What happens when your best work is seen as a threat, not a strength? When you’re the only genuine thing in a world full of fakes? It’s a weird spot to be in, isn’t it? This is about knowing when to turn down the volume on your genius.
We’ve all been sold a story. A story of things we “need” and deals we “can’t miss.” But what if the best things in life—and in our homes—are the ones that find us, not the ones that scream for our attention? This is a rule that contradicts my entire profession, but hear me out.
A country recently eliminated access to social media, and the reaction was something else. It was like watching someone rip an oxygen mask off an entire generation. We don’t talk, we don’t argue, we don’t even communicate with each other anymore. We just… exchange photographs. And I’m starting to wonder if we even remember what came before.
Most of life is structured around escaping repetition—study so you don’t study again, slog so you don’t slog again. But what about the things you’d happily do over and over without anyone forcing you? The secret list of joys that don’t feel like chores. That’s the list worth building.
I’ve been attending these free AI webinars, the ones promising to make your life effortless. But I’m starting to see a pattern—a disturbing, almost scary one. It’s not about using tools to do more, but about using them to do less. To escape work altogether. And that’s a dangerous game to play.
We often feel our problems are unique, special little creations just for us. But what if they’re not? What if someone, somewhere, has already written the exact guide you need? It’s a bit like a pharmacy—a solution already exists, you just need to find the right bottle.
Frankness, the dictionary says, is a good thing. But step into a meeting room, or just a family WhatsApp group, and it feels like a superpower nobody asked for. It’s a world running on ‘la la land’ pleasantries, where calling a spade a spade is now an act of rebellion.
We spend so much of our lives trying to prove a point. To our old boss, to that one teacher, to our nosy neighbour. But what happens when the very thing that drives us is the ghost of a person who doesn’t even remember our name?
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.
