Just Get It Out

Your honest opinion in clear words is worth more than a well-presented half-truth. What applies to business — just give me the gist of it rather than a million fancy slides — also holds up in relationships: If you tell me what’s up so we can talk about it, I don’t care much how you initiate the conversation.

Nowadays, our conversations with loved ones are endless. They’re a constant stream of communication, happening across media, formats, and time zones. Who cares exactly how and where you drop an important issue into this infinite river of texts, GIFs, and FaceTime calls? The sooner we address it, the better!

In fact, especially in love, sometimes, asynchronous conversation actually helps. You can’t think straight when you’re both huddled up on the couch, be it swooning or crying. Writing forces you to structure your thoughts, and the more critical a problem, the more you might want to do it.

Most of all, however, our multi-media conversation landscape provides you the chance to cough up your fur balls sooner. Whatever the challenge at hand, don’t let it fester in your mind. Pull it out into the light so you may approach it with whatever help you might need. Even if the string you’re using to yank it from its dark hole is made of voice messages, no one will turn it into a noose. We’ll be too busy working with you towards better.

Don’t be afraid of sharing. It matters not how you do it but that you do it. Don’t choose tomorrow when you can choose today. Speak up.

What You Have Given Will Stay With Us

Some of our goodbyes, we must say too soon. If only Avicii had stayed a little longer. If only we didn’t lose parents to covid, partners to divorce, and friends to cancer.

Even the farewells that are less final can be painful. It’s sad to hug your roommate for the last time, leave your younger siblings behind, or grab bon voyage–drinks with a team you loved to work with.

One reason I love anime and kids’ TV is that they often show us more mature ways of handling the challenges of adulthood than “proper” series and movies. In the very last episode of Yu-Gi-Oh!, the ghost of the ancient pharaoh that used to share one body with protagonist Yugi for so long also says his final goodbye.

Everyone is sad to see their companion leave, but Yugi’s (sometimes overly) enthusiastic friend Joey captures the gist of the situation in a nutshell: “You can never really leave us. What you have given will always stay with us.”

I like Macklemore’s idea that we “die twice” — “once when they bury you in the grave, and the second time is the last time that somebody mentions your name” — but what I like even better is the idea that we don’t die at all. The effects we had on others will create ripple upon ripple, forever meandering through time and through the people we touched — and the people they touched, and so on.

I’m sorry that your childhood friends didn’t all stay friends. I’m sorry you had to go through this breakup. But as for everyone, as for you: Whenever the time to go may come, what you have given us will stay with us — and that’s something not even the loudest-slamming door can change.

New Is Just Different

Whenever Barney Stinson says, “I only have one rule,” you know what’s about to follow is most likely crap, not least because he has a million of such “only one” rules. Case in point: “New is always better.”

When his best friend Ted struggles with the decision to tear down a beautiful but run-down hotel in order to erect his first-ever skyscraper, Barney offers this “one rule” as advice. “New is always better, Ted! That’s a rule. Just like bigger is always better!”

Barney being Barney, he of course uses girls as an example. Who’s more attractive than the hottest girl he’s ever slept with? “Her okay-looking friend I haven’t seen naked.” When it comes to sex, the mysterious attraction of novelty can be especially dangerous, and as many a post-cheating divorcee will tell you: New is not always better.

The more Barney claims his ridiculous rule applies to everything, the easier it becomes for Ted to dispel it: What about the new Star Wars movies? What about the new Guns N’ Roses? Would Barney rather have a glass of 30-year-old Glen McKenna or of Jumbo Jim’s Grape Scotch? Regardless of how much he suffers under its law, however, Barney sticks to his rule.

The closer they get to the scheduled demolition of the old building, the more Ted freaks out, and Barney keeps trying to console him with his rule. What if Ted makes all the wrong decisions, and his building will suck as a result? “Not possible,” Barney says. “Your building is new, and I have one rule: New is always better.”

When Ted finally confronts him about his lack of consistency in his “one rules,” Barney seemingly slips up: “Ah, but ‘new is always better’ is my oldest rule, which makes it the best.” Instead of contradicting himself, however, Barney is merely letting on what was his plan all along: To help Ted make a change in his career.

For as much as he is indeed addicted to novelty, particularly in the bedroom, the point of Barney constantly touting this rule was never to imbue his friend with a new life philosophy; it was to get him over the scary threshold of “different.” Most of the time, that’s all “new” is. Different. Not better, not worse, just different. And yet, despite knowing this, we often poop our pants over how exactly things will change. Realizing his friend is paralyzed by fear, Barney wants to make the future look exciting to him. Hence, “new is always better.”

Before he finally presses the button to blow up the old and usher in the new, Ted double-checks one final time: “New is always better, right Barney?” “Always,” Barney confirms, and the bricks fly through the air.

Change is only scary when we desperately wish for the chips to fall in a certain way. You’ll never know exactly where the rubble lands, but if you don’t tear down the old, there won’t be any space for something new, let alone something different or even, dare I say it, better.

Don’t worry so much about how exactly “different” will look. Trust in the potential of new, even if you can’t see it. And if it actually ends up sucking, most of the time, you can go right back to how things were. That’s the other thing about change: It is seldom irreversible — and as long as we have good friends to cheer us on and share it with, it won’t matter if we land right back where we began.

Accepting the Void

The hardest thing in life is learning to accept the void.

The void is the realization that life has no final destination. There is no last stop, no “done,” no happily-ever-after. This will never change. Life will always go on. It went on long before you were here, and it will go on long after you’re gone. That is the void.

The void is not negative, but it is empty. It is a blank canvas of potential, but only you can choose to fill it with something meaningful. You won’t always have the strength to choose the meaningful over the trivial, but even once you’ve learned to reject the wrong colors outright, on some days, the canvas will still stay empty — and that too is something we must learn to accept. Let me explain.

Initially, most of us try to fill the void by stuffing it. We chase money, sex, food, drugs, travel, friends, or other thrilling, “I am alive” experiences, and we try to maximize our freedom to keep chasing whatever blend of “more” we have chosen. But that’s all there ever will be — more — and it will all go into the void. The void will endlessly suck up whatever we acquire in the video game of life, be it status, power, or the material possessions and access to other humans that come with it.

Some people never begin to try filling the void (and that’s actually a smart thing to do), but most of us eventually sense its disquieting presence, even if only subconsciously. Once we’ve begun seeing the void as an enemy and are trying to fight it or at least stave it off, it is hard to stop. Therefore, many get stuck at the “shoveling more coal into the fire in hopes of extinguishing it” stage, a strategy which, by definition, won’t work. That’s why you see old, already-rich people argue over an extra $10,000 from an inheritance they probably won’t get to spend, why people get married for the 6th time, usually someone a quarter their age, and why people struggle to maintain a better diet even after already being diagnosed with diabetes. The void is too terrifying, and even though it’s not working, it feels better to keep trying “more” than to just accept its presence.

Ironically, the people hopelessly lost in the vortex of “more” often look down on those refusing to play. I used to think that the people who stayed in my hometown, got normal jobs, bought a house, had kids early, and did nothing out of the ordinary must be bored out of their mind, but actually, I think many of those folks are very happy. They just live life. They play the game as it is to be played, blissfully unaware of the void, yet somehow naturally showing the appropriate response in their complete disregard.

If you are unlucky enough to get sucked into the infinite Chutes and Ladders game of more but lucky enough to eventually realize that more is not the answer, you will enter a long staring contest with the void. You might feel sad or even get depressed. A bout of nihilism is common. “What’s the point if there’s no point?” you might ask, and rightfully so. Somehow, you’ll need to get your telekinesis working so that your stare may swing the pendulum back to the more hopeful side of the void: potential.

Once you do start to accept life’s cold indifference as a starting point rather than a chamber at the morgue, you begin to see what’s good about the void. If nothing matters all that much, you may as well pursue the goals and dreams you really want. You can focus on making yourself useful right here and now, to the people you love but also to people in general, and you don’t need to do any more than that to have a good day.

You’ll also no longer need any of the crutches you used to rely on for so long. Money stops being useful after you have enough, and enough won’t be all that much. Sex no longer functions like valium. You can focus on the connection aspect of it instead of treating it like an anxiety pill. Food is nice but not necessary in huge quantities. Neither are travel, using the VIP entrance at the club, or jumping out of an airplane with a parachute on your back. You won’t drop all of your vices immediately, but slowly, over time, they’ll peel away, and what’s left is the real you…and the void.

By now you’ll know the void need not be depressing, but even its liberty is something we must learn to accept. For me, writing books is probably as close as I can get to my true calling, but I might never get around to publishing all the books I want to write, let alone publish all my current ideas at once. On some days, I make no progress at all. On others, I get dangerously close to throwing myself down the rabbit hole of a massive, “make more money faster” distraction. Those days don’t always feel a lot easier just because I know the void is nothing to be feared. Most of the time, it is keeping me good company, but its vastness can still feel daunting.

There is incredible peace in accepting that you don’t need to change the world, that it’s okay if some or maybe even your best work will remain unfinished, that you can just live day by day, focus on the present, and not worry about…anything, really. But the void will still always be there, and sometimes, it will send your mind in circles. That too is nothing to be feared.

When the world feels either too big or too small, try taking a break, primarily from thinking. Leave your house. Buy a donut. Go for a walk with the void. By the time you return, you’ll have remembered what matters. You’ll write one sentence, prep one meal, call one friend — and tomorrow, the sun will rise again.

The Slump

It’s normal to feel empty upon completion of a big project. You’ve just given everything you’ve got, so naturally, you’ve got nothing left. You need to refuel! Take a breath. Take a day. Take a week, even. The Force will return.

When we feel our body slumping, collapsing in on itself, our natural tendency is to push against gravity, to try and erect ourselves under great strain. Sometimes, that’s the right answer. Often, however, it is much easier to just go with the momentum. Lay out some pillows, then let yourself fall.

If the body wants rest, why not just lie down? Go horizontal for a bit. Stretch. Take a nap. Eat some tacos. Watch a movie at 9 AM. Soon, the slump will morph into a sprinter’s starting position.

They say the best thing you can do after finishing a book is to write the next one. That’s true, but nowhere does it say that the epilogue of one piece must also be the introduction of its sequel. You’re allowed to add as much white space as you need for the story to make sense. You’re allowed to breathe.

The next time you feel the slump encroaching, invite it right in. Let it have its 15 minutes of fame, and it’ll better prepare you for the next leg of the journey than forced persistence ever could.

We See What We Want to See

I once sent out a newsletter sharing several stories about oppression, minorities, and individuals overcoming extremely unfavorable odds. A man named Bob replied and said: “What a depressing email! Nothing but past wrongs with nothing highlighting hope for the future of mankind.”

One of the stories was Trevor Noah’s biography, Born a Crime, an aptly titled book since, as the son of an interracial couple under the South African apartheid regime, Noah was an “illegal” child and went through a lot of trouble to not be snatched away by the authorities. Today, Noah hosts The Daily Show, a staple of American night-time TV, and is beloved by millions. If that’s not hopeful, I don’t know what is.

In a similar vein, the other stories pointed out how old problems like slavery and racism still cast long shadows today, and what we can and must do to eliminate those shadows once and for all.

Now I don’t know if Bob actually read those stories or only glanced at the email, but it appears that when we looked at those stories, Bob and I saw very different things.

I’m always excited and hopeful when I send out a newsletter — after all, I believe and hope it will do something good — and so I guess no matter what’s in the email, I assume it to be a positive thing. Maybe Bob had a bad day. Maybe he’s been sad for a while. Maybe he felt offended by some of the ideas in those stories because he happened to be on the lucky side of history. Regardless of the reason, however, like me, Bob only saw what he wanted to see. Something to feed his misery rather than overcome it.

It is important to note here that Bob and I — and you — are equally biased. The questions are whether we’re aware of it, what filter we use, and whether we’re courageous enough to swap those filters when another would do better.

When I send a newsletter to thousands of people, I don’t want to put on my misery-glasses. That’s not part of the values and ideas I want to spread. If Bob hoped for me to change my choice of stories, the misery-filter was probably not a bad one to pick! It is the opposite of the one I want to use, and by saying, “look, this is all some downer stuff,” he surely got me thinking. Maybe that week’s mix was too one-sided. But if Bob didn’t have a specific goal with his email, if it was just “a shot from the hip,” as we say in Germany, then that filter didn’t exactly serve a purpose.

When you see only drama and pain, ask yourself why. When you think everything is perfect right before it falls apart, ask yourself why. We see what we want to see, but we can learn to filter reality better by deliberately choosing what we want.

The Price of Easy Change

If you want a change to come effortlessly, you’re gonna have to pay a heavy price: First, you must become someone you can no longer stand looking at in the mirror.

Like many superstar DJs, Laidback Luke heavily relied on alcohol to function, both in and outside the booth. During a barbecue with his family, he eventually shouted at, then threw his two-year-old son on the floor. That was the moment he knew he had to quit.

Things worked out for Luke’s mental and physical health, and his relationship with his son turned out okay, but the memory and regret will always stay with him — and he’s one of the lucky ones.

How far will you let habits go before you overturn their momentum? Sure, quitting cold turkey gets easy when you feel you’ve become a monster, but what will that monster do before you can incinerate it into dust with your newfound light? Not everyone walks away with a scratch. Some damages can never be undone.

Don’t wait for the change to feel easy. Chances are, the price will be too steep. Take the hard but high road. Start now. You might have to fight for your new direction, but at least you won’t drag the people you love down into your eventual abyss.

Your Taste Is Up to You

Today, I had my first coffee in two months. A quiet Saturday seemed like a good time to dip my toe back into the water, and the excellent coffee in the café across the street provided the perfect opportunity.

Besides being shellshocked from the once again increased price tag of £3.50, however, I have to say: Even this arguably great cappuccino tasted better in my head. It’s funny what a few weeks of different behavior can do. You think you cultivate habits that will serve your desires, but actually, that’s a two-way street — your desires will also follow your habits.

I find it impossible to determine which side of this equation is stronger, but I’m pretty sure either one can dominate our lives if we let it. Imagine someone steered entirely by impulse, someone who behaves only in whatever way will serve their next-immediate want or need. This is how addicts tend to alienate those around them. If someone were to use habit design to eliminate most of their desires, however, we would call that person a monk.

This isn’t to say that desire is invariably bad and habit design invariably good. There’s a time and place for both. It has, however, tremendous implications about what you might think are “your natural tastes.” As it turns out, most of those tastes are learned in ways quite similar to how you learned to ride a bike, behave at the dinner table, or do long division.

If you are exposed to a certain situation long enough (or often enough), you will find an efficient, repeatable pattern that allows you to navigate it. You will learn to move your feet along with the pedals, to use the fork with your left hand, and to carry over the remainder.

Similarly, if you were forced to listen to house music for 24 hours straight, eventually, you’d find something good about it — if only so your brain could protect itself from going insane. The same is true for any food, drink, art, or other subject in which you can have “taste.” If you tried hard enough, you could acquire — or drop — any taste you choose.

You can learn to love steamed broccoli without any sauce or seasoning. You can learn to dislike alcohol, cigarettes, or coffee. You can even learn to love a job you used to hate.

It won’t always work easily and almost never immediately, but if you find your preferences no longer serve you, remember: Your tastes are up to you. You can only choose them slowly, but that’s all the more reason to choose them wisely. Enjoy your dinner — and try not to overpay for a beverage you don’t need.

If You Can’t Do It Fast, Do Only a Fraction of It

While you can indeed go sledding to gather the momentum you need to tackle your taxes, you can also vow to write ten invoices, then call it a day. Chances are, you’ll write eleven, 20, or even 50 of them once you’re in the zone. The important part is to not pressure yourself to get into the zone in the first place. If it happens, that’s awesome, and if it doesn’t, you’ll step back into the batting cage tomorrow.

The strategy behind “one puzzle piece a day” is twofold: First, you’ll indeed move the mountain by carrying away small stones, and if you make enough trips, you’ll completely transplant Mount Everest. Second — and this is the dynamic you’re betting on most of the time, especially when your screenplay comes with a deadline — each at-bat provides another chance at finding the wind that’ll carry you downhill. On some days, you’ll do two times, five times, ten times more than you had committed to, and it is on those days that the puzzle truly comes together.

If you can’t do it fast, do only a fraction of it. Then, do it again. And again. And again. Set the bar so low you’ll clap even if you fall over it, and eventually, you’ll stumble your way to success — which is a perfectly fine way to arrive.

If You Can’t Do It Fast, Do Something Else

This is not a universal rule by any means, but it is one that can help tremendously when we feel overwhelmed by the daunting nature of our goal. Sometimes, we just need some momentum, and it usually doesn’t matter where we find it.

You don’t need to get the inspiration to sit down and work on your book from sitting down and working on your book. While this is the kind of paradox that works — you will likely feel inspired once you get going — it is often impossible for us to muster the courage to dive in. A paradox has no beginning and no end. It is just one blurry, murky truism, and so we can’t pick it up carefully on either side. We either jump or we don’t, and when liftoff is the problem, sometimes, “Just Do It” simply won’t do the job.

If “writing a book” is the very thing that makes writing your book seem impossible, you should probably do something else — if only until “writing a book” changes its color to something more enticing. Inspiration is inspiration, and if it gets you to crank out a few sentences late at night, a round of tennis will count just as much as cleaning the kitchen, sorting your bills, or calling a friend.

Big goals are always a marathon, not a sprint, but for humans, quick wins are the power-ups that keep refueling our tanks. Don’t be afraid to use a clean slate to release some dopamine into your system, for once it’s there, it may just give you the speed you need to knock over a big domino.

If you can’t do it fast, go do something else. Just don’t forget to come back later and return to the slow grind of monumental progress.