When we got our hot beverages this morning, my girlfriend asked whether the tiny glass of water that came as a side was for drinking. “Haha! Of course!” I said. “What else could it be for?” “Well, when I went to Hong Kong, they gave a glass of water with each cup of tea. I downed the glass because I was so thirsty, and the waiter was horrified. He told me that water was only for rinsing the cup. So now, I thought I’d better ask!”

Perspective is everything, and perception — the tool we use to assemble our perspective — is colored by tradition. Present the exact same situation to two people separated by a few thousand miles, and you might get two very different interpretations.

To someone raised in Europe, a glass of water next to a hot drink will always mean, “Enjoy after consuming your beverage.” Fly 9,000 kilometers to the east, and almost everyone you meet will assume that very same water is good for little more than washing out their cup before they use it.

Everyone relies on tradition. We can’t not be shaped by our past and the pasts of those who surround us. Often, tradition is both wonderful and helpful — but sometimes, it gets in the way. Every now and then, look at the plate or person in front of you and ask: “Is this really the thing I think I am seeing? Or might I be looking at something different entirely?”

Sometimes, the water next to your cappuccino is for drinking, and sometimes, it’s only a means for cleaning your cup. You needn’t expect a new interpretation each time you’re served with a coffee, but imagining new meanings for known situations from time to time will keep your mind open for moments when a closed one won’t do.

I easily get annoyed when I don’t have enough white space on my calendar. Most of my projects that move needle require long blocks of deep work, and so it’s easy to feel that “if I can’t put in four hours, why even start?”

The same thing can happen on bigger time frames. I catch myself fretting about having two big vacations back-to-back. Part of that is just being self-employed, but another part is, I think, a bias many of us succumb to: We think we’ll have more time as time goes on.

Career-wise, we tend to expect that the further we get, the more time we’ll have to spend on work we enjoy. To some extent, that’s true. As you build up seniority, you gain autonomy. As your income increases, you don’t need to fret as much about every additional dollar. But especially when you’re still young, in your 20s or 30s, the buildup of these buffers is often offset by something else: Your personal life will only get busier, and that, too, takes time.

Let’s say that, at 35, you finally have your ducks in a row. You make enough, and you control your schedule and projects to a large extent. Yay! But then, over the next five years, you get married, buy a house, and have two children. Oops! So much for that big art exhibition you wanted to host just for the sake of it.

There are many versions of this fallacy. It doesn’t have to be your personal life that’s eating your work hours. It could be the other way around — something that’s occasionally happening to my dad in his 50s — or a medical issue sapping your energy altogether for months. The point is that we can’t neatly silo life into various categories, let alone protect those categories from affecting one another. The hours you’ve earned back at work might go straight into quality time with your partner, and your minor car crash might find its soft landing in your unexpectedly large year-end bonus. That’s life!

The lesson is that we shouldn’t expect our lives to magically get easier, and we shouldn’t wait for better times to do big, important things. Instead of hoping we’ll have more time, we must use the time we have.

Chances are, I won’t be able to make a big dent in a 10,000-word piece in just an hour. But I can make a small one, and that’s better than no progress at all. Equally, just because working hours are cut short by a vacation does not mean the whole month goes out the window. That only happens if we throw out our attitude first — but if we keep stacking little wins, we’ll likely still be proud at what we can do in any given 30-day period, no matter how torpedoed by outside forces it may have been.

Don’t wait for the perfect stretch of open road. Use today. Keep stacking little wins.

After four years of working like a madman to survive as a self-employed creative, it first dawned on me that, “Damn, this making money thing is actually really hard.”

For most of my life, I had been told that I was special, mostly for having an above-average IQ and getting good grades with little effort. Now that I had stepped into an arena I had no experience in, and where the audience didn’t care one bit about who you were, only what you could do for them, it was clear that I was not special, nor would my talent magically carry me to the heights I had once been so sure I would reach.

I always knew that success takes hard work and diligence, and I quickly adjusted to both of those after choosing my own career path, but what I didn’t know and wasn’t prepared for was the amount of sacrifice greatness demands. So. Much. Sacrifice. And I wasn’t even halfway where I hoped to go yet!

That lesson first registered with regards to making money, perhaps because that was the most immediate task on my plate. If you start from scratch, you can’t just make a million dollars in six months and go lie on the beach for the next five years. That’s not how it works. Four years in, I finally realized — and accepted — that at least a decade of hard work is in order, perhaps a lot more. I also realized that, for most people, myself included, the hard work wasn’t the problem. Many people work hard every day. That can be its own reward. On most days, I had fun doing, writing, learning, even if the hours were long. What makes people quit is the sacrifice. Not doing other things, that is what hurts. It’s also the only thing that works.

One of the very first things I did as a writer was to write a book. I took what should have been a series of blog posts and, within a week, turned it into a short book I published on Kindle. I could have stopped right there. I had everything I needed. A craft to master. A way to monetize it. And so much to learn about both. What did I do? I went on to the next thing. I started coaching. I tried making online courses. I launched a website. Instead of taking the pain of sticking to one thing and grinding it out until the exponential rewards kicked in, I kept shopping around for various ways of making money. I just couldn’t sacrifice all the opportunities in front of me, and that’s why, four years later, I still had mediocre results. That, too, caused pain. In hindsight, a kind that is worse.

Back then, I summarized that insight for myself: “If your sacrifice doesn’t hurt, it is not working.”

It’s easy to confuse hard work and sacrifice. We tell ourselves the long hours are the pound of flesh we bring to the table. But if we don’t have focus, if we’re unable to kill our FOMO, to make the true sacrifice of letting go of opportunities left, right, and center, those hours aren’t worth very much. They can’t add up because we’re all over the place. I used to think that hard work was enough, but it’s not. I wanted to try out all these different ways of making money, and so I allowed myself to get distracted. I forwent the sacrifice, and I paid the bill years later.

That’s the crux of the sacrificing matter: In a world full of choices, you can choose not to do it. Especially the emotional kind of sacrifice which, in most cases, is the one that truly counts. For most of us and the big dreams we have, physical sacrifice is the exception, not the norm. Here, too, of course, the same rules apply: Working out twice a week instead of four times is not a sacrifice. Not going to the gym at all and gaining weight or losing fitness because you’re working so much, that is a sacrifice. One is merely an inconvenience, the other actually hurts.

But the emotional sacrifice of not pursuing jobs, projects, or other people you could date? Phew. That is the big one. We love hoarding ideas, dabbling in projects, and keeping our feet in all kinds of doors just to make sure they don’t fall shut on us. We could just use salt and pepper for our eggs, but we prefer to throw in half the spice rack and call it haute cuisine. Variety may be the spice of life, but it is also the death of achievement.

It hurts to eliminate variety. To let go of past identities. Of ideas you could execute, places you could go, and versions of yourself you could become. Those are the true, painful sacrifices success actually demands. Those are the emotional burdens we must sit with if we want to be great husbands and wives, mothers and fathers, or brothers and sisters. The itches we mustn’t scratch if we want to get rich and retire young, become a pioneer in our field, or lead a company that changes the world.

No one will be there with us at our desk when we feel the pull of a new idea, the temptation of an enticing proposal in our inbox, or the lure of some other distraction about to torpedo our dreams. It is on us to make the hard choices, to let those emotions linger and pass without acting on them so we may stay en route to the destination that truly matters, and we’ll have to make those choices time and again before we arrive.

That’s the true nature of sacrifice. It goes well beyond hard work, and it only works when it hurts — but in the end, unlike the easy path, which is guaranteed to end in misery, it may, with a little luck along the way, be well worth the price.

Yesterday, I bought some milk so I could make cappuccino at home, which I hadn’t done in a while. This morning, during my meditation, I caught myself full of anticipation. I started debating in my head: “What kind of coffee do I want? Will I start with black, as usual? Or go straight to latte macchiato, perhaps even add some sugar?”

Naturally, that debate took away my focus from the present, and when I returned to it, I realized: “This is a future that’s only moments away, and yet here I am, obsessing over it.” The decision of what kind of coffee you’ll have is totally inconsequential, but it is still a bridge you should cross — like any other in life — when you come to it. No sooner, no later.

Ironically, sometimes, the closer the future gets, the more time we spend thinking about it. As if we could magnetically draw it towards us by sacrificing present moments. But that intersection we’re about to pass — the home we hope we’ll get to buy, the selection of a task from our to-do list, the choice of coffee at Starbucks — will offer whatever directions it offers by the time we reach it. No sooner, no later.

Even if the future is so close that, like a fine coffee placed on a counter near you, you can almost smell it, resist the temptation. Stay in the now. Take life one ticking second at a time, and trust that, whenever the future may finally arrive, you’ll always be ready.

For every single item of furniture we’ve assembled so far, we pulled at least one switcheroo. While putting together our bed, we slipped the topper into the pocket where the mattresses were supposed to go. The legs of the desk, we connected the wrong way around. And yesterday, I broke into a good sweat trying to figure out why the desk chair’s backrest wouldn’t fold into place. The answer? I had screwed on the armrests on the false sides of the chair.

The first time something like this happened, I let out a big sigh. “Ughhh. Now we have to do it all AGAIN.” With the chair, I still sighed, but I was more excited to be able to complete the task. “Finally! That’s how it works! Let’s finish this thing!”

Perhaps you’ll hold the golf club the wrong way during your first lesson. Maybe you’ll screw the doors onto the back side of your TV cabinet or start your flowchart from the end of the process instead of the beginning. So what? Just turn it around, put things in order, and keep going.

Most mistakes are reversible, and no one cares that you suck at assembling IKEA furniture. Don’t pity yourself for getting things wrong. Everyone does. Use the spark of insight as new momentum to push projects to completion, and don’t waste another second on an error that already lies in the past. By the time you sit in your chair, hand off your documentation, or hit 200-yard drives, you’ll barely remember that you once couldn’t tell left from right — and that’s exactly how life should be.

The rent for our new three-room flat in Munich is four times higher than the mortgage my dad paid for our two-story house with a garden that’s twice as large. The numbers are mind-boggling. I can’t even find an apartment quite as expensive in my hometown, and the only thing that comes close is a brand-new, five-room, multi-story, semi-detached house in a prime location. It’s nuts.

What’s also nuts, however, is that this morning, when I googled treatments for myofascial pain syndrome, a rather niche condition, not only did I get plenty of results, I even found a guy who will come to my house and treat me there. Back home, I’d be lucky to even discover a handful of therapists who know what MPS is. This difference, too, is included in my rent, even if it doesn’t show up on the bill.

Munich offers so many free vents, gatherings, and festivals, it’s hard to keep track of them, let alone attend them all. In the summer, you can go to any beer garden, bring your own food, and enjoy nature and companionship at the same time. You can float down a dedicated stretch in the Isar river and ride the tram back to your starting point for free. They even have an artificial wave spot for surfers. Within a stone’s throw of the Apple store, where you can go whenever you have any phone-related needs or issues, there are dozens of beautiful churches and historic buildings, and wherever you can’t walk within ten or 20 minutes, a bus, tram, subway, or commuter train will carry you. Upgrade to a rental car, which start from less than 100 € per day thanks to the heavy competition, and in less than an hour, you can go to any of a myriad of beautiful lakes and mountains, and hike, swim, or enjoy the scenery — also all for free.

Where I grew up, we’re used to needing a car just to get groceries. There are no on-demand rentals, of course, so you’ll have to lease your own. You’ll spend hundreds of euros on fuel every month — perhaps to go to your physiotherapist, who resides a 45-minute drive away — and even if you live dead in the city center, it’s not a place where much of anything happens. The lack of things you might enjoy, too, is included in the rent, even if it doesn’t show up on the bill.

I’m not arguing for living in big cities or swallowing exorbitant rent prices without blinking. I’m not even arguing for Munich (though I do love it very much). There’s a time to go big and central and a time to go small and rural, and each of them can make sense in different seasons, even for a lifetime. What I would like us to do is consider what’s not on the bill. We think we’re comparing apples to apples when we look at two three-room flats, but drop one into New York City, the other into Eureka Springs in Arkansas, and that comparison becomes apples-to-oranges very quickly.

Just like when the price goes up, things might improve, paying more for the same elsewhere can also come with hidden perks. Some of them you won’t discover until you try it; others you won’t miss until you’re back where you began. The best part of what feels like a bad deal at first might be something you’ll easily miss if you don’t blink twice. In rental contracts as in life, look for what’s not on the bill.

When you watch a rom-com from the 2000s, you know exactly what you’re getting: someone’s life being upended, upbeat rock music, and two people who are going to fall in love. In case of No Reservations, it’s a chef who finds herself in sudden custody of her now-orphaned niece, all while dealing with a new, sassy sous-chef in her kitchen.

What makes these movies fun to watch and re-watch, even 20 years later, is that they rely on an elegant simplicity modern movies often lack. Perhaps that’s why little Zoe carries the movie. “Is she dead?” “Go away!” “I’m afraid I will forget her.” Children don’t “put a paper in front of their mouth,” as we say in Germany, and in movies like No Reservations, the adults usually don’t either.

In a world where entertainment has become synonymous with five-season sagas and crossover movie lineups that span half a decade, it is refreshing to watch people go after exactly what they want for 90 minutes without hedging their bets.

We, too, possess the power of simplicity. Unfortunately, we are trained out of it as we grow up. “You can’t say that.” “That’s not how it works.” “You can’t just ask for a promotion.” The truth is you can challenge all of these assumptions on any day of the week, but if you’re too scared to lean back into “simple is powerful” — a default you, just like Zoe, once held close to your heart — you might forget that you can do so altogether.

It takes more than a cute cooking romance to consistently stand up for yourself, but every now and then, a little bit of “sweet and simple” can be part of just the right recipe along the way.

We talk about “going through the motions” as if it was a bad thing. We associate the idiom with routine, boredom, and stagnation. Actually, there’s a very good reason to go through the motions: It shows you what the motions are supposed to look and feel like.

You can’t judge someone’s tennis swing if you’ve never held a bat, and you won’t know what you’re looking for in a fully equipped flat if you’ve never furnished one yourself. The motions provide us with skill, knowledge, and appreciation, and chances are we’ll have to repeat them more than once in order to find any one, let alone all three, of those things.

Don’t lament repetition. See it for the training it is, and enjoy new sets of problems once you get to level up.

By the time John Wick returns to the screen for eponymous movie number four, his clock is ticking down fast. The action centered around the former hitman trying to escape his past employers all happens within a few short days despite spanning multiple films, and the bounty on his head keeps increasing.

The higher the number on John the walking lottery ticket, the fewer friends he seems to have. In a brief moment of refuge at the Osaka Continental, the “assassin’s hotel chain of choice,” John apologizes to his friend Koji for the hell that’s about to be unleashed on his establishment. Against everyone’s advice, however, including his daughter’s, Koji chose to provide John with shelter, and so all he does is remind his old companion: “Friendship means little when it’s convenient.”

It’s easy to go out when the weather is sunny, and it’s a no-brainer to say yes to a free dinner invitation. But what if it’s raining and your friend asks you to help them move? Can your bond withstand some stress-testing? Or are you a fair weather collaborator? Would you still open your fridge for them if there was a $40 million price tag on your friend’s head? Or whet your knives behind the front door?

Few in our lives will ever deserve loyalty to the end, but the ones who do should be able to call upon it no matter the circumstances. Choose your allies wisely, and remember that when friendship is easiest to abandon is when it counts the most.

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.