Category: Daily Blog

Unit bias is our tendency to think that easily measurable amounts of things are automatically the right amounts of those things. Let’s say your favorite burger usually weighs in at 300 grams. If I make a larger burger that’s 450 grams, then cut off one third of it, the portion will be the same — but you won’t feel nearly as satisfied eating two thirds of a burger instead of “a whole one,” regardless of weight, calories, and nutritional value.

Unit bias affects us every day, and not just at dinner. When it comes to doing our work, we primarily use two yard sticks to measure our efforts: time and to-dos. Both are prone to unit bias. We schedule meetings for an hour and jot down “finish pitch deck,” even though the meeting might only require 43 minutes, whereas the pitch deck could take us two full days to put together.

With some awareness, however, we can also use unit bias to our advantage. Where units are often too large, for example meetings where the goal is to make just one decision, we can default to smaller units more frequently. One 15-minute meeting that requires another 15-minute follow-up is still better than one 45-minute meeting spent on the same issue. Where units are too small to complete, we can redefine them for more satisfaction and momentum from checking off more to-dos. If you create ten sub-bullets for each of your presentation’s slides, even if you only check off three of those today, you’ll feel a lot better than staring at your still-empty checkbox for “finish pitch deck” after three hours of work.

An even more useful approach, however, is to ask yourself: “What is my personal preference? Time or to-dos?” Do you lean more into time-based activities or goal-based ones? If I had to guess, I’d say most people tend towards goal-based planning simply because goals feel like units, even though they are not. But I know there are plenty of calendar-nerds out there, and I also believe “hour bias” is something we can learn.

Personally, I also prefer item-based planning. If I can finish a piece of writing in a day, I’d rather spend five hours on it until it’s done. If your video game tells you to collect seven mushrooms for a quest, it’s really hard to stop at five, isn’t it?

But not all quests can be completed in a day, and so especially for long-term projects, focusing on to-do units is exhausting. If you spend day after day putting in serious time, yet no end appears in sight, you’ll get burned out. Some things can only be completed hour by hour, small unit by small unit. Writing for an hour on your novel every day won’t be as satisfying as retreating into a small cabin in the woods for eight weeks, but if the former leads to the book’s publication whereas the latter ensures it remains a dream, the choice is painful but obvious.

Perhaps most importantly, however, know that you can mix and match. You can get in a few tiny time units on some projects, then spend the rest of the day chasing a bigger checkbox on your to-do list that you might not be able to complete. You can start your day with the satisfaction of knocking out some small but complete items, then attend a heavily time-boxed meeting marathon. Shrink certain units, enlarge others. Chunk and merge them like a butcher, turning a big pile of meat into the work of art that is a finely prepared sausage.

Beware unit bias. Consider your personal preference. Use to-dos and time-boxing like the interchangeable tools that they are, and remember: No matter how many slices the universe chops off your burger, it is still you who runs the show — and you function just fine on two thirds of your meal.

After my friend returned from his two-week trip to Japan, I asked him about his experience. “What was the best thing? What was the worst thing?” As often in life, the pros and cons he mentioned went hand in hand: “Tokyo is one of the top three cleanest places I’ve ever been, but there are no trash cans anywhere, and that’s annoying.”

It’s true. While most big cities reduce trash cans at some point — usually after terrorist attacks where bombs and the like are hidden in them — most also eventually bring them back. But not Tokyo. After a 1995 gas attack that hurt at least 1,000 people, the Eastern metropolis binned bins, and they haven’t returned in numbers since.

Surprisingly, the lack of trash disposal opportunities never turned into a big problem. Over a quarter century later, Tokyo is still bin-less, yet also still clean. Why? Culture. In Japan, cleanliness is more than a duty. It’s a value. From school children having to clean up the classroom to store workers partaking in monthly cleaning initiatives to the elderly volunteering to keep the streets tidy, the Japanese learn self-reliance around cleaning early on and then embody it throughout their entire lives — and that’s not something that ends when a few trash cans disappear.

After the change, people simply started disposing of their litter where trash cans were available, like in restaurants, convenience stores, and near vending machines. And if none are to be found? Then they just pocket their trash and recycle it at home. By placing a slightly bigger responsibility on every individual, the country distributes the weighty task of trash management evenly, and the result is a system that works.

Given its origins in culture, it’s easy to see why such a change would never work in America, where scrubbing toilets is synonymous with “lowest rung of the social ladder.” Cleaning is dirty work to be outsourced and handed off wherever possible, not a virtue to pursue. In fact, if something isn’t easy enough to clean, why not convert it into something that creates more trash? The amount of plastic forks, bags, cups, plates, and knives, among a million other things, is staggering. If you removed trash cans in New York City, within two weeks, the city would drown in its own filth. This isn’t to say that the US can’t get a grip on their trash another way, but a cultural shift is not something you can force overnight. It takes generations to sink in.

We have this saying in Germany that “if everyone sweeps in front of their house, the streets will be clean.” The Japanese live this philosophy even better than we do. Often, a little inconvenience now leads to a lot of larger-scale convenience later. You have to put your chocolate wrapper in your jacket, but you also get to enjoy clean streets wherever you go. The next time you feel annoyed at some social convention, ask yourself: “Where am I being rewarded for this? Is this actually silly, or is it a small tax I’ll be glad to pay in the long run?”

The purpose of inconvenience is to make large problems manageable. It doesn’t always hit its mark, but we should look for it before complaining.

I’m not a good cook. I don’t know how to ski. I’m bad at ironing, too, and I’ve never developed the patience to be any good at chess either. But you wouldn’t know any of these things if I hadn’t just told you about them. That’s something we tend to forget.

“Nobody cares what you’re not good at,” Derek Sivers says on Tim Ferriss’ podcast. “Publicly, you’re going to be just known for a few things that you’re good at. All those things that you’re not good at — nobody cares that you’re not good at them! So just let it go.”

With the caveats of our spouse, kids, and a few other people who see more of us more frequently than anyone else, nobody will ever know that we can’t parallel-park to save our life. By and large, your abominable mental math will stay a secret. So will your bad aim, your lack of graphic design skills, and your left-right disorientation — and even if anyone found out, they wouldn’t blink twice unless they’re directly affected.

There will only be a few times in your life when a bad trait threatens something important. During those times, you should absolutely raise all hell to fix what’s too expensive to leave unaddressed. On most days, however, the fear of being found out is unfounded. Most people are bad at most things, but since everyone focuses on everyone’s talents, that won’t stop the world from turning any time soon.

The first time I ordered three differently-sized baking dishes from a cheap retail store, I was shocked to see two of them broken on arrival. Instead of styrofoam or some other soft padding, they had only added some paper in the box, and with too much room to move about, two thirds of the good had not survived the rough trip on the delivery van.

When I reported the issue, the kind support staff immediately jumped into action. Two days later, the replacement dishes came. My girlfriend took the box off the courier’s hands, and within a second, it was clear: They had learned nothing from their mistake. Once again, no soft padding, just paper. Once again, two out of three dishes broken.

At this point, I told the support to not send any further ceramics, and to please revise how they were packaging them to begin with. Will they improve their shipping process going forward? Dubious, but hope dies last.

We often think we have to get it right the first time, but the truth is you can make a million mistakes and still find plenty of success. If all you do is never repeat the same error, you’ll come out ahead of most folks. It’s okay to learn expensive lessons — just don’t pay the same tuition fee twice if you can help it.

The other day, I accidentally cut myself while chopping tomatoes. It hadn’t happened in a long time, and the prime suspect was the different knife I was using. If you’re used to a five-inch blade and then start slicing with a seven-inch one, there’s more room for error.

“Argh. Dammit. That’s what happens when you use tools you’re not used to!” I said. But after I ran my finger under cold water for a bit and put on a band-aid, I resumed cutting and finished the job.

It’s easy to fall into the habit of avoiding a tool after it lets us down. But ultimately, it’s never the tool, is it? It’s us. The tool may be less than perfect, but we’re the ones who failed in using it correctly. A tool is just a tool, and being afraid of a knife won’t make you less likely to cut yourself. If anything, you’ll pressure yourself so much to be careful, you’ll slip up because you’re nervous.

Don’t be afraid of tools. Computers and scissors have no feelings about you — and if you want the two of you to work well together, you’ll do the same for them.

“Uh-oh.” After I had started my meditation timer, I realized sitting cross-legged wasn’t ideal. I had already spent a good amount of time in that position, and my legs and knees felt uncomfortable.

At first, I was tempted to change position. Sometimes, I do sit with my legs extended straight or put my hands on my hips instead of folding them in my lap. But then I realized: That’s also what meditation is about. It’s not just the relaxing kind of letting go that matters. Accepting pain is important too.

“Can you endure 15 minutes of sitting in a not-so-comfortable position? I think you can,” I told myself. And endure is what I did.

The world has become a place where, for every hint of suffering, a band-aid is easily available. But just because you patch it up immediately does not mean that, underneath the thin layer of protection, your wound isn’t still bleeding. You can distract yourself from your loneliness with Instagram, but that won’t make your loneliness go away.

Sitting in silence for 15 minutes, however, will show you that being lonely isn’t so bad. It’s survivable, just like accidentally cutting yourself while cooking, being single in your 30s, or making a big mistake at work.

Don’t run for the hills when you feel a pang of disappointment, back pain, or jealousy. Sit with it. In it. Turn 5 seconds of pain into 15 minutes of endurance, and the next time the world will try to shake you, you’ll remain firmly in your saddle, riding on through the desert as if the sand storm is nothing more than a breeze.

At the beginning of our latest mastermind meeting, a friend and I grilled our third member about his trip to Japan. He mentioned that while Tokyo was one of the cleanest places he’d ever visited, he found it annoying — and ironic — that there were almost no trash cans anywhere. We made a joke that perhaps in Tokyo, it is called “trash can’t,” and that’s why you end up lugging around your litter.

As part of the actual session, where we help each other solve problems in our businesses, one friend said he struggled to find the time to start his e-commerce podcast. I suggested he make the task seem less daunting. “Make it smaller. Easier. How can you do it in 15, 20, 30 minutes a day? That still adds up meaningfully over time.” Our recent Japan-returnee threw in a great question from Tim Ferriss: “What would this look like if it were easy?” As it turns out, it’s a question Ferriss originally applied to his podcast too, and shortly after the end of the session, our friend had a template he could use to get cracking.

That night, I returned home from work, and when I looked at the massive pile of cardboard waste in our living room, which my girlfriend and I had postponed cleaning up after assembling the bed that had emerged from it, lightning struck: “What would this look like if it were easy? Well, I’d just take it all to the trash room one piece at a time.” I carried away the first piece then, another the next morning, and when I again returned from work, I felt so motivated, I took care of all the rest. I guess it’s called trash “can” after all.

Ferriss’ focusing question is great for many reasons, and it often ends up giving you a familiar-feeling answer: If you can’t put in a big effort, put in a small one, and wait for it to add up — because it will, in the long run, always add up. Sometimes, the run isn’t all that long, and on day three, you’ll clean up an entire pile of trash. At other times, the run will take years until your podcast takes off. But it’s the fact that you keep running that matters.

Whether in Tokyo or in LA, don’t litter — and don’t let big piles of work keep you from carrying away small tasks.

“Should I shave this morning? Or tonight? What about tomorrow before the drive home? Will I work from home? What if not?” You’d be surprised how much time someone can waste in front of a mirror.

Actually, I think you know perfectly well. You do it too. Not about shaving, perhaps, but between the right level of makeup, how to do your hair, and whether to pop that pimple or not, there’s no shortage of topics for self-debate, is there?

With my inner argument still in full swing, a single image came to mind: Me, sitting in my chair at WeWork, scratching my beard and being annoyed, wishing I’d shaved it earlier. And just like that, a decision was made.

We don’t always get these glimpses into the future right when we need them, but we can always ask ourselves: “Has this task reached the appropriate level of urgency to just do it now?” Where is your tolerance for leaving the dishes, the skin treatment, or the report undone? Can you stretch it another day? Or have you had enough?

My beard was already itchy this morning. It would only have gotten worse from there. So despite already leaving the house late, I took an extra ten minutes, and now my skin is fresh and scratch-free.

You won’t always be able to knock yourself out of your own head back into reality, but maybe next time, you’ll remember this rule of thumb: Shave when itchy, clean when dirty, replace when smelly.

Your life force is too precious to waste on recurring minutia. Don’t let a scratchy beard keep you from pursuing your dreams.

When I moved to Munich for the first time in 2014, I had no internet for three months. As an intern, there to get to know the city, it was a good incentive to go out and explore, but it was also a major hassle. Back then, I had an iPhone 5S with 1 or 2 GB of data each month. The joys of browsing and relying on Google Maps always quickly came to an end, and then back to the coffee shop I had to go.

When I moved again within Munich ten years later, it was a different story. My internet setup appointment was delayed by 10 days, but it didn’t feel like I was missing anything. I brought my laptop, turned on the hotspot on my iPhone 11, and back to work I went as usual. My current plan has 10 GB of data, and for an extra 15 bucks, I can extend that with another 10 GB several times — and that’s in Germany, where data is expensive.

We always complain that everything becomes more expensive. Partially, price rises come from inflation, and that part really sucks — because we don’t gain anything from it. Our money loses its value because of other economic factors, and that’s a trend we must fight even though we didn’t cause it. But things also become more expensive because they get better, and that’s something we rarely acknowledge.

The car I learned to drive in had no GPS, no cruise control, very basic safety measures, and not even a beeper for when you park it. That was a BMW. Nowadays, every tiny Kia, Hyundai, and Fiat comes with these things and then some. Cars are probably 100x safer than they were 20 years ago on average, and that, too, is something we must pay for — and in this case, we should be glad we get to do it.

The first few times I moved after leaving the nest of home, the event put a grinding halt to all of my day-to-day activities. Now, I can plop down in an empty flat with no furniture, get a rental car on demand to move my stuff, order groceries to be delivered and stock the fridge, buy some pots and pans for next-day delivery, and then get back to work — which is exactly what I did. In theory, I could even have done all of this on my phone. It’s crazy how frictionless the process can be with modern tools.

The next time you’re annoyed the price went up, think about what it represents: Is it really just greed? Was it done out of necessity? Did the people making the thing have higher costs in making it? And, most importantly, has the thing become better since you last bought it? No one uses all the features on their phone, but everyone loves faster loading times, bigger batteries, and better cybersecurity.

Paying more isn’t optional, but benefiting more often is. Think before you complain, and remember: What you pay for is what you get — and what you get can be a good surprise as much as a bad one.

It was late. The post I was working on was massive. Eventually, it would add up to 10,000 words. I really wanted to finish it that day, but the finishing touches took longer than expected. I thought about calling it quits for the day, and with a big sigh, I slumped back in my chair and looked up.

Throughout the week, I had been watching The Last Dance, a docu-series retelling Michael Jordan and the Chicago Bulls’ rise to fame. I’v rarely seen TV this inspiring, and so between running my first 5k in three years, working a lot, and organizing everything for my upcoming move, the show had already given me plenty of fuel, but on that particular night, I was about to run out.

As I threw my head back, however, there it was: Staring back at me from the concrete, industrial-design ceiling of our co-working space, right above my seat, scribbled in pencil was the number 23. Guess who’s number that was? Who donned the 23 on his jersey through high and low, from seven years of slow NBA grind full of near-misses all the way to six championships and the legacy of being the greatest basketball player to ever set foot on the court? Michael Jordan.

Needless to say, I finished the post. Everything in life can be chalked up to coincidence, but sometimes, the universe hands you a gift too generous to not at least pretend the air of destiny surrounds it. Keep looking for those gifts. Never stop believing in make-believe, and hope will always be around the corner.