Most mornings, I wake up with the ambition of a monk and the attention span of a goldfish. I tell myself today is the day I’ll finally figure out life — my big ikigai moment, my ultimate reason for being.
But by the time I’ve made coffee and scrolled the news, the only thing I’m sure of is that I like my coffee hot, my cereal without milk, and my mornings quiet.
I’ve stopped chasing after the grand, cinematic purpose of life — the kind you see on motivational posters with mountaintops and sunrises.
My reason for living is simpler. It’s in the things that make me lose track of time: a good conversation, writing something that makes sense, solving a tricky problem at work, or making a decent omelet without breaking the yolk.
Sometimes I wonder if these little joys help anyone else. Most days, I decide that if they make me calmer — maybe even a little kinder — that’s help enough.
Somewhere along the way, I stumbled across kaizen — the quiet idea of getting just a tiny bit better every day.
Not in the dramatic, “I quit my job and moved to Bali” kind of way. More like, “I actually folded the laundry before it turned into a geological layer on the chair.”
Progress, however small, counts. The promise of becoming 1% better a day is comforting — not because I nail it every day, but because it gives me permission to try again tomorrow.
Of course, there’s always the reality check: nothing I do is perfect.
That’s where wabi-sabi steps in with a little smirk. I’ve learned to make peace with the chipped mug I drink from, the half-written journal entries, and the slightly over-salted dinner.
There’s something freeing about knowing the world won’t collapse because I sent an email with a typo. Life feels softer when you stop treating every mistake like a courtroom trial.
I let go the need to be perfect
Illusion it is, to aim for this object
Mistakes happen every day but call it not a defect
Win or lose, it is my life beautifully imperfect
- an excerpt from the poem Life Philosophies ,Jun 2020
Then there’s the uninvited guest in my mind — comparison.
I can be perfectly content with my slow, ordinary progress until I scroll past someone announcing their marathon medal, new startup, or perfect vacation photos.
Suddenly, my proud moment of finally organizing the pantry feels like child’s play.
It’s taken me years to accept that we don’t all grow on the same timeline. Some of us are cherry blossoms, blooming early in spring, and some of us are cacti — thriving quietly, taking our time.
I like to think I’m a cactus. Low maintenance, a little spiky, but persistent.
Lately, I’ve realized that nothing lasts forever.
The hard days pass. The good days pass too — which makes me pause and appreciate them more.
Even when I’m stuck on the metro, I remind myself: this too shall pass.
Then there’s gaman — the art of enduring things that can’t be fixed.
Some days, I just have to sit with the fact that the world won’t immediately rearrange itself to suit me. Whether it’s a project taking twice as long as I planned or my son who just won’t take my advice, I’ve learned to stay patient.
Not happily patient — just patient enough not to make things worse.
And finally, there’s the lesson that both stings and soothes: some things are simply beyond my control.
My job is to do what I can, and then — the hard part — let go of the rest.
Some days, this feels like relief. Other days, like defeat.
But maybe that’s the point. Life is a mix of effort and surrender, and maybe wisdom is just learning when to lean into which one.
So here I am, piecing together these little philosophies and trying to live by them — imperfectly, inconsistently, and with a dash of humor.
Some days, I succeed. Some days, I don’t.
But maybe that’s exactly how it’s meant to be.
go back in time .. My Philosophy