Month: November 2024

There’s never a good day for the doctor to tell your grandma that she has a tumor and will have to get surgery. But in the subsequent conversation in our family group chat, one word stood out to me: “Immerhin.” It’s a German word with many meanings, from “though,” to “anyhow,” to “in spite of things.” But it also means “at least.”

The longer I look at the dictionary, the more I feel there’s no English translation that quite captures this word’s spirit. For one, it’s a single word instead of a two-word phrase. And it always seems to carry at least a tinge of hope. The English variants can, too, but they still feel different.

In any case, there were many “immerhins” with regards to my grandma’s diagnosis. At least it’s a small tumor. At least the doc caught it when others wouldn’t have. At least it’s operable. At least they already set everything motion for her to have surgery within 10 days. At least she won’t need chemo. Immerhin, immerhin.

It’s nicer to receive great news strung together with the word “and.” “You’ve won employee of the month, and you’ll get today off.” But when it’s our turn to hear bad news, those, too, never come without a consolation prize: At least we can focus on “at least.”

Importance adds pressure, but it shouldn’t. If writing, jumping rope, or reading to your kids is important to you, the mandate should be to do as much of it as you can—not punt it out of a false sense of respect.

It’s understandable, even admirable, that we want to honor the activities that matter to us by giving them the time and attention they deserve. Reality, however, usually has other plans. In the end, much of life must happen around the edges—especially what’s most important to us.

“I only have ten minutes. Are those even worth it?” Of course they are. Any minute spent on what counts is a minute of commitment, of determination, of life itself defended.

Don’t let the grandeur of what you’re hoping to achieve prevent you from taking the next step. Fight in small doses, and see your dreams fulfilled.

The cooking crew behind The Bear spends the majority of season three anxiously waiting for a review in the Chicago Tribune to come out. In the penultimate episode, uncle Jimmy, who finances The Bear’s operations, swings by to check in with head chef Carmy.

“Any idea when this f*cking review’s coming?” Jimmy asks.

“No,” Carmy goes while casually hosing down the yard.

“Haven’t really been thinking about it,” Jimmy brushes off the topic. “It’ll be good.”

“Yeah,” Carmy nods.

“Like at all.”

“Yeah. No, me neither.”

Then, a pause. Carmy looks back at Jimmy. Jimmy looks back at Carmy.

“You been thinking about it?”

“A lot.”

“Yeah, me too.”

Finally, the real conversation can begin. The one where Carmy says he thinks it’ll be a good review, but he doesn’t know for sure. The one where Jimmy admits he’s here to tell Carmy that if it isn’t, he’ll have to turn off the money tap for the restaurant.

It’s a conversation that changes nothing—and everything. After it ends, both men must continue their day just the same. None of their problems are solved. But now each of them knows he’s not alone, and that’s the part that matters.

We’ve all done this, but men are especially prone to this ritual. The casual dance to a beat around the bush. It’s a ritual for a reason: It lets us pretend we’re keeping our cool. But there’s always a chance that second conversation doesn’t happen. The one where the walls come down, and we concede: “I’m scared, dude. And I don’t know what to do.” But that’s the chat that counts! How can we let it slip away?

It’s harder to say what you actually think when you’re in doubt, but that’s exactly when it matters most. Speak your mind the first time, and remember: Great restaurants are rarely taken down by a single bad review.

In 1979, The Jackson 5 embarked on a one-year world tour during which they would play 146 shows. Despite already being one of history’s most famous music acts, one of the youngest members of the band was making his own plans. Whether it was somewhere on a tour bus, backstage, or in an empty hotel room, on November 6th of that year, a 21-year-old Michael Jackson wrote a note to himself:

“MJ will be my new name. No more Michael Jackson.
I want a whole new character, a whole new look.
I should be a totally different person. People should never think of me as the kid who sang ‘ABC,’ or ‘I Want You Back.’
I should be a new incredible actor, singer, dancer that will shock the world.
I will do no interviews.
I will be magic.
I will be a perfectionist, a researcher, a trainer, a master.
I will be better than every great actor roped in one.
I must have the most incredible training system. To dig and dig and dig until I find.
I will study and look back on the whole world of entertainment and perfect it. Take it steps further than where the greatest left off.”

Just three years later, MJ’s second solo release, Thriller, topped charts around the world. It would go on to become the best-selling album of all time.

Whatever else we remember about Michael Jackson today, much of it proves he lived out the rest of his list as well. New character? Check. New look? Check. He acted. He sung. He danced. He truly became magical, and he did almost no interviews.

Reinventing yourself does not mean everything will turn out for the better. The important part is remembering that change is possible. It’s never too late to become a whole new character.

There is no magic thought that’ll solve your life forever, but there is always the right word at the right time.

“Calm.”

“Go.”

“Stop.”

“Breathe.”

“Think.”

“Speak.”

“Accept.”

“Sleep.”

Usually, the right word is a simple one. Perhaps one of the first 100 you’ve ever learned. We panic about complex issues, but panic itself is also straightforward. When in doubt, fear, or anxiety, go back to your first-grade vocab book. Chances are, you’ve known the answer all along—you just have to spell it out.

The other day, I came across a painting time-lapse video. Jane from MyArtShine starts with a triangular canvas, which she paints black. Then, she adds some tape and paints the borders in rainbow colors. The tape comes off, other bits are added, and the real work begins: a moon floating in a dark sky above a glistening lake, a mountain range, some shooting stars. The scene is nothing short of mesmerizing.

From the shapes she added in the beginning, we know Jane has both a girl figure and a dolphin waiting for us still. But before the two are revealed, oh my, what’s this? In one fell swoop, a big black streak runs right across the entire creation. “No, Jane! What are you doing?” As it turns out, Jane is adding a tree. Then, the tree gets branches, and leaves, and roots. Within 45 seconds, around half of the original landscape is covered in shrubbery.

The dolphin comes out, and so does the girl. Now, the painting is rather crowded. It’s almost as if someone had stuck a bunch of stickers on top of what was originally a beautiful still life work. The last tape bits come off, and the rainbow borders are once again revealed. But Jane is not done—because here comes the glue. And the glitter. Uh-oh. By the time the video ends, we see a lot of sparkles glow in the dark, but you know what’s missing? The moon. That beautiful, glowing moon. Behind all the glitter and characters and plants, I can barely see it.

There’s something gut-wrenching about seeing a pretty creation getting taken one step too far. “Don’t! Wait! What’s with the frosting?!” you want to scream. Why douse your favorite cake in frosting when it’s already finished? The comments on Jane’s post echo as much. “The glitter ruined it.” “It was better without the tree.”

One person carries a different sentiment: “This is art. Nothing is ruining anything. Let the artist express themselves the way they want. If you feel like you could have done it better, then do it according to how you want it to be. Just let the artist be.”

I want to share this opinion. Go ahead Jane. You do you. But I’ve also been there. I added too many frills to art that was already finished, thus obscuring the very point I most wanted people to see. Perhaps, as so often, the truth lies in the golden middle: Stick to your artistic vision, yes. But remember that the mark of a good artist is to know when to stop. Don’t just plow through the work. Pause. Reflect. Stop at each crossroads, and wonder: “Is ‘more’ the way to go here? How about less?“

The time-lapse video that ends up on Instagram might be short, but the way of art itself is long. Don’t carry anything more than the essentials. After all, art is about essence—and sometimes the sprinkles are just a distraction.

After five years of doing it daily, my workout routine isn’t exactly a challenge. 50 push-ups and 100 sit-ups? Easy enough—but for me, working out is not about growing muscles. It’s about moving every day.

Despite this, I still have lazy moments. I won’t rise as much on each sit-up. I’ll slightly adjust my position to make the push-ups more comfortable. But even when I’m just going through the motions, I’ll start to feel the strain during the last ten reps, and that’s the window for magic to occur. Whenever I can find the courage to do so, I lean in. I try harder. I rise a little higher or get my nose closer to the ground.

If all the workout does is wake me up in the morning, then I’m already satisfied. But if I can push myself a bit more and put in real effort—even only for the last ten reps—then I’ll start my day with an extra dose of happiness.

The only way to maintain a daily habit for life is to keep expectations low. The only way for that habit to continue to feel rewarding is to give it your best from time to time.

It’s okay if courage is late to the party. You’re allowed to show up for the last ten—because every single iteration counts, and like good pizza, most endeavors get crispy at the end.

Do you need to wash your hair before showing up to the Zoom call? Probably not. Chances are, no one will notice the difference except you—but you can still feel that difference, and perhaps you and your emotions count most of all.

There are the details you can see and the details you can feel. The two don’t always overlap, but what’s invisible may still contribute to the overall picture. Scented candles offer more comfort than just light. Genuine passion conveys more than mere speech. And washed hair can provide an air of confidence where, before, there was only insecurity.

It always pays to care for the details—even the ones you can’t see.

Sometimes, all roads lead to trouble. They did for Fëanor, first-born prince of the Noldor, a singular Elf in terms of strength, courage, and creativity. After journeying across the whole world to join the gods—the Valar—on a continent named Aman, the so-called promised land proved to hold nothing but disaster for Fëanor and his people. J. R. R. Tolkien’s Silmarillion relates the tale.

First, a renegade Vala, the dark lord Morgoth, steals the Silmarils, three gems of unparalleled beauty and power crafted by Fëanor. Next, he destroys the light-giving trees that used to make Aman the paradise it once was. And finally, he kills Fëanor’s father, Finwë, the king of all Ñoldorin Elves. To Fëanor, the response to this disaster is clear: He must journey back to Middle Earth where he came from, retrieve the Silmarils, and avenge his father in the process. Fëanor rallies many of his fellow Elves and sets off.

Just before the great host bound for war can leave the shores of Aman, however, the Valar send a messenger: “Don’t go, Fëanor!” he pleads. “Where you are headed, far more tragedy awaits you still.” But Fëanor has seen all he needs to see. He won’t be swayed—and to ensure his kin won’t either, he addresses them with few but swaying words:

“If any will come with me, I say to them: Is sorrow foreboded to you? But in Aman we have seen it. In Aman we have come through bliss to woe. The other now we will try: through sorrow to find joy; or freedom, at the least.”

Convincing as it is, Fëanor’s speech will indeed spur on the Elves to continue their quest—a quest that shall end in pain and suffering regardless but that, if nothing else, was a quest they chose for themselves. That’s the thing about all roads leading to trouble: You can’t know until you’ve ventured down every single one of them.

There’s a limit to how much each of us can carry. Whenever you reach that breaking point, know that though new might only be different, it is a valid reaction to decide: “The other now we will try.” How long must you trudge through sorrow to find joy? Nobody knows, but in the meantime, it can be a great comfort to rest assured that, at the least, you are walking the path of freedom.

The longer a challenge lasts, the higher the stakes feel. So by the time only eight out of 100 cooks remain on Culinary Class Wars, the pressure is enough to make even Michelin star–chefs cry.

In many ways, Edward Lee was an outsider from the start. Sure, he has Korean roots like everyone else, but he was born in America. He speaks English in his interviews, runs a steakhouse in Kentucky, and likes to add bourbon to his Korean dishes. 외국인—”oegugin.” It means “foreigner.” That’s what Lee is on the show.

Despite being an odd one out, over many rounds, Lee’s charm, openness, and, most of all, his humility have allowed him to arrive here, in the semifinals, where each chef must cook a dish that authentically represents their entire life. Will his tuna-covered, deep-fried-in-a-rice-ball version of bibimbap wow the judges or disgust them? Lee has no idea. Why is he so nervous? He has cooked at the White House. Won cooking awards galore. Alas, it’s always scary to put all of yourself into your work, and even the most seasoned chef isn’t immune to insecurity.

When the long carpet across the big set lights up in blue and white, it’s time to go. Perhaps for the last time, Lee must push his cart to the jury and take whatever praise or beating might follow. It is here, however, that Lee remembers his philosophy. It only takes him three sentences to summarize, and no matter what happens next on the show, it’ll serve him well long after he returns home—just as it has for many decades before:

“It’s a long walk to the judges. Sometimes, you think, ‘Wait, I wanna go back and change something.’ But once you start walking, you have to go all the way through to the end.”

Are you the main event or a foreigner in the background? A star-chef or struggling underdog? Regardless where your next intimidating trip leads—down the aisle, to the judges, into an important person’s office—just remember: Once you start walking, go all the way through to the end—and you’ll always have a journey to look back upon with pride.