I’ve always found that question ridiculous: “What do you want to be when you grow up?” As if life hands you a single, permanent designation like a government ID card. We’re told to pick one road, but what if the destination keeps changing?

We spend years training our minds to save, to invest, to not touch the money. But what happens when that training works a little too well? Suddenly, every small joy—a dinner out, a random trip—feels like a betrayal of your own hard work. It’s a ridiculous problem, really, like having a full water tank and feeling guilty for taking a shower.

We’ve all been doing it since childhood. Sizing people up before they even speak. From a movie hero’s mom to a corporate CEO, our minds have a whole gallery of stock photos for how people are “supposed” to look.

We’ve all heard that when the disciple is ready, the master appears. But what happens when the master is a fruit juicer and the disciple is us, standing in someone else’s living room, inventing a desperate need for it? We’re all experts at convincing ourselves we need things we never even knew existed.

We’re all in a hurry, trying to outrun our own shadow. But the strange thing is, we’re not just using our own energy to run this race. We’re borrowing speed from the future, with a little help from the bank. And the interest rate on a rushed life? It’s always higher than you think.

Everybody wants to be perfect. They tell you to strive for it, to chase it. But what if perfection is a mental trap? What if the real secret to thriving, to actually getting stuff done, is learning the delicate, misunderstood art of mediocrity?

We’re all watching the news about AI like a Bollywood suspense thriller—robots, job losses, the end of humanity as we know it. But if you take a step back and squint a little, you’ll see it’s just history repeating itself. With better graphics.

It started with my kid. That infuriating, two-word grenade they lob at you when you’re trying to impart some hard-earned wisdom. But somewhere between yelling about dirty socks and messy rooms, I realized that simple question was a mirror. And what it showed me changed everything.

Remember that feeling? When the teacher asks a question and the whole class raises their hands, except you. It’s like a spotlight from hell. But what if the tables were turned? What if you were the only one who knew the answer, and your greatest challenge was to stay silent?

There’s a strange kind of thrill we get from doing something others can’t. A coveted concert ticket, a perfect gym selfie, or watching a reality show where someone gets eliminated. It’s not just about our own success—it’s about the silent pleasure of seeing someone else lose. What does this say about us?