Every now and then, someone will post on one of the Pokémon card game Reddit groups: “Help! My brother passed away, and I don’t know what to do.” Sad to begin with, the post inevitably comes with lots of shaky photos: boxes on boxes, cards on cards.

Their brother was an avid Pokémon collector, but no one else in the family has a clue about his hobby. How can they decide what to get rid of and what to keep? How will they know what things are worth and where to sell them? It can be a real challenge.

Thankfully, the community is kind and helpful. “Don’t let anyone fleece you. This stuff’s worth at least $5,000.” “Here’s a great place to look up prices. List and wait, don’t rush.” “This auction house offers consignment. They can take care of everything for you and make sure you get good prices.”

Sometimes, the original poster will provide an update. “We managed to sell everything and unlock most of the value. Thank you guys!” But in many cases, the relatives don’t ask for help, and those collections end up on other subreddits as posts from savvy investors: “Look how much stuff I bought for $500!”

It’s unbelievable how much value we can assign to things as individuals. When I show fellow Pokémon nerds my collection, they often lose it. “I can’t believe you’ve got this, and this, and this! That’s such a rare box now!” But if I died tomorrow and my parents walked into their basement, they’d just be staring at a bunch of cardboard, facing that same question: “What are we gonna do with all this stuff?” To them, it hasn’t got any sentimental value, let alone a financial one. But once they listed and sold it, they’d get thousands of dollars in return.

It’s wonderful to pour your heart and soul into an activity. To connect with others over that shared joy, create insider knowledge, and maybe even have a hobby literally pay off. But it’s also easy to get carried away when you care about something.

Every day, people post angry comments on Youtube about their favorite video game receiving a bad rating. They hype up Pokémon cards as the greatest retirement plan, promote a diet no scientist would endorse, or review-bomb a TV show because it’s not true to the source material.

When you’re deep into something, talk to outsiders on occasion. Even the world’s biggest religions only count a third of the global population among their believers. So no matter what you’re a fan of, most of the rest of the world won’t care. You love it, and that’s wonderful. But to someone else it’s just “stuff”—remembering that can help you keep a cool head when you need it the most.

Eric Markowitz interviewed Seth Godin for his column “The Long Game.” His first question got right to the point: “What’s the hardest part of committing to the long game that no one talks about?” Seth’s answer has been sitting with me for a while:

I think the thing that doesn’t get talked about is that no one wants to admit they’re a short-term thinker. We fool ourselves into believing we’re committed to something for the long haul, but we’ve been trained since childhood to be tactical, to chase the short-term win, to have a short attention span. So I think the hard part is acknowledging that we’re often frustrated because we are thinking short-term. Once we open that door and recognize it, we can start leaning into a longer arc.

In order to get myself back together as an author, my idea was to try and publish a short book as my first project for each year. This way, I would release at least one book each year and get more reps in. I’ve made good progress on such a book this year so far, but I’m nowhere near publishing it, and the year will soon be half over. If I keep going at this pace, I’ll never get to the longer, more complicated but also more substantial books I really want to stake my name on. So maybe, I’m missing the point!

The same applies to useful distractions. They might be useful in the sense that they’re still aligned with my overall goal of being an author, but if they keep me from writing the most important book I could possibly write, they’re still distractions!

The most short-term thinking is the most obvious. When I’m dealing with Pokémon cards, looking at my stock portfolio for the 1,000th time without changing anything, or chasing some other financial quick win, I know I’m not doing what I’m supposed to be doing. It’s the slightly less short-term thinking that’s more pernicious. The “this fits in” kind of stuff that’s easy to justify yet still detracts from where we’re actually tying to go.

If you want a real shot at being a world-class author, you have to express the realest version of yourself. Dig out the truest, most compelling story you can, and share it with the world in the best shape you can polish it into. Whether you’re playing tennis, running for office, or making a home, that part always stays the same: Contribute the magic only you can work, and the universe will decide the rest.

Lean into a longer arc. Don’t let the audience distract you. And when you find yourself on a parallel road veering off the true path, ask: How long-term are you actually thinking?

Germans love to complain about their country. In the last few years, our politicians have given us more reasons to complain about than in a long time. I’ve worked remotely my entire professional life. Even when you leave the nitpicks aside, people often ask me: “Why don’t you move elsewhere? You could be living the dream!”

The first answer is a lesson most people will only learn if they experience it firsthand: Traveling is its own job. The more you travel while working full-time, the more tired you’ll get. Visiting a country when all you have to do is explore it is very different from having to show up in meetings and do serious work for eight hours a day. The dream quickly becomes a logistical nightmare.

The second answer is that home is home, and most people’s ties to their city, their country, and their loved ones are much stronger than even the most painful complaint. People stay in countries even when everything around them is bombed to bits. How could a tax raise or change in leadership possibly make them go?

The third and most recent answer I have discovered is that “not everything that glitters is gold,” as we say in German. Take Switzerland, every career-oriented German’s secret wet dream. Higher salaries, lower taxes, beautiful nature all around, what’s not to love? Well, the exorbitant costs of living, for example. The fact that there’s barely any parental leave, paid or unpaid. Raising kids costs two arms and one leg. And the bureaucracy is even more maddening than in Germany. Plus, Swiss people are hard to befriend. You’ll always be “the German” to some extent, perhaps even eyed suspiciously for taking a job a Swiss person could have held.

Similar learnings apply to Dubai, minus the fact they now have a war going on next door. “It’s a tax paradise!” It also comes with zero financial support. No health insurance, no unemployed benefits, no pension scheme. So out of that great net salary, you’ll have to pay many things which, in Germany, are already covered by the time you get your payout. Never mind the fact that as soon as you don’t have a job, they’re quick to kick you out of the country. Your bank account, your lease, your ability to transact, it’s all tied to your work visa unless you’ve lived in Dubai for many years.

Today, I talked to a German living in Barcelona. He’s trying to buy an apartment, but the prices have doubled in the last few years and are close to Munich levels. You also need to pay at least 20% down and fork over an extra 10% of the overall price in taxes. And who can—let alone will—pay 150 grand for a 50 square-meter flat, even if it’s nice? Unfortunately for my new friend, rent contracts aren’t unlimited either, like most are in Germany. After five years at the latest, you’ll have to renew. So he’s trying to move out before his rent doubles, too.

We talked about many of these dynamics and concluded: As soon as you look under the hood, every country has its problems—so you might as well stay in the one where you’ve at least grown roots around them.

“Why don’t you move elsewhere?” Because elsewhere is only different, not better, and there’s nothing quite like complaining about home.

One of Warren Buffett’s big mental models is the “circle of competence.” In order to be a great investor, Buffett didn’t need to know everything about every company. He only needed to know a few select companies better than anyone else. He could pass on thousands of investments as long as he knew he could correctly evaluate the ones he’d eventually put money into.

“Know your circle of competence, and stick within it,” Buffett says. “The size of that circle is not very important; knowing its boundaries, however, is vital.”

Knowing what you know, what you don’t know, and how much you need to know are the only three parts you need to make better decisions. One big challenge is mapping the terrain between the first two without venturing well into no-idea-territory. Many times in life, you need to go past your limits to find them.

Every now and then, however, a line in the sand will present itself clearly. Like the other day for me, when I realized: I love collecting and investing in Pokémon cards—but I could never run a business around shiny cardboard.

For one, I’d never want to actually sell any of my inventory! I’d always be speculating on the price going up. I would be too greedy in the prices I ask for. I love holding on to good assets way more than I enjoy giving someone a good deal, even though that’s also fun. But a good Pokémon business thrives on turnover. You need tons of transactions and to make enough profit with each one. Me, I’m exhausted from printing 10 shipping labels, prepping all the cards, and ensuring they all go to the right buyers. I love organizing, storing, and tracking. Not moving, packaging, and shipping.

Collecting Pokémon cards with a long-term angle is well within my circle of competence. Running a Pokémon card shop isn’t. It was a dream I had mused over a few times, but when that reflection hit me, I was relieved to realize I wasn’t cut out for it. One thing less to worry about. A beautiful, unlived dream.

When you see the edge of your circle of competence, don’t get greedy. Respect it. Appreciate it. Stick to the arena in which you can excel, and use your learning to build on strengths more so than to compensate weaknesses.

Knowing your boundaries before you hit them is a gift. Accept it.

No matter how long, stressful, or tiring the day might have been: When I fall into bed and realize I can spare a few minutes, I open a book. Nothing brings me more joy than diving back into a great story. Isn’t it pure bliss to re-enter the room in which awesome friends have been patiently waiting for your return?

Among millions of others, American poet William Jay Smith agreed. A while ago, reader Sue shared a special little poem of his with me. Imprinted on a bookmark fashioned in 1982, needing no further comment or instruction, The Key reads as follows:

Open a book
and before long
you’re lost
on seas never crossed
in a dream ship
storm-tossed
that will bring you ashore
where no one’s yet been.
There through forests
of green
unknown wild words
you will follow
bluebirds
that lead you to where
in high magic air
you will find a gold door.
Turn the key in the lock,
cross a floor
never crossed.
On a gold table find,
by a lamp’s bedside beam,
a great golden book
in whose pages you will
find greater gold still,
world within world,
dream within dream.
Turn a page, have a look.
Get lost in a book.

On the first visit to a new hairdresser, I’m always worried they’ll cut off too much. “Just a little shorter,” I’ll say. Most of the time, that leads to me complaining two weeks later: “I should have told them to cut more. Now I need to make the next appointment soon.”

As soon as I’ve seen them do an okay job, however, I’ll remember: It’s better to have my hair too short for a week or two than to need to pay for another cut three weeks later. My hair grows fast, and the way I wear it, one centimeter more or less barely makes a difference. So I might as well tell the hairdresser to be generous in cutting!

My routine with my current one is well-established. They start, shave the sides, and indicate with two fingers in the front: “This much?” My answer is always the same: “You can do a little more.”

Where you have a lot to give, don’t worry about giving too much. Chances are, your stock will replenish faster than you expect it to—and even if not, karma will find a way to redeem your points. Take more off the top.

Since all of XO Kitty‘s episodes revolve around a bunch of international high schoolers growing up in a Korean private school, the nostalgia might not be surprising. It makes you miss the good old times, when your biggest problem was how long your homework would take before or after you spent the afternoon with friends.

But one episode in particular struck me. The gang around Kitty convinces their teacher to make the senior year field trip to an amusement park. Even the teachers end up having fun. Everyone eats candy, works up their courage over different rides, and, eventually, even the scared Kitty sits on the big rollercoaster.

When I was in high school, my city sometimes offered such trips. You’d book a fixed-price ticket with a few friends, sit on a bus for some hours, then split from the main group during the day at the park. As long as everyone was back at the bus by the departure time, there were no problems.

I remember how much fun we had. Same people, different environment. It felt like exploring a new country with your fellow pioneers. Not that hanging at school wasn’t fun, but here, you found out new things about old friends. You dared trying new experiences—or not, at times, and that taught you something as well.

I usually don’t like bachelor trips. They’re always expensive and often marked by drinking above all else. Take out the excessive alcohol consumption, however, and you get something close to a field trip. Not that you couldn’t do one with a mixed group of friends at any time.

Not everyone loved high school. But the good parts, the friendships, fun, and experiences—those don’t have to end. Once a year or so, pack up a few friends, and go see a new place. There’s a reason we ship high schoolers into the wild every now and then: You always get to know yourself and others a little better on a field trip.

Lately, I’m getting more unnecessary emails than usual. “Action Required!” most of them demand in their subject line. They’re emails about old accounts, new terms of service, higher pricing, and other “critical” updates.

This morning, I opened one from a brand whose fitness tracking armband I used to own. “You haven’t used your account in years. In 60 days, we’ll delete it.” “Sooo, actually, I don’t need to do anything right now,” I thought. Why didn’t they send this email in 55 days? But, for a moment, they had me.

“Oh no! What about my data?” I had used this fitness armband to track my 10,000-steps-a-day experiment. Somewhere in that account, there’s proof that I took that many steps daily for a year. But that was almost a decade ago. The device has long been broken and gone. And you know what? I haven’t checked that data since.

There’s a screenshot in the post I wrote about the experience. I briefly glanced at it this morning. “Hm, yeah. I think that’s enough.” And even when that screenshot one day goes the way of all things, I’ll still know. I’ll always have walked 10,000 steps a day for a year. No one can take that away from me.

So no. Action not required. It’s a gimmick to scare you. We worry about losing what we have more than gaining what we don’t—even if we’re about to lose something we’ve completely forgotten. Companies prey on this instinct. But you can choose nothing over nonsense. And if need be, you can almost always reactivate things later.

“Action required” translates to “driftwood floating by.” Wave, and enjoy the peace as it floats past the horizon.

“Getting a reality check” is a phrase we use with a negative connotation. It suggests we’ve been avoiding an important truth, and it’s time to address it. We might be “taken down a peg,” a related phrase. Our boss might tell us we’re not doing as well as we think we are, or a friend reminds us that, actually, we have been neglecting them.

But most of the time, I believe, most of us are doing better than we think. We’re giving ourselves less credit than we deserve, and our own minds bog us down with self-doubt much more frequently than they trip us up with unwarranted cockiness. At least lately, for me, that’s been the case. Even when I get outside confirmation I’m doing well, I don’t feel like it. My inner dialogue is worse than what’s going on outside.

Ergo: I need a reality check. And guess what works best? Going outside! To get out of my head, I can simply get out of my house. I walk around the block, to the bakery, or to the playground nearby. I breathe real air, smell real grass, and see real people. Even when the weather is bad, once I’m back home, the world inevitably looks a bit brighter.

Reality is the best reassurance—because no matter how much we chase our own tail in our minds, reality keeps going. Many problems we perceive don’t exist, and the ones that do rarely need solving right now or all at once. Overwhelm, self-doubt, anxiety—there’s little the right kind of reality check can’t soothe.

Step outside and see the world, if only to see yourself in a different light after your return.

It’s good to have a baseline level of excitement for your job. If you hate make-up, you probably won’t last long in the beauty industry. But as long as your job is just a job, with the fact that it pays the bills mattering a little more than everything else that’s nice about it, any more passion than a general level of benevolence towards the industry can be problematic.

A colleague works on projects similar to mine. They’re more technical but equivalent. When he hands off his ideas for reviews, tension often follows. Members from other teams or even vendors we work with scrutinize his output, and it hurts. You can tell he feels offended by it. At first, I didn’t understand why.

“It’s just work,” I thought. “Why does he care so much?” Until, eventually, I realized the topic we’re covering, blockchain, is the thing he cares about. His passion for decentralized technology, the community that supports it, and innovation in the space runs deep. He is committed. Invested. And that’s why work feels personal.

This is not a bad dynamic per se. He found his people, and he gets to contribute to a bigger mission he loves. But it does create friction where pragmatism would help. Silly stuff happens in every company. Politics. Bureaucracy. Most of it, you can just let roll off your ego like raindrops off a windshield. No one will even remember tomorrow. That includes criticism. You adjust what’s essential, take what’s useful, and ignore the rest.

Of course, that’s much easier when you care a little less—which is why I’m happy I currently benefit from the separation of passion and work. Or, rather, I do two kinds of work—and one I hold a little closer to my heart than the other. I’ve believed in blockchain for almost a decade. But no one technology will be the hill I die on. That hill is this blog. My personal, more creative writing. My books, essays, and all the other writings where passion meets work in a way no one can dictate but me.

Before I started my current job, I was in the same situation as my colleague. My personal writing was my bread and butter, and that made any challenge to it much harder to stomach. I tried to become more mindful and rational there, too, over the years. But the emotional distance I’ve now seen I can have at a job may have contributed more to that effort than anything else. If I can not be fussed about all the comments and criticisms on a doc at work, why can’t I hold that same attitude when sharing the latest draft for my next book? Well, as it turns out, I can, but experiencing the former helps tremendously with the latter.

Work builds passion over time, and passion can carry you very far in an endeavor. The lines between the two are blurry. It’s not a clearly causal relationship that goes one way or the other. There is much to learn about both sides and their interaction effects—and the better you understand each of the parts, the more elegantly you’ll manage the whole.