoma, an aggressive form of brain tumors. He would soon develop blurry vision, seizures, and other symptoms. 

He would have to cancel his next family vacation. In fact, the doctor said, he had to cancel everything.

Because he only had about three months left.

“My days as a man at the top of his game, vigorous and productive, were done, just like that,” he later wrote.

---

Eugene O’Kelly (1952-2005) was the chairman and CEO of KPMG US (which happened to be my employer for six years). After his prognosis, he resigned as CEO to focus on his treatment, unwind personal affairs, and spend time with his family. He documented his experience in his memoir, Chasing Daylight.​

When I reread his book this past weekend, I was most struck by his reflection on how you could lose all control in life just as you thought you had figured it out. He wrote:

You can’t control everything, I told myself, as hard as it was to hear myself, a Type A personality, say those words. 
​
I wouldn’t allow mishaps and bad luck and especially a defeating attitude to throw me off my goals, one of which was to try and make every day the best day of my life… 
​
The CEO, the micro-manager, needed finally to let go.

Eugene passed away on September 10, 2005, four months after his initial doctor’s visit, at the age of 53.

“Take care of yourself.” 

My dad’s words rang as I watched my parents enter airport security. It felt like I had just picked them up the day before, hugging them for the first time since the pandemic. 

Where did the last two weeks go? 

As I walked back to the parking garage alone, I surveyed the quiet San Francisco International Airport. 

It’s a special place. 

Here I go from having no one to having someone. 

Here I go from having someone to having no one.

Here I teleport to another world—and back. 

Here contain as many emotions as I can name: joy, excitement, anticipation; sorrow, dread, fear; and everything in between.

While in Honolulu, my family and I had a few hours before our flight back to San Francisco, so we went for a walk in a park nearby.

My mother perked up when she saw a line dance group. There were about 40 people, of mixed ethnicities, mostly in their 40s and 50s.

“I know this song!” My mother said as we walked past the group. She also picked up line dancing as a hobby during the pandemic. 

“You all keep walking. I go back.”

My mother approached the group and started following the dance moves from afar. After the first song, two friendly dancers invited her to come closer.

“Follow the guy in the orange shirt—he’s terrific!” a woman advised. She had a kind face.

After another song, the leader directed the group to turn around and welcome us in the back. He asked for our names, and everyone cheered. 

​The man in the orange shirt guided my mother. She asked questions and received more coaching. Everyone laughed. 

I had never seen my mother form an intimate bond with others in a foreign land in such a short time.

What made my mother—a reserved woman with limited English in an unfamiliar city—engage with strangers without hesitation? What prompted her to participate in an activity that could make her look stupid? 

It was the power of a community with a common belief. 

​This community in Ala Moana Park believes that dancing is a free gift to be given and received. It is inexhaustible. Better yet, it multiplies when shared. 

My mother believes in that, too. 

The community isn’t concerned about who the best dancer is. Its people enjoy dancing. What matters is that more people get to share the joy of being in motion.

A community gives life when it seeks each other’s well-being. Its energy is palpable and contagious.

A community like this is remarkable because it transcends above language and speaks directly to the heart. People behave differently: they care for each other. They create a space where everyone can be themselves. People do not worry about judgement, success, or failure. 

With psychological safety, everyone can explore, try new things, and take risks. Dancing alone in public can be intimidating, but it becomes fun when you do it with a community you trust.

The most impressive part of this story was how it unfolded like an impromptu dance. My mother accepted the invitation, participated, and fared well with the group within half an hour. 

All this happened unprompted and unscripted. 

On the flight back to San Francisco, I watched MH370: The Plane That Disappeared. It was a Netflix documentary series about the Malaysian Airlines flight that went missing on March 8, 2014, en route from Kuala Lumpur to Beijing. 

(Sidenote: Watching a documentary about a missing plane with real-life turbulence in the air was a unique experience. When Youali saw my choice of “in-flight entertainment,” she shook her head with disapproval.)

This was the most prominent aviation mystery in the twenty-first century. All 229 passengers and 12 crew members on board a Boeing 777 vanished.

While the technical aspects of the story were fascinating, what struck me the most was the interviews of the surviving family members. 

A Malaysian woman had to explain to her two children why their father, a flight attendant on board, hadn’t come home from work. A French man lost his wife and two daughters. A Chinese man never saw his mother again. 

Despite significant search efforts and expert analysis, the most basic questions remain unanswered today. What happened? How? 

I can’t imagine not knowing the whereabouts of someone I care about for more than a few days. The next of kin of these 239 families have lived through the hell of unknowing for almost a decade.

How many times have they asked, “why?”