You spend six hours writing an amazing cover letter, complete with a portfolio and ideas on how you might help the company. Less than 24 hours later, your application is rejected by someone who probably never read it. That’s humiliating.

You toil all Saturday morning to bake an elaborate cake for the family gathering. As soon as he puts the first fork into his mouth, your uncle says: “It’s a bit dry.” That’s humiliating.

You used to be successful in what you do. Now, you’ve hit a rough patch. Of course, just then, you’re invited to a wedding. You haven’t seen your college buddies for a decade, and now the best you can tell them is, “Uh, work? Yeah, it’s alright.” That’s humiliating.

It’s normal to fall into a hole after an embarrassment, and the larger the blunder, the deeper the drop. But actually, all this shame? It’s only in your head. Humiliation is felt most intensely in our own bones. Other people? By and large, they neither know nor even notice.

The important part is not to figure out how much of our perceived disgrace is actually real. It’s to keep our self-respect intact. Everybody stumbles. But don’t hide inside a prison with bars made of sand—especially if no one but you can see them. Dust off your dignity, and try again. That’s all the reaction you’ll ever need.

It’s easy: You just have to really, really focus on where you want to go. Maintain that focus long enough, and your presence will be so poignant, you’ll fit through even the tiniest gap.

The problem is we can’t summon that kind of focus whenever we’d like. Unless life paints us into an extra-threatening corner, our eye will always veer to the periphery. But if you’ve ever miraculously pulled off a great escape from danger or a new job out of an empty hat at the last minute, you know: You can pass the needle’s eye—you just can’t do it every day.

Actually, that’s not a problem. You’re not meant to run on 200% adrenaline year-round. You’re not supposed to operate with blinders on at all times. Often, the scenery is where the magic comes from. On an average day, you can still walk towards your destination, but you’ll also pull in ideas and allies from your surroundings. This is the best and most sustainable way to travel.

Going at warp speed comes at a price. Pay it too often, and your entire being will get warped. Trust your brain and body to guide you through life’s inevitable needle eyes—but don’t ever force yourself to hold your breath for too long.

In 2012, rapper Macklemore name-dropped author Malcolm Gladwell in his hit song “Ten Thousand Hours.” The entire song is a tribute to Gladwell’s finding in Outliers that even talented people usually require 10,000 hours of deliberate practice to become true masters of their skill, art, or sport.

On a TV show in 2013, the host presents Gladwell with a clip of Macklemore performing the song. “Ten thousand hours, I’m so damn close I can taste it, on some Malcolm Gladwell, David Bowie meets Kanye shit,” he raps. Gladwell just laughs. “This might be the greatest thing that’s ever happened to me,” he says.

But the presenter wants to know: Does Gladwell believe everyone knows the full story behind the number? How does he feel about his idea floating out there as a two-word quip? “I mean, I’ll take it,” Gladwell says. “I’m not complaining!”

Even though he’s had to clarify how to interpret the rule correctly many times over the years, he admits: “When you write a book, you no longer own it. Your readers own it. And they’re allowed to do with it whatever they want to do with it. That’s one of the lovely things about writing books: You’re kind of giving gifts to your readers.”

In Germany, we call out people for being lazy when they “drop the pen” as soon as the clock hits 5. But when you’re actually done, dropping the pen is a generous act. Finish your work, then release it. Don’t hold it to a certain set of expectations. About performance. About reputation. About anything at all, really. Your job is not to judge the work. Your job is to make more of it.

10,000 times is more important than 10,000 hours—especially when it comes to dropping the pen.

That’s two years, eight months, and 28 days. One post a day, 1,000 days in a row.

To be honest, I didn’t feel like celebrating. I didn’t even feel like pointing it out. But if you don’t reflect on the big moments as they happen, chances are, you won’t reflect on them at all.

Despite there being nothing magical about this number coming and going, magic has been on my mind. Yesterday, I went to the Warner Bros. Harry Potter Studio Tour. Ten years, eight movies, thousands of people—and hundreds of thousands of props, costumes, set designs, visual effects, and animatronics. The magic behind the magic? It’s just humans. Humans showing up every day.

What I found most staggering is that, time and again, they spent months of effort on work that would ultimately be abandoned. “If the werewolf suit is too hard to control in its seventh iteration, we’ll use more visual effects.” It takes guts and a special kind of perseverance to endure plot twists like this—and all for perhaps two minutes of film material.

This blog is a bit like that. On most days, the work goes nowhere in particular. But even if the highlights are far and few between, in the end, they add up. The only reason they can, however, is that every day, some work happens.

The magic behind the magic is that there is no magic—and if you ask me, that’s the best magic of all.

When I first tried ChatGPT, I hated it. All it could produce was bland, erroneous writing that would have taken more time to edit than to write better from scratch. I still don’t love it, and I can’t see myself ever relying on it extensively to do the one activity I love most in the world.

But what about other tasks? Since it first hit the scene, I’ve used AI to narrate blog posts and Youtube videos. I’ve generated cover images for my articles. Yesterday, I even had it code a pricing table for my website. Looking at my use cases for AI, I realized: Wherever I’m not an expert, I don’t mind relying on it—and I bet other people feel the same.

To a seasoned developer, the code ChatGPT gave me might look cluttered and inefficient. A professional voice-over artist can likely feel the lack of nuance in AI voices in their bones. And even as a non-designer, I can see where all the AI images are rough around the edges. So what works for me would make an expert shudder, and it’s the same whenever someone tries to convince me how good a piece of AI writing is.

The lesson? While AI struggles to do any one thing better than an experienced human, it can elevate anyone to a better beginner status in many skills they’re unfamiliar with. Whatever you’re an expert in, chances are, AI will look weak in comparison. But take off your expert hat, and voilà, you might find it helpful here and there.

You’ve earned your expert hat. You should wear it most of the time and wear it proudly. Just don’t let it fool you into dismissing new developments altogether. Remember to be a beginner from time to time, and look at the whole forest rather than just your favorite trees.

That’s what the modern world is all about. It seduces you with expectations at every turn. Visual ones. Visceral ones. Expectations driven by hope, and expectations driven by fear.

The world will throw those expectations into your face whether you like them or not. But most of the time, we do like them, and so we gladly take them on board. We love seeing pictures of who we’re about to date before ever meeting them. We want to know what the vacation will be like, how exactly it’ll feel to do our new job, and which kind of flavors to long for in a special burger. Companies, Youtubers, and influencers make good money from bringing these expectations to life—except reality is never quite like those expectations, is it? Our date can still lack manners. Our hotel room can lack air conditioning. And which burger ever tastes as good as it looks in the ad?

If we’re honest, we even like the expectations we don’t gladly absorb at first sight. The other kind of “what it looks like:” How will we be perceived if we do—or don’t do—a certain thing? Never have a gap in your resumé, because that just looks weird—oh, and here’s where to find your next job. Don’t give an honest answer to “How are you?” because who really wants to know? Look strong! And whatever you do, just work your butt off—because even in the 21st century, where AI will supposedly soon take care of everything, no one likes a slacker. What will it look like? It’s a dreadful consideration, yet it gives us rules to follow and things to do, and so…”Expectations? My way, please!” And when real life finally isn’t as bad as we thought it would be, we can breathe a sigh of relief. “Ahhhh…” Yeah, we really earned that one, didn’t we? But at what cost?

The problem with what it looks like is that it squashes the space you need to see what’s actually there. The beautiful person who may not look like a model but who understands your every word. The freedom of thought and action you gain when you stop running on the career treadmill for a few months.

Life, real life, is not about what it looks like. It’s about what truly happens. About where you choose to go and how you carry yourself on the way to get there. About how you react to an ever-changing reality, and whether you’re open and willing to take a new path when it presents itself.

Don’t worry about what it looks like. Worry about being present for whatever is going to unfold—and then act with new eyes every day.

“Nobody goes off-trail, and nobody walks alone.” That used to be Nori Brandyfoot’s motto. But now that she is traveling with no one but a mysterious wizard, helping him to find his home, she realizes she misses hers. Not the place, of course. For the constantly migrating Harfoots, there is no place. Only people, sharing adventures, journeying together—and those are who we really need to begin with.

One night, she gets lonely sitting by the fire. Thankfully, her new companion lacks anything but wisdom: “Strange…how that which is left behind can be the heaviest burden to carry,” he comments. “I knew it’d be hard,” Nori admits, “but this hard’s different.”

In a famous Zen story, two monks meet a girl who is stuck at a river. One of them carries her across. Back alone, hours later, the other monk bursts out that physical contact with the girl was inappropriate. The first monk replies: “I set her down long ago. Why are you still carrying her?”

Whether it’s someone we want to hold in our hearts or someone we want to forget—the heaviest burden can be that which is left behind. Choose purposefully, and remember that not everything you carry will strain only your back.

In Frank Herbert’s Dune trilogy, protagonist Paul Atreides is subjected to a painful trial early on. He uses what his people call “the Litany Against Fear” to steel his nerves and pass the test:

“I must not fear. Fear is the mind-killer. Fear is the little-death that brings total obliteration. I will face my fear. I will permit it to pass over me and through me. And when it has gone past I will turn the inner eye to see its path. Where the fear has gone there will be nothing. Only I will remain.”

It’s a powerful mantra, but fear can do more than just weaken us. It can also be a source of tremendous strength. When a lorry threatened to crush his car on the highway, one of my dad’s work colleagues ripped out his gear lever with one hand. That’s also power—and in this case, fear was its source, not its detractor.

Sure, like any emotion, you can let the fear pass through. But the stronger the fear, the harder it gets. Sometimes, it’s easier to channel the fear than to sidestep it. Allow it to focus your senses and direct your energy at a singular threat until it’s eliminated. When we’re in a creative zone of flow, everything else falls by the wayside. Peak fear can have the same effect, and it’s on us to decide when to let it.

Fear can be the mind-killer, or it can be the mind-stiller. It can obliterate you or the obstacle in your path. Choose whether to dodge or ride it, and every time you get it right, the end will be the same: Only you will remain.

…is to not care about the numbers. In the modern job market, taking offense at every rejection will slow your progress to a crawl. No matter how bad the email, no matter how ridiculous the reason or how indifferent the response, you must keep going. Only more numbers will lead to a win.

I’ve applied to 45 jobs, and of course, some rejections hurt more than others. But whenever I open LinkedIn, I see a post from someone who had to apply to 100, 285, or even over 1,000 jobs to finally score a gig. And while I don’t know how much effort these folks put into each application, I can see what Wolf of Wall Street‘s Matthew McConaughey already knows about my submissions: “Those are rookie numbers. You gotta pump those numbers up.”

It’s hard to put your heart and soul into a plea only for it to disappear into the vacuum that is HR’s unmonitored inbox. So is being hung up on for the 100th time, having yet another publisher call your manuscript “meh,” or getting ghosted yet again after what seemed like a great first date.

But in the long run, it’ll wear you out much more still to get on a self-designed emotional rollercoaster each time you experience rejection in its countless forms—especially if what you’re playing is a numbers game. Let the math roll off your toughened skin, and just keep marching until you succeed.

Yesterday, a ladybug flew into my office. I’m not used to seeing them at this time of the year. A quick google, however, revealed that my little friend was looking for a place to stay in the winter. Who knew they liked window frames so much?

I gently picked him up, placed him outside, and closed my window. “Ladybugs in October,” I thought. “Who could have guessed?”

Life is not a movie. No matter how often it rhymes, it’ll never repeat in exactly the same way. There’s always room for a new pattern. Expect anomalies, and you, too, may become one whenever you need to.