The cast of Culinary Class Wars‘ second season felt like the cooking equivalent of the perfect heist team. Each chef had a unique specialty, and the ones who survived the initial mass elimination round—from 100 beginning amateur chefs, only 18 ended up facing as many professional cooks later—all shone with creativity. Some even boasted the nicknames to match.

Son Jong-won was the kindhearted, humble chef-next-door despite cooking haute cuisine and running two Michelin-star restaurants. The “Barbecue Lab Director” could get any meat to slide right off the bone, even when he only had an hour and a half to cook it. Choi Kang-rok is the underdog “white spoon” who returns after being eliminated in the first season. He’s extremely shy and probably wears his cap even when he sleeps. The “Witch With a Wok” is just that: mean with the metal bowl on a stove. She always gets the perfect mix of spiciness and crunch into any dish. Chef Hou Deok-juk has been cooking Chinese cuisine in Korea for over 57 years, longer than even most other participants’ parents have been alive. The list goes on and on, and it makes the show a joy to watch.

Of course, all of these people are far bigger than the one-liners through which we view them in the show. Still, it’s fun to think through the cast of your own life like that every once in a while. It makes you appreciate how diverse a group of humans you have assembled around you.

Years ago, I wrote a story about my perfect heist team. Each of my friends got the role they were most suited for, and, together, we imaginatively “pulled off” some mix of Ocean’s Eleven, The Fast and the Furious, and Mission Impossible. It’s been many years, and their character bios have changed several times hence. So has mine in their lives, I assume. But every now and then, it’s fun to ask: If you were all cast on a show, which archetype would you represent?

Whether it’s on TV or in your life: There’s nothing like a batch of cool characters thrown together—because if the people are right, it barely matters what’s going to happen. All you know is you want to be there, and that’s the part that counts.

Jaws was Steven Spielberg’s third feature-length film. Once production started rolling, the filmmaker’s imagination quickly met reality.

The first plan to train an actual great white shark for filming the underwater scenes was abandoned almost immediately. Instead, a team of up to 40 people assembled three life-size prop models, all equipped with extensive pneumatics so they could move in a way that looked realistic.

On one goal, however, Spielberg remained set: The film would be shot in the ocean, not some glorified indoor fish tank, as was common in Hollywood in the 1970s. This would make Jaws the first movie of its kind—but it also came with all kinds of unforeseen complications.

Special equipment had to be developed just to keep camera’s safe and rolling underwater. The models kept breaking, sinking, and malfunctioning, because while technologically sophisticated, they were not built for withstanding sea water. There were problems with the fake boats from the movie as well as real boats drifting into frame while shooting footage. After all, the sea is the sea, and there’s more going on than some inexperienced director recording a film.

The delays did have some upside: They provided room for creativity and improvements elsewhere. The writers kept updating the script, and the actors tried their best to compensate for the more comic-y scenes with world-class acting. And where the technology plain old wouldn’t work? It was omitted. Spielberg rearranged many shots so only the fin of the shark was visible, or the audience would see from the shark’s perspective, or the scary part remained off-screen while the music prompted the viewers’ imagination.

Still, in the end, the final numbers didn’t look too promising: Instead of the scheduled 55 days, filming ultimately took a whopping 159. And the budget? From $4 million to $9 million. Having rejected all opportunities to shut down the production midway, Spielberg had more than second thoughts: “I thought my career as a filmmaker was over,” he said in an interview. “I heard rumors…that I would never work again because no one had ever taken a film 100 days over schedule.”

More than 50 years after its release, I recently watched Jaws for the first time. I was floored. Minus the 70s outfits, the movie could just as well have been from the year 2005. In some ways it looked more realistic than the early CGI-laden films of those years—because it was.

I can only imagine how dramatic it must have felt to watch it on the big screen at the time, and it clearly did. Because upon its release in the middle of a usually film-dead summer, it raked in an impossible $7 million during its opening weekend alone. Eventually, Jaws became the first film to gross over $100 million in theaters, and it firmly established the now common pattern of “summer blockbusters.” Spielberg’s career wasn’t just saved. That’s when it really began.

It rarely feels great to work on a hard project. Failure becomes the status quo. But where we see mistakes while bumping into our limitations, others might see a pioneer pushing the world forward inch by inch.

Don’t give up too soon. Even if reality overpowers a great deal of your imagination, however much of it remains may still inspire us to dream a little bigger than we did yesterday.

From third until seventh grade, I had one best friend. Then, we moved, and I had to change schools. In my new class, I found another really close friend. The year we all graduated, I hosted a New Year’s Eve party and invited both of them. Since then, they, too, have become very good friends.

In fact, many years later, they might now be better friends with each other than I am with either of them. My older friend even asked the younger to be his best man. Over the years, I was sometimes annoyed when events were organized outside of our group chat with some more childhood friends in it. “How are they hanging out all the time, and I don’t even know?” But actually, I haven’t lost anything.

If I hadn’t introduced the two, I may not have stayed in touch with either of them. Now, we’re all part of the same group, and we meet at least twice a year.

I’m not sure why, but I think I wanted more credit. As if their connection somehow entitled me to…I don’t even know what. But of course, I’ve also lived my own life. We’re no longer geographically close, and I haven’t just missed but also chosen to miss many events as time went on.

I used to take great pride in telling the story of how we all met. But even the best credit expires. All I did was introduce them. The relationship they’ve built hence is entirely their own. And all three of us are richer for it.

Few things are ever lost, and you can’t waste anything in this life. Forget the credit. Focus on the fun. Heaven is not a yearbook, and there’s only so much of it you can have before the sun sets.

One reason I was hesitant to clean up and put all my books on one shelf? I didn’t want to lose sight of the books I’d already started.

I usually “read” multiple books in parallel. It’s not that I’m constantly jumping, but if I have a few options, that makes it more likely I’ll pick up some book whenever I feel like reading. I might not be in the mood for a biography, but maybe a classic will do? I mostly read nonfiction in the mornings and fiction at night. And so on.

Before my cleaning event, I was “reading” 12 books with a pile of five more for writing research sitting on our couch. Once I took an honest look, however, I had to admit: These were books I barely started or read halfway and then abandoned years ago. It’s not that I was never going to finish them—but I would have to try again. Restart properly, since I’d lost all context to begin with.

One book I leafed through and decided I wasn’t going to read all of it. I had read the parts relevant to me, and that was okay. So I reviewed it on Goodreads and closed that chapter. As for the rest? They would remain just as accessible to me on my shelf than scattered around the house in plain view. Fewer triggers to continue reading them, perhaps, but if I hadn’t done so in years, maybe that wasn’t a bad sign. Instead, I’d now simply have to be more deliberate about picking them back up.

Right now, I’m only reading one book, and it’s nice. It feels different. Focused. I’m sure I’ll add more titles into the mix before long. But it was a good lesson to learn: It’s okay to re-shelve books you’ve started.

My mom saw it on Instagram. One of my best friends from high school had gotten married. “What?!” I thought. “How was I not invited?” It was the first and, so far, only time I was shocked to not make someone’s wedding guest list.

The reason it was the only time is that this incident ultimately changed a belief I’d held since I was little: Your wedding is for the people who made the biggest impact on your life. As it turns out, most people don’t see it that way. Or, at least, they don’t invite accordingly.

Of course, when I was younger, I figured all those people would forever be around. That my closest friends would always stay my closest friends. So, naturally, they’d all make the wedding.

In reality, folks grow apart—including me and my friend from back in the day. We still talk, but not as much, and we haven’t seen each other in years. Hence, no wedding invite.

Me? When I realized I wouldn’t always be best friends with some of my best friends, my belief somehow updated in my subconscious: Your wedding is for the people who made the biggest impact on your life—regardless of when it happened. I imagined some kind of great reunion, almost like a walk through an ancestral hall, with all the people who got you to that place—ready to commit to the love of your life—present and remembering their contribution, if only after you remind them of it.

“He was my best friend when I was nine. He showed me what it meant to have fun and friends.” “She was my closest study partner during an extra intense semester at college, and we got each other through the exams with silly jokes and lots of McDonald’s chicken nuggets.” Your personal version of receiving an Oscar, basically.

I still believe this is a wonderful idea. It’s also highly impractical and would likely make for one awkward party. I can see the stiff faces now. “Why am I here again? I haven’t talked to this guy since third grade.”

It really shook me when my mom told me about my friend’s wedding. Alas, life always goes on. I learned that even when planning their weddings, most people do what most people do all the time: whatever they feel like in the moment. They invite whoever they feel connected to right now—and, in its own way, that also makes perfect sense.

This approach respects how you and your life change over time. It celebrates the present. That one moment which you want to stay with you forever—so what better than to make it the ultimate snapshot? Like a photograph, except a thousand times stronger.

“Ahh yes, the wedding crowd,” you can say 20 years later. And then reminisce about who helped you along in what way—and who’s still around. The rest? I’m sure you’ll keep up with them on Instagram. And that’s okay too.

It’s been snowing a good deal this winter, but the temperatures keep flip-flopping. We go to negative 10 degrees Celsius, but then it shoots back up to 5, 6, even 10 degrees, and everything begins to melt. At night, we’re right back to zero or below, and hello natural ice skating rink!

On several of my many walks to the grocery store, I noticed that if I walked off the beaten path, I’d slip a lot less. Wherever the snow has already been trodden down by many people, the surface is flattened. There’s less material for your shoes to grip into. And once everything freezes over, all bets are off.

So? I walk besides the sidewalk. I cut across the meadows. And I enjoy the scrunching sound of fresh snow or breaking ice as my shoes sink in, providing stable footing. Who would have thought? Sometimes, it’s best to tread where no one else has gone before.

It’s scary to choose something no one else cares about and say: “I believe in this! I will go and prepare and do it.” But no one knows how your journey will go. Only you will find out once you dare begin an adventure. Despite its raw look, the uncharted path might be the easiest—for the universe knows many ways to keep our feet on the ground.

“The burp is a belly gust who can’t find his way to your butt,” my grandma used to say. Imagine! If all our burps were more farts instead? I’m glad the wind gets two exits to choose from.

Folk wisdom be damned, however, both my grandma and mom always made sure my sister would get in a little burp after she had drunk her milk as a baby. I’m certain they did the same with me. A bit of bobbing, wiggling, maybe a soft pat on the back and…burp! Ahh, that’s better.

Several decades later, my burp management is in my own hands—yet it’s still fascinating how liberating a good burp can feel. I’m not talking about belching the alphabet, of course. Just a little bloop, and from your belly to your nose, the pathways are free.

Nowadays, almost every morning after my crunches, I sit up and, instead of launching straight into my stretching exercises, I wait for a moment. It’s probably all the stomach movement, but it’s a common situation for the wind to make an appearance, and it’s so much easier to just let it through than to struggle with rumbling air in my belly while contrived in some strenuous position.

I’ve noticed the same happening when I’m looking down, to the side, or am in any way contorted: If the burp can’t come out pleasantly, it will leave discomfort in its wake instead. At worst, a burp can turn into a mini-vomit or trigger acid reflux.

Sometimes, we try our best but don’t manage to adjust in time. At other times, we hope to push through. To impose our own timeline on the wind. Of course, neither our clock-y companion nor the air will be subdued, and so, really, the only solution is to go back to that early piece of parenting advice: You might no longer need bobbing, wiggling, or a soft pat on the back, but whatever the position required, you simply get out of the way.

Bruce Lee once wrote about inviting the wind. Since we can’t force him, our only option was to leave the window open, he said. Well, the same applies on the way out: Let the wind through, and, before you know it, you’ll be back on your way.

It was a nice birthday party. Some minimalist but beautiful decorations. Lots of tasty, homemade snacks. A fancy selection of fizzy drinks. And, like the bubbly, the conversations kept flowing.

The topics were already fairly representative of our age group: weddings, family plans, travel reports, and job worries all made an appearance. But when I spotted a friend going down on one knee on a small round pillow, stretching into a lunge under our host’s instructions, that’s when I knew: Our 30s have arrived. It’s all about yoga now.

Within minutes, the entire room was testing their mobility. “Can you lock your hands behind your back? Reach your toes? What about the splits?” It must have looked like the introductory session of a gymnastics class on a cruise ship. Between some satisfied faces and many tired groans, most of us concluded we were not as flexible as we should be—and then the conversation moved on.

I know they can weigh on us, but: I like them. The big changes, and the small moments in which we realize they have happened. There’s never a clear “better” or “worse” attached to them. Not really, anyway. Not if we look closely. There’s only “different.” A new chapter with new priorities, new ups and downs, and new friends–even though the people in the room are still the same.

Today, it’s all about yoga, and tomorrow? Tomorrow is tomorrow, and we’ll discover our next adventure once we’re in it.

Ever since we set up a simple chat group to coordinate our dinners after college studying sessions eight years ago, two friends and I had been talking about a Simpsons marathon. We all loved the show when we were in high school, the German voiceover is hilarious, and many of the jokes are running gags for us to this day.

Almost a decade later, one of us is moving out of town, and so I pushed a bit harder than usual to finally make it happen. We decided on a Friday afternoon at my house and started curating a list of episodes to watch. Meanwhile, I tried to get a bit of a theme night going.

First, I ordered three beer glasses, branded with “Duff,” Homer’s favorite brew in the show. I bought a subscription so we could watch on my big TV. And the day before the event, I went to the grocery store and bought every relevant snack I could find. Some chips, energy drinks and ice to make “Squishees,” which is a version of slushies, and of course the famous donuts with pink frosting Homer constantly munches on during his day job at the nuclear power plant.

The theme was an immediate hit. “Damn man, you’re prepared! This is amazing!” We drank our beer out of Duff glasses, snacked on the donuts, and watched 12 episodes in one go. It was so. Much. Fun! On their way out the door, I told my buddies to keep the glasses as a souvenir, and they said to let them know how much money they were supposed to send in return for all the stuff.

A little later, I did the math: Beer glasses, snacks, streaming subscription, plus the burgers we ordered. It all came out to just over 100 bucks. I couldn’t believe it. So much enjoyment? For three people? For this relatively small amount? I decided not to ask for reimbursements. I bought a feeling, and it felt like money incredibly well spent.

In comparison, 100 bucks barely buys you two medium-sized Pokémon trading card products to open. You could easily spend it on a single dinner in Munich, a handful of drinks at a club, or some home repair materials. Meanwhile, when fueling a Simpsons marathon, 100 euros went unbelievably far.

Rich is always relative. But when you spot an opportunity to add more emotional return to your dollars, grab it! At least every now and then. Save, invest, spend deliberately—these are all important. But sometimes, the very best way to do the latter is to simply have 100 bucks worth of fun with two friends.

I work at a non-profit, but it feels like a startup. Ergo, plans change. A lot.

Our leadership does an extensive planning cycle each year, and the entire team brainstorms for two days during an annual offsite as well. Of course our teams also develop roadmaps, break them down into achievable chunks, and try to follow them as best as we can. But if you’re a scrappy company with 120 people in a fast-moving tech space, all the planning in the world can’t protect you from your surroundings changing at the drop of a hat. Projects shift. Priorities shift. And what was so urgently needed yesterday may be completely irrelevant tomorrow.

For someone who’s usually bent on structure and loves organizing things, to my own surprise, I have discovered I can be totally fine with all of this. It just depends on my baseline expectations.

We all have expectations, and they, too, change all the time. But the more time you spend in a certain setting, the more your expectations settle. You’ll develop certain, foundational ideas around how a company, team, or group you’re a part of operates. Then, you’ll factor those in each time you return.

When I joined my company, I had no expectations, and that was great. It really put me into a strong mindset for the first six months or so. But as I got more familiar with everyone and everything, that faded. I developed baseline expectations. Now that I’m onto them, I’ve been wondering how they affect how I feel at work.

In a setup like mine, “Every day, everything changes” is a baseline expectation that works well. It’s almost equivalent to having no expectations. Whenever I carry this attitude into the job, little can faze me, and I simply do what’s required that day. If my baseline expectation is, “I have a plan, and I’m seeing it through,” that expectation will likely be overthrown by lunch time. Then, I’ll get grumpy and complain. The flow of the day could be the exact same. Only my projections were different.

If you’ve been in a company for 30 years, you might need the opposite baseline expectation to not lose your cool: “Every day, nothing changes.” Picking up your kid from kindergarten every day requires different baseline expectations from being the chef in the house, and writing a book on the side needs a different attitude than doing it full-time.

Expectations can feel like impulses. As if they change with the weather. But some, like the sediment of a river, will settle at the bottom of our hearts over time. If you prod them, however, they’ll still stir. Nothing is ever set in stone. To start, all you must do is ask: What are your baseline expectations?