Month: July 2025

One of the longest-lasting group chats I’m in has only three people in it: one friend from my undergrad, one friend from my Master’s, and me. Even though I got to know them independently, the two friends actually went to the same high school together, and then, eventually, we all ended up in Munich.

I try to stay as true to myself as I can while writing online, and, on the whole, I think I’m doing a good job. But if you know me only through my work, writing, or even the occasional email exchange, you might be shocked at the kind of messages going through our group chat.

Essentially, we all revert to our 14-year-old selves in there. It’s full of thinly veiled insults, bad jokes, and constant trolling of what’s happening in the news, which one of the guys consistently supplies thanks to his well-tuned RSS feed. There’s dark humor, inappropriate comments, and many unfiltered opinions. The chat loosely mirrors how we behave in real life when we’re together, and while it’s only a sliver of a reflection of who each of us is as a person, it feels like a safe space in which we protect something the public is slowly losing: the healing power of politically incorrect humor.

Today, many outspoken voices are quick to decry any statement or event one could deem racist, sexist, opportunist, or any flavor of many kinds of isms. I’m sure you hear the phrase all the time in private conversations: “You can’t say that in public anymore.” Whether the people do it through shaming or the government does it through violence and technology, the problem with censorship is that it never solves what it censors. You can’t make reality go away by not talking about it.

A joke, meanwhile, no matter how inappropriate—and, in some ways, especially the inappropriate—not only disarms what could end up as an argument that ruins a friendship. It also draws reality into the light. Humor can acknowledge a problem without feigning an easy solution exists. It can make an issue what we call “salonfähig” in German, “parlor-presentable,” without taking a holier-than-thou attitude. There’s no need for anyone, or, sometimes, everyone, in the conversation to pretend they’re going to try and save the world from our self-made human maladies. You just laugh, remember the issue exists, and move on. That collective awareness is worth more than a million rants on social media.

My friends are Swabian. The stereotype is that Swabians like to save money and will go to extreme lengths to do so. My friends certainly fit that bill. It’s easy to make a joke like, “You’re so cheap, I’m surprised you’re buying your toilet paper instead of stealing it at work!” This will usually get a good laugh out of the group, followed by one of several amazing events: For one, either friend might admit they’re actually sometimes too stingy. For another, they may take pride in their habit of saving, even if they sometimes overdo it. And, finally, everyone has a chance to remember that, oh, yeah, workplace theft exists in our country, and it’s actually a real problem neither of us is looking to make worse. Probably better to keep hunting for deals on toilet paper!

Best of all? Sometimes, we do all three of these. Every now and then, we might even continue a real conversation about workplace theft, get informed on the topic, and consider what one might do about it. Chances are, nothing else will happen—but that’s no different from most conversations where some smarty-pants ends the discussion entirely with one knockout argument.

Don’t let the media, social or otherwise, fool you. In real life, real people still have a real sense of humor. Nobody’s perfect, and everyone can take one for the team’s laughter on occasion. Be generous. Be forgiving. And remember that humor can heal more situations than silence will ever successfully break.

One challenge with big projects is selecting your milestones in a way that keeps you excited to go after each next one. For me, one such project is doing 100 sit-ups—actually, crunches, as I only learned today—every day. It’s not just a big project. It’s a forever project. I plan on doing them daily as long as I can.

How do you stay motivated if the road never ends? The truth is that, as with any habit, after a while, you won’t need motivation. You just do it. I’ve done my crunches for five years. So, on most days, I don’t think too much about them. But today, I did—and I realized that, sometimes, I still do manage my milestones actively to get through the session.

Here’s how it plays out in my head:

• While getting to 10 reps, I’m busy counting. Starting is always the easiest part. I don’t realize how far away I am from my goal.
• 20 is twice as many as 10. Wow! I’m about to double my results!
• 30 means I’m almost one third of the way there. Already?
• 40 is 40% of the total, and that’s almost half. Not too bad!
• 50 means I’ve officially done more than half the work. Should be all downhill from here.
• 60 is already 10 beyond 50. It feels like a fresh start for the second half.
• 70 means I’m now more than two thirds to my goal.
• 80 indicates I’ve quadrupled my output of 20, which was already the double of 10! Astonishing how far I’ve come, and how little I have left to go.
• “At 90, I shall penetrate the mystery of things.” That’s Hokusai. It’s hard to look at the 90% mark of something and not be excited.
• The last 10 are often the easiest, even though, physically, they’re the hardest—and I usually try extra hard to do them properly.

Most of this is kindergarten-logic, and that’s half the trick. If you can get excited about silly little milestones no serious adult would care about, chances are, you’ll soon run laps around plenty such serious adults. If you feel like it, you can even keep going forever.

Make the milestones meaningful, and know that “meaningful” is a made-up word. Plant your own interesting flags to chase, and you’ll never run out of momentum.

A friend of mine used to be a voracious reader of nonfiction books. Now, he says he hasn’t read a book in a year. Instead, he uploads books to AI and interacts with the book more dynamically.

When he told me, I think even he was a bit shocked when he realized how long it had been since he’d read a book “the old way.” I know I was. To be fair, my friend is an AI master. He really knows how to create prompts, so perhaps he can truly get everything he needs from his robot librarian. And if he likes this experience better, more power to him!

Personally, I can’t imagine not going through some books page by page. If I want to spend time with the author, I don’t want a third party telling me about their work. I want to hear everything firsthand. Plus, immersing myself in a book, spending time with it week by week, feels more durable than scanning AI output for the right lesson or interesting tidbits.

But perhaps the most salient reason to read your favorite books cover to cover is as benign as it is true: If you haven’t gone through every bit of information yourself, how can you know you haven’t missed anything?

I gave my friend an example. I’m writing a book inspired by Bruce Lee’s philosophy. As a result, I want to read everything related to the man that I can get my hands on, but at the very least the most relevant books from and about him.

One of those books compiles many of his interviews in contemporary magazines during his time. Since journalists were rather creative in their attempts to get eyeballs even back in the 60s and 70s, it’s not the best book. Plenty of the interviews contain false information, so I regularly have to turn to the long footnotes section to read the editor’s rebuttals. Still, I’m happy to learn whatever I can, and so I enjoy going through the whole thing with a fine-tooth comb.

The other day, my friend who now reads “AI-first” and I were talking about impostor syndrome. About how hard it is to demand a high price for your work, even when you feel you’ve more than earned it. Just then, a story came to my mind.

One of Bruce Lee’s early breaks in TV was The Green Hornet, a superhero show in which he played the Hornet’s sidekick Kato. Unfortunately, the show didn’t do well and was canceled after one season. Upon finding out, Lee was worried. He had a wife, a son, and rent to pay. He considered going back to teaching Kung Fu, which he had previously done for $25-$30 an hour. But then Lee spoke to an assistant from the show. The man told him he needed to charge at least twice as much. He even made a mockup of a business card on which he suggested Lee should ask for $1,000 for a “professional consultation” as a Kung Fu master, which he was. “You’re out of your mind,” Lee said. But eventually, those business cards landed at a barbershop of a hairdresser to the stars. And once those stars picked them up, they were happy to pay Lee’s new fees.

“Wow, that’s such a great story,” my friend said. “Thank you for sharing it!” It was highly relevant to our conversation—but the only reason I could share that story was because I read the whole book, footnotes and all.

It was one of those little pieces of information you won’t know you’ll need until you do. So not only might AI have never found it even if I had asked for something along its lines, I likely never could have prompted AI to give me such a story in the first place—and that’s why reading, slow, old-school reading, page by page, word by word, still has value in an AI-powered world.

Reading was never solely about that, but it’s becoming less and less about acquiring specific information. The better technology gets at filtering, processing, and presenting data to us on a silver platter, the more intangible the benefits of reading will become. Spending time with the author, absorbing ideas, and finding the kind of story AI could never dig up, let alone manufacture for you. That’s why I still read books in the 21st century. I hope you’ll choose to do the same.

One summer Sunday morning, my girlfriend and I woke up. Unusually, we hadn’t decided what to do with the day yet. I want to say it was around 10 AM, so not exactly early. But the weather looked splendid. Still lounging around in bed, we thought out loud.

“Should we go out? Try to spend some time in nature, maybe?” “Hmm…” “What if we go to one of the lakes?” “Won’t that take too long?” “Let’s check. Hm. Starnberg. Train says 40 minutes.” “Alright, why not? Let’s try it!”

We got up, got dressed, and left the house. We took the tram to the main station, then boarded the train. We chatted, read on the train, had some snacks. Around 40 minutes later, we got off and strolled around the lakeside town. “Oh, they have boats here! Should we rent one?” “Hm, I’ve never done that before, but sure!”

An elderly lady explained the mechanics to us. It was a small, red boat that comfortably fit two people plus some baggage. It was electrically powered, so it was quiet. Slowly and smoothly, we glided into the lake. Within 20 minutes, we sat smack dab in the middle of a massive body of water. In the distance, we could see shorelines on multiple sides. Some gave way to small piers downhill of big villas. Others were trailed by small towns not far behind.

At one point, we looked at each other with our shades on, my girlfriend steering the boat, me having just taken in the scenery. “Wow,” I said. “This is crazy! Within two hours of waking up, we can be out on this lake, James Bond–style, cruising in a boat! How cool is that? We should do that more often!”

If you live in Munich, you’re spoiled for choice when it comes to cool places to visit in a not-so-distant radius. But even if you don’t, chances are, within two hours, you, too, can be in a place that makes your mouth drop in amazement.

“Sometimes, I feel like I’m only half-living in London because I know it’s not where I’ll stay forever. But that’s not good. You should live wherever you are.” Don’t wait. Life surrounds you at all times. Drive in one direction for a bit, and see where that gets you. Who knows? From the moment you wake up, you could be only two hours away from feeling like James Bond.

Some miracles are so small you can hardly see them. I, for one, can count the times I’ve ironed clothes or bed sheets on one hand.

It’s part luck, part intention. I was lucky to have a mom who ironed for me, even taught me how to do it should I ever need it, but I also never tried very hard to go to places where perfectly ironed clothes were required.

On the rare few occasions when I do need to iron, I might groan, stress a bit, and feel a little embarrassed. But is that too high a price to pay for not thinking about ironing at all most of the year? Seems like a fair tradeoff to me.

Trying to remove certain ideas from your life entirely isn’t about entitlement or laziness. It’s about realizing that every extra bit of space allows you to be more intentional and present with everything you wholeheartedly say “Yes!” to.

A colleague came back from maternity leave. When I told her I didn’t have kids yet but hopefully will, she said: “Don’t read any books.” Having written down one seemingly helpful title about sleep training years ago already, I listened up.

“You can never prepare. We thought we had everything figured out, and then, the day we came back from the hospital, we realized we couldn’t change her diapers in the place we had picked for it. So the living room table it was!”

There’s a difference between no prep and some prep, of course. If you’re gonna have a baby, buying diapers is a pretty safe bet. But trying to be the best diapers for your child? That’ll have to wait until he or she is here.

With big things ahead, we might plan too much and live too little. But even big things happen one day at a time—and the real work is taking life’s beatings as they occur. Usually, some prep is just enough. Do a little less than you’d feel comfortable with, and you might, ironically, feel a little more comfortable once the true discomfort begins.

True revolutions don’t happen in public. By the time everyone knows, you better already have victory in your pocket. This idea is drilled into everyone joining the rebellion against the Galactic Empire. Throughout the second season of Andor, it appears time and again.

“You wanna fight? Or you wanna win?” “If I’m giving up everything, I want to win.” Unfortunately, for a small group of dissidents hiding in the shadows, winning rarely looks like winning. Informants are burned and lost. Every stolen gun might lead to being shot. And thanks to the empire’s long arms, most missions to acquire big equipment fail before they begin. How do you sit through endless setbacks in hopes of a new dawn you’ll likely never get to see?

In the early years of the cause, refugees on the run Luthen and Kleya end up watching an execution of innocent locals right next to a public marketplace. Kleya, who’s only a child at the time, doesn’t understand how her new dad-in-training, Luthen, can just walk away: “When do we start fighting back?”

“We have,” Luthen says. “We fight to win. That means we lose. And lose and lose and lose…until we’re ready.”

Luthen tells Kleya to bank her hate. To hide it, nurture it, and use it once she actually knows what to do with it. It won’t be for two decades, but, eventually, she will, setting the rebellion on a path to destroy the Empire’s greatest weapon.

Are you fighting to win? Or fighting just to fight? It’s easy to go down swinging. If that’s all you want, go make noise right now. But if you want to go home winning, you should make your losses count. Bank them. Stack them. Let each one fuel the inner fire that burns so strongly for your cause. Until, one day, you’re ready—ready to win for good, not just for today.

Yesterday, my brain was fried after work. My fiancée came home late, and she had plenty of stories to tell. She works in tech, and I don’t always understand every issue as is. So on some days, when it’s 8 PM, we’re trying to figure out what to eat, and she is asking me about her ideas for tracking AI agent activity while optimizing web browsing performance, I’ve got…nothing.

I tried my best to listen regardless, but I had just gotten off the phone with little time to decompress, so at one point, I said: “Hold on. Stop. Too much information too fast. Gimme a minute. I can’t process anything right now.” Gracious as she is, she said, “Oh, okay, no worries! I’ll stop talking.”

Eventually, our conversation picked back up. We turned to lighter topics for a bit. After showering, our pizza arrived, and, with some food in my belly, I could pick back up. “Okay, so about your idea from earlier. I don’t have much, but here’s what I think…”

Sometimes, all you can do is listen, and sometimes, you’ll do even that rather badly. But listening with intention most of the time is already a lot. It’s a real service, and you deserve credit for trying your best. Don’t be afraid to ask for breaks when you need them. It’s okay to cut the flow of information and take time to digest.

Appreciate the generosity of listening.

While meditating this morning, two innocuous words started a chain of thought in my mind: “I have.” Immediately, my brain began rattling off a long list of commitments and obligations.

“I have a fiancée whom I love very much, want to spend time with and do right by.” “I have a long list of to-dos.” “I have many friends I want to meet up with.” “I have a job which I’m trying to do well and a team I genuinely want to support.” “I have many of my own projects I want to work on.” “I have more ideas for books than I’ll ever be able to write.” I have, I have, I have.

“Okay, let’s pause for a second,” I told myself. “Let’s reset the chain.” The next two words that came into my mind? “I am.” This time, for some reason, instead of launching into an enumeration of role titles, my brain went into a different direction.

“I am sitting here, meditating.” “I am just a random dude.” “I am thinking, but not doing much at all right now if I’m honest.” “I am calm and just starting my day.” “I am trying my best.” “I am here.” “I am now.” “I am okay.” I am, I am, I am.

Life is long. We accumulate many “haves” over the years. But in any given moment, we “are” only a handful of things. “I have” can make our world feel large and overwhelming. “I am” can remind us we’re small, and so is our radius of immediate influence.

For all the things you “have,” there’s only a fraction of them you’ll ever truly “be,” and even less of them on a random Wednesday morning. Don’t start with “I have.” Start with “I am,” and keep building from there.

If you get bitten, you get shot. Those are the rules in the world of The Last of Us. After all, it is better to die with your human brain intact than to yield it to the Cordyceps fungus and become a mushroom-infected zombie. At least, that’s the idea. Naturally, not everyone agrees.

On her 19th birthday, protagonist Joel takes his sort-of-adopted daughter Ellie on her first patrol outside of the safe town of Jackson, Wyoming. Riding horses, scouting for zombies, you know, the usual. Suddenly, a distress call comes in over their radio: Another patrol was attacked. When they get to the scene, the local therapist’s husband, Eugene, is the lone survivor—but even he got more than scratched.

Not looking to take any chances, Joel is about to whip out his gun, but eventually, Ellie stops him. Eugene’s still got his brains about him, and he’d really like to say farewell to his wife. Joel agrees to escort him back to the town but eventually changes his mind. He asks Eugene to take a right instead of a left and oh, lo and behold, the two are standing right on the edge of an empty plateau.

Just as Eugene remarks on the beauty of the panorama, it dawns on him that this is the last thing he will see. “No! Joel! You can’t do this to me!” Joel offers to pass along any last words Eugene might have for his wife, but for Eugene, that’s not enough. “I’m dying! I’m terrified! I don’t need a view. I need Gail. To see her face. Please. Please let that be the last thing I see.”

Knowing he cannot fulfill the dying man’s wish, Joel tries to offer the next-best thing: “If you love someone, you can always see their face,” he says. Thinking of Ellie and her safety right that moment, he would know.

It takes Eugene a good minute. He seems to just stare into space. But eventually, we can see his eyes shining. “I see her.” The gun trigger clicks and…

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Even when it’s not the last time—and may it not be for a long time—it’s always sad to see your loved ones go. Alas, duty calls all of us now and again. We must go where we’re needed.

A few weeks ago, my fiancée went to Malaysia for 10 days on a whim. Her dad is 80. He has Parkinson’s. It was a good time to see about him. And while I was sad to be alone for a bit, I could still see her face.

For one, that was thanks to modern technology. Photos flew halfway across the world in the blink of an eye through our phones. For another, her beautiful countenance is literally all over our living room wall—which I plastered with photos of us for our engagement. But remove all of that, and my visual recollection of her still doesn’t fade. Anytime I close my eyes, I can see her if I choose to.

May you never need this lesson the way Eugene had to learn it, but remember: “If you love someone, you can always see their face.”