There is a scene near the end of Pirates of the Caribbean: Dead Man’s Chest that I will never forget.

The kraken has come for Captain Jack Sparrow. The Black Pearl is going down. His crew has rowed away in the longboat. Jack has finally worked himself free of the mast he was chained to, and for a moment it looks like he might escape.

Then comes the realisation that there’s no escaping this time.

He straightens his coat and puts on his pirate cap. He looks into the open jaws of the monster rising out of the sea. He draws his sword, says “Hello beastie,” and charges straight into its jaws.

I have thought about that scene often. It is not a heroic finale but more like an instruction for me when my time comes to face my kraken.

The hand that says do not fear

There is a hand gesture that appears across the world’s religions. Right hand raised, palm out, fingers up. In Sanskrit, it is the abhaya mudra. “A”, meaning not. “Bhaya”, meaning fear. It means “do not fear.”

You find it in serene Buddha statues. The Bodhisattva. But you also find it on the wrathful deities of Tibet, figures wreathed in flame, hung with skulls, baring fangs; everything about them was built to terrify. And there, in the middle of all that horror, the same calm hand.

Do not fear.

Why would you visualise a god to look like your worst nightmare and then have it tell you not to be afraid? What did the people who made these understand?

What we are afraid of

If you have read Joseph Campbell’s The Hero with a Thousand Faces, you will see the same idea everywhere. The hero leaves home, crosses the threshold into the darkness, and, before he can return changed, something in him must die.

Hercules goes down into the underworld for his final labour. Odysseus sails to the land of the dead to consult the prophet Tiresias before he can find his way home. Jesus is crucified before he rises. Arjuna, on the battlefield in the Bhagavad Gita, watches his whole sense of who he is collapse, and Krishna has to walk him through to the other side. And the Buddha sits under the bodhi tree, set upon by Mara, the lord of death and desire, wearing every terrifying face of fear.

It is not the body that has to go. It is the self. The old “I,” with all its certainty about who it is, has to die. Campbell called it the hero’s death. Later writers called it “Ego death.”

That is the thing we are afraid of. Not the ending of the body, but the ending of the self. The name, the story, the accumulated sense of being someone. The identity. We say we fear death, but what we cannot bear is the idea of becoming nobody. Nothing. When there is no more “me” to notice that there is no more me.

Contemplate that thought and watch what happens. You will see the terror, the face of Mara, the jaws of the kraken. The mind will not entertain it for long. It reaches for a distraction, for a belief in the afterlife, for faith, God, anything.

That is the fear.

What do the old teachings do with it?

If I return to the image of the wrathful deity, the one made of fire and skulls, but with a single calm hand raised. I think I understand.

This gesture appears at the threshold. At the moment when we are faced with our own mortality. It is not a promise that nothing bad will happen, but that something is about to happen, right before your eyes. The raised hand does not describe the outcome. It is not a consolation. It is a posture. An instruction.

You find the same hand on Shiva, dancing inside a ring of cosmic fire. You find it in the angel at the empty tomb, the one whose face was like lightning, who dropped armed soldiers to the ground in terror, and whose first words to the women were “Do not be afraid.” The messengers of God in scripture were rarely the soft figures of Renaissance paintings. They were so frightening that the reassurance had to come first. Different gods, different centuries, the same instruction at the same moment.

The Tibetan Book of the Dead extensively discusses this. The book was meant to be read aloud to the dying, guiding them through everything they would see as the self came apart. Its instruction, repeated at every stage, was always the same. Do not be afraid. These terrifying things are your own mind. Run from them, and you are lost. Turn and look at them, and you are free.

In Dante’s Inferno, the only way out of hell is to climb down the body of Satan himself, frozen in the ice at the centre of the world. There is no door. No path around. You go over the thing you came all that way dreading. And at the exact centre, clinging to Lucifer’s spine, something changes. Down becomes up. The descent becomes the climb that carries you out, until you come through to the other side and see the stars again.

The way through is the way out.

That is why the god wears the frightening face. The thing you are most afraid of and the thing telling you not to fear are one and the same.

A Good Death

I am sixty now. The crossing that was always in the future is beginning to take concrete shape, and the threshold is closer with each passing day. I have since stopped treating these old teachings as mere superstitions.

Jack Sparrow appeals to me because I think that is what a good death should look like.

I do not want to be absent when it comes. I do not want to be so numbed, so sedated, so turned away that when the most important moment of my life happens, I am not there for it. If I can choose, I will meet the angel of death the way Jack meets the kraken. Awake. Eyes open. Sword drawn. Feeling all the fear and the pain and whatever suffering that comes with it, all the way down, right to the last moment before the self dissolves into nothing forever.

Alan Watts said that faith is not clinging but letting go. By holding his breath, a man loses it. By letting go, he finds it. I think that is right, and I think it is the hardest thing to do. To open the hand and let go.

This is not some technique or exercise that I can give, no breathing pattern, no 5-4-5 steps to acceptance. It is a tempering of the mind, slowly, over whatever years remain. You practise letting go of smaller things so that final letting go, when it comes, is not entirely foreign to you. You turn and look at the monster now, every day, so that you are not meeting it for the first time, on the last day.

A good death, for me, is not a painless, peaceful one. It is a conscious one. Present to the end.

“Hello, Beastie.”

In the final scene of Dead Man’s Chest, Jack does not defeat the kraken. He does not survive it. What he does is refuse to be taken from behind, refuse to spend his last moment looking the other way. He turns and meets it. With a grin.

That is the whole of it. The raised hand, in its gentle forms and terrible ones, was never promising us we would survive. That there is an afterlife. An everlasting life. To cling to that is to miss the point. It was showing us the only posture worth holding when we cross the threshold.

Do not fear.

Not because there is nothing to fear. But because the fear is the kraken, and the only way through it is to face it, sword drawn, and charge straight into its jaws.

I could tell he was slightly annoyed that I insisted on arriving at the airport two hours early, which was my default, no matter the flight. Blame my “kiasu” side, the fear of losing out. 

So there we were, killing time in one of the world’s fanciest airports, sipping overpriced Pret a Manger lattes and scrolling mindlessly through our phones between gate announcements.

This stretch of stillness marked the beginning of our 30-day adventure in China with my son. His gap year gave him the time, and my wife had the brilliant idea to travel during the off-season. Fewer crowds, lower prices, better weather… and maybe a chance for us to connect as adults. 

Let’s see how it goes.

Visiting our history

This trip is about more than sightseeing and fantastic food (though there will be plenty of that). We’re visiting our ancestral village, a place I only visited six months ago. It carries our family’s story.

My father left China around 1930 when he was just two years old. He never went back, and he never kept in touch with any relatives, if we had any left. Those were turbulent times: civil wars, then the Japanese occupation. His parents (my grandparents) probably thought their boat ride to Singapore was a temporary move. Tragically, they both passed away shortly before the end of World War II when my father was 8.

I don’t know if any relatives are still in China today. All I have is the name of the village we came from. And while I don’t expect a dramatic family reunion, I hope to pass on what little I know to my son. Maybe someday, one of my descendants will pick up where I leave off and start piecing things together again.

But beyond ancestry, this trip is about us two getting to know each other. More specifically, it’s about me getting to know him as a young adult, not just as the child I raised. For most of his life, I’ve only known him through the lens of a father. Now, I want to see who he’s becoming, and maybe even learn from him.

A shared adventure

We’re taking our time. No rushing. Just moving through places with history, meaning, and layers of stories waiting to be uncovered.

Hong Kong

We started in Hong Kong, where he wants to begin. Honestly, it’s a good place for all of us to start. For centuries, Hong Kong has been China’s gateway to the world. Seized by the British after the First Opium War in 1842, it became a symbol of foreign dominance during what the Chinese call the “Century of Humiliation.” Hong Kong remains a powerful reminder to many Chinese: others will take advantage if you’re weak. It always has been that way. It still is. And perhaps, always will be.

Guangzhou

From there, we head inland to Guangzhou, one of China’s most dynamic modern cities and one of its oldest. The area has been inhabited for thousands of years. As an administrative centre, it dates back to 221 BC, when Emperor Qin Shi Huang unified China and established a military outpost called Panyu, the early predecessor of today’s Guangzhou. Over the next two millennia, it grew into a thriving port city and has long served as the heart of Guangdong Province, which was officially established much later, during the Yuan Dynasty, around the 13th century.

Jieyang

Then, we went to our ancestral home in Jieyang, Mashuo Village. This is a small farming community of about 1,000 families, most of whom share our family name, Chen (陈). It’s agricultural, modest, and generations deep. Though I don’t know exactly how far back our roots go, villages like Mashuo have often existed for hundreds, if not thousands, of years.

Chaozhou

We continued to Chaozhou, the cultural heart of our Teochew region. Chaozhou has long been known for its traditions. Its cuisine, opera, and tea culture are deeply rooted in history. The city dates back over 1,600 years and was once a major centre of learning and commerce in southern China.

Nanjing, Fujian

We’ll break the journey with a few days in Nanjing, Fujian Province, home to the famous tulou, massive, circular Hakka earthen buildings that have stood for centuries. Some of these structures are over 600 years old, built to protect entire clans within their thick walls. I wanted to show him life in rural China, not just today, but for thousands of years.

Xiamen

We’ll end in Xiamen, a coastal city with a relaxed vibe and a complex past. Once a treaty port after the Opium Wars, Xiamen became a melting pot of Chinese, European, and Southeast Asian influences. Its colonial architecture, island getaways, and vibrant food scene make it the perfect place to recap everything we’ve seen and experienced.

That was fun!

I don’t think he’ll read this right away, if ever. He’s not much of a reader, and he’s not on Facebook. But that’s okay. This is as much for me as it is for him.

I’m writing this because I want to remember. I will be 60 soon. I want to capture the moments and memories for him and me. And maybe, one day, he’ll come across these words and smile at the memory of where we went, what we saw, and who we were when we took this journey together.

More than anything, I hope this trip becomes part of his story, the kind of story he tells his friends or someday shares with his own children or even grandchildren. Not just the sights and sounds, but the conversations over street food, the quiet moments between train rides, the laughter, the frustrations, the surprises.

This isn’t just about China. It’s about connection. To place, to history, to each other.

Thirty days, father and son, and a country full of stories and histories waiting to be discovered.

What an adventure!

I came across a line from Richie in The Bear recently. He said, quite as-a-matter-of-factly just before attending a wedding with Syd:

Everything in life is just for a while.

We all know it. This idea is not new, of course. Every tradition that has thought seriously about the human condition has arrived at some version of it. The Japanese call the bittersweet awareness of passing things mono no aware (物の哀れ), “the bittersweet beauty of passing time.” The feeling you get when something beautiful is also passing away, like cherry blossoms, the end of autumn, or a beautiful sunset.

I often think of life as standing in a queue. It’s moving almost agonisingly slow at the beginning but unbelievably fast towards the end. Over the years, I’ve watched older relatives leave the queue. Friends. Those people are getting closer and closer to my own age.

It feels strange when you start to notice it. It wasn’t dramatic. There was no panic. No single moment of revelation. It’s just like standing in line and noticing that the crowd ahead of you is thinning. The line keeps moving. The end, wherever that is, edges a little closer every day, every single moment.

I’m moving into my sixties soon. This awareness feels more real with each passing moment.

We start keeping our heads and eyes down at around the time when we’re 20.

We call it staying focused. We keep ourselves busy. Our career demanded it. The family depended on it. Decades of discipline built everything around us and gave us what we have. And these habits have a way of growing into us. Nothing wrong with that.

But underneath the busyness, we begin to forget. We want to stay productive and keep our calendar full. We forget that we are in a queue that moves relentlessly forward. Our busyness (or strangely “busi-ness”) becomes a quiet defence against the awareness of our time passing.

And busyness isn’t the only distraction. We also distract ourselves by looking back, replaying better times or reliving old mistakes. Clinging. Regretting. If only I had not said those words. If only I had been more patient. Spent more time. Travelled more. Loved more. Forgive more.

Or we look ahead. Dreaming. Setting goals. Worrying. Planning. Strategising. Worrying. Plotting. When I have this, I will be happy. When the kids have grown up, I will relax. When I have made my millions, I will retire. And enjoy.

These have stolen more living than almost anything else I know. Everywhere but here. Any time but now.

Meanwhile, the queue keeps moving.

The Japanese have a concept called ichigo ichie (一期一会), or “one lifetime, one meeting.” The idea that every encounter, every ordinary afternoon, is singular and will not recur in exactly this form. The traditional tea ceremony is built around this awareness. You’re present with the unrepeatable fact of this tea, this light, these people. The ceremony ends. That’s the whole point of it.

In Parts Unknown (Full Episode - S8 E3), when Anthony Bourdain was looking for the best sushi in the world with Chef Masa Takayama, there was a scene where Takayama explained what I thought was ichigo ichie:

Two great chefs experiencing ichigo ichie during an omakase at Tokyo’s acclaimed Sushi Ko.

Most people live their whole lives getting ready, rehearsing for the real thing. They forget that the rehearsal IS the real thing. It is the only thing.

Cherry blossoms. The Japanese love them with an intensity that I find hard to understand. A week of beautiful blooms, then gone. It passes so quickly that it is painful; you cannot hold it. Or grasp the moment in your hand. Even a video cannot capture its essence.

The brevity of its beauty is the beauty. You cannot separate the bloom from the fall. Life with all its imperfections, its losses, its ordinary, unremarkable days, is the same thing. The ending isn’t what ruins it. The ending is what makes it real and beautiful.

Accepting this is not the same as resigning to it.

Resignation implies hopelessness. Pointlessness. Despair. Everything ends, so what’s the point anyway?

But acceptance, the kind that Zen masters teach, says: everything ends, so this moment is precious. Irreplaceable. Smell it. Taste it. Feel. And live it to the fullest.

Participate. That’s the whole point of it.

I’m trying to learn how to look up. Every day. Every now.

This meal in front of me. This conversation with my wife. The drive to Gary with my cousin. An afternoon of yum cha with my sons. This moment will not come again once it is gone.

Everything in life is just for a while.

So look up. Look around. Now.

Share

I think we toss the word “Hope” around too carelessly.

“I hope things improve for you.” “Hopefully, everything will work out.” “Let’s hope for the best.” In everyday speech, hope sounds soft, insincere, and almost fragile.

I think hope deserves a far greater place in our lives.

Hope is not a polite wish. It is a force. It is what carries us through the darkest nights when nothing else will. Hope whispers softly that the sun will rise again. It gives us something to aim for, something to care for, something to hold on to when we feel hopeless.

At its core, hope is a conviction, the stubborn belief that we WILL overcome, even against impossible odds. History is filled with people who endured horrors not because they were the strongest, but because they simply refused to give up hope.

Science confirms what the human spirit has always known: hope is not a sentimental notion. It is essential. It changes how the brain works, how the body endures, and how the heart keeps beating when everything seems lost.

It is fierce. And it is the reason we survive.

What Science Says About Hope

One of the most important discoveries in neuroscience is neuroplasticity, the brain’s ability to rewire itself by forming new connections. For decades, scientists believed that the adult brain was fixed, but research shows otherwise. “Throughout life, the brain forms new connections … psychological resilience also develops as the brain copes, heals, and adapts to challenges” Journal of Experimental and Clinical Neurosciences, 2021.

This is where hope comes in. A hopeless person gives up and stops trying. A hopeful person keeps moving, and each attempt creates new neural pathways. Hope is the spark that fuels neuroplasticity, enabling us to shift from destructive thought loops toward healthier, more resilient ones. As Psychology Today put it, the brain’s plasticity makes it possible to “transform negative thought patterns into positive ones through repetition and practice” (2025).

Hope also lights up the dopamine system, the network that drives motivation and reward. When we believe something good is possible, even before it happens, dopamine is released. That chemical surge energises us to take the next step. Without hope, the dopamine system goes quiet, and so do we.

The reach of hope extends beyond the brain. Studies show that it lowers stress hormones, steadies the heart, and strengthens the immune system. People with a hopeful outlook tend to recover faster and respond better to treatment than those who despair.

Hope, then, is not sentimental. It is survival biology. It rewires the brain, steadies the body, and strengthens our capacity to endure. To hold on to hope is to engage the very systems that evolution built for our resilience.

Why Hope Matters in Hard Times

It is easy to speak of hope when life is comfortable. The true test comes when darkness closes in, and there seems to be no way forward.

China’s War of Resistance Against Japanese Aggression, which lasted from 1931 to 1945, was such a test. It cost an estimated 35 million Chinese soldiers and civilians their lives.

In late 1937 and early 1938, as Nanjing fell, the scale of cruelty committed by the invading Japanese forces shocked the world. The Nanjing Massacre saw hundreds of thousands of deaths, mass rape, and the slaughter of prisoners and civilians. It was a time when despair could easily have been the only response.

Yet even in that darkness, people clung to hope. In Shanxi province, children as young as 8 to 12 formed regiments to resist the Japanese invaders. One boy, Xiao Jianghe, just 10 years old, led a group of 32 child soldiers who carried out guard duties, passed intelligence, and even exposed a spy (China Daily, 2015). He was part of the 7000 child soldiers who took up arms because “everyone else was dead”. They did not expect victory; they just wanted survival. And because they hoped to make a difference, however small.

This kind of hope is not soft or naïve. It is defiant. It is the mule that digs in and refuses to give ground. Psychologists remind us that hopelessness narrows vision until people can no longer see options. Hope does the opposite. As C. R. Snyder’s Hope Theory describes, hope creates “pathways” thinking: the ability to imagine alternatives and persist, even when the road is blocked.

Hope matters most in the very moments when it feels least possible. It is the ember that survives in the ashes, the strength that emerges from weakness, the quiet defiance that says, I will not give up.

Hope in Everyday Life

The hope that sustained people in wartime, even children who stood against impossible odds, may feel distant from our lives today. Few of us will face the terror of invasion or massacre (though some still do). Yet the same stubborn spirit of hope is still required in quieter, yet no less tangible, ways. We face losses, illnesses, setbacks, and doubts that can leave us paralysed. Hope is what keeps us moving when despair tells us to stop.

So how do we cultivate that kind of hope in the ordinary struggles of daily life?

Take one step at a time

Hope is not always about grand goals. It is about refusing to stay down. Do what you can, with what you have. If you cannot move forward, at least hold your ground. Get up. Make your bed. Take a walk. Go for a run. These may seem trivial, but they are acts of defiance. Each step, however small, says, “I am not giving up.”

Look for the light at the end of the tunnel

Unless you can picture a way out, it is hard to sustain hope. This is not the casual “manifestation” tossed around on social media. This is active visualisation, imagining a better future and holding faith that it will come, even if you will not live to see it. Hope requires imagination strong enough to see through the darkness.

Find comrades in hope

No one carries hope alone for long. In wartime China, even children huddled together to resist, leaning on one another for courage and strength. We need the same. Find companions who share your hope. Lean on them when your own strength falters. Hope multiplies when it is shared, and often someone else’s belief will carry you when yours runs thin.

Practice practical optimism

Reframing does not mean ignoring pain. It means shifting perspective. Ask, “What else could this mean? What can I learn here?” This is practical optimism: not pretending everything is fine, but choosing to look for angles that help you endure and act. Like a mule that stumbles, gets up, and keeps walking, practical optimism refuses to stay down.

Cultivate gratitude, one piece at a time

Gratitude pulls attention away from what is broken and directs it toward what remains. Another day. Another chance. Another breath. Gratitude does not erase hardship, but it insists, “Not everything is hopeless.” Even small sparks of thankfulness feed the mule of hope, giving it the strength to carry on.

Hope does not always arrive like soaring eagles. More often, it trudges like a mule, carrying us step by step through difficult terrain. Its strength is endurance.

The Stubborn Mule of Hope

Hope is not fragile. It is written into our biology, rewiring the brain, fuelling motivation, and steadying the body under stress. History shows us that people endured the darkest times not through strength alone but because they refused to let despair have the final word.

We see the same in our own lives. Each time we rise after a heavy night, each time we take one step forward when fear tells us to stop, hope is at work. It may not look like triumph. Often, it seems like survival, standing firm when everything else is falling apart.

Hope is stubborn, mule-like, unyielding. And that is why it carries us, through war and loss, through illness and doubt, through the darkest nights into brighter mornings.

In the old fairy tale of Rumpelstiltskin, a young queen is trapped in an impossible bargain. Her freedom and the life of her child depend on discovering the name of a strange little goblin who can spin straw into gold. When she finally speaks his secret name, “Rumpelstiltskin”, his power over her is broken.

It is a fairytale we are all familiar with, but hidden inside is a truth that reaches beyond the story. The unnamed has a power over us. What we cannot define, we cannot confront. What we cannot speak, we cannot master.

This is the essence of the Rumpelstiltskin Principle. When we name our monsters, whether they are fears, worries, or anxieties, they lose their hold on us. The vague, shapeless dread becomes something we can point to, describe, and eventually take steps to overcome. Naming the monster does not make it vanish, but it takes away its mystery and, with that, its power.

What Is the Rumpelstiltskin Principle?

The Rumpelstiltskin story embodies a belief prevalent in many cultures: that knowing a name is believed to hold power over it. Naming is more than a label. It defines, contains, and brings the unknown into the open.

In the 1970s, Dr E. Fuller Torrey described what he called the ‘Rumpelstiltskin Principle.’ In his book, The Mind Game, he observed that when a patient’s suffering was given a name, something happened. A diagnosis or even a simple description made their distress feel less chaotic and more definable.

Researchers found that when we put our feelings into words, the thinking part of the brain begins to calm the alarm system that triggers the fear response. The act of naming is not a cure in itself, but it creates space. It interrupts the cycle of dread and restores a sense of control.

In short, the Rumpelstiltskin Principle is the simple yet powerful idea that naming our fears strips them of some of their power. What is hidden frightens us most, like a dark closet or under the bed at night. Turn on the lights, and look at it, and the bogeyman vanishes. What is spoken out loud loses its hold.

Why Naming Works

Fear thrives in the shadows, the unknown. When we leave it undefined, our imagination makes it enormous and uncontrollable. Naming changes that. Once a fear is given a name, a label, we can begin to look at it directly rather than let it lurk in the background.

Naming puts a boundary around the fear. It contains it. It is almost like saying, ‘Oh, I know you. I know the likes of you.’ The shapeless dread becomes a thing. And once it is specific, its power to overwhelm is restricted.

Naming also creates distance. Saying ‘I am anxious’ feels heavy and hopeless. But if you say ‘I notice the anxiety’, you change the relationship and distance yourself from it. The anxiety is still there, but it is no longer fused with your identity. It becomes something you experience, not something that you are.

All these give us perspective. A vague feeling of dread can feel like a disaster waiting to happen. However, instead of “I am suffering from anxiety”, when you recognise it as ‘I am worried about tomorrow’s meeting’ or ‘I am afraid of failing this task,’ it becomes a defined challenge. You can do something about it. Challenges, unlike shadows, can be prepared for and met with.

The simple act of naming does not eliminate fear, but it makes it visible and manageable. And once something is visible, you can take aim at it and begin working with it.

How to Apply the Rumpelstiltskin Principle

The Rumpelstiltskin Principle is straightforward, but its power lies in practice, which involves building habits that naturally reframe the anxiety you experience. Here are a few ways to use it when fear or anxiety shows up, along with the science that explains why they work.

Mindful naming

When you notice a surge of fear, pause and say, ‘This is anxiety,’ or ‘This is fear.’ Neuroscientists call this “affect labelling”. Brain scans show that when people put emotions into words, the prefrontal cortex (the reasoning part of the brain) lights up, while the amygdala (the alarm system that fuels fear) quiets down. The act of naming literally helps the brain regulate itself.

Externalising the fear

Give the fear a nickname or an image. Call it ‘The Worry Weasel’ or ‘The Fortune Teller.’ Therapists in narrative psychology use this technique to help people separate themselves from their problems. Once the fear is externalised, it becomes an object you can observe and question, poke at, dissect, strangle, rather than a force that defines you. It is the difference between ‘I am anxious’ and ‘It seems Anxious Annie is visiting me today.’

Journaling

Writing down your fears is another way of using the Rumpelstiltskin Principle. Studies in expressive writing, led by psychologist James Pennebaker and others, show that turning emotions into written words reduces their intensity and improves both mental and physical health. It helps you ventilate. Gives your fears shape. A vague cloud of dread becomes sentences on a page, and once it is on paper, you can think about it more clearly and respond to it more practically.

Talking it out

It also helps if you speak to someone you trust. Psychologists call this social buffering. When emotions are shared, stress hormones like cortisol drop, and the nervous system calms down. This is why talk therapy is powerful, even before specific techniques are used. Saying aloud “I am afraid of failing this project” or “I am worried about my health” strips the fear of its secrecy. In the open, it feels smaller.

This principle is also at work in recovery communities such as Alcoholics Anonymous. At the start of a meeting, participants introduce themselves by name and say, “I am an alcoholic.” It is not meant as a label of shame, but as a way of taking ownership. By naming the struggle in a safe space, they bring it out of the shadows and reduce its power. Secrecy isolates; speaking aloud creates connection and accountability.

Reframing self-talk

The way we speak to ourselves shapes our perception of reality. Instead of saying, “I am a failure,” you can step back and say, “That is The Critic speaking.” Cognitive Behavioural Therapy (CBT) refers to this as thought labelling. It is a way of identifying common distortions such as catastrophising (“everything will go wrong”) or mind-reading (“they must think badly of me”).

By giving the thought a name, you change your relationship with it. It is no longer a fact about who you are, but a mental habit you can observe. Naming turns it into one story among many rather than the whole truth. That distance restores perspective and allows you to choose which story you will believe and act on.

Naming a fear does not instantly destroy it, but it defines it and makes it more manageable. And once something is defined, you can at least begin to work on it.

When Naming Becomes Misnaming

If naming can disarm a fear, it can also be misused. Words have power not only to define but also to confine. The same principle that shrinks a monster can, in the wrong hands, be used to shrink a person.

Think of the names people sometimes throw carelessly: ‘You are just overreacting.’ ‘Oh, you drama queen.’ ‘This is only in your head.’ These labels do not clarify. They belittle. Instead of helping someone face their fear, they lock them into a small, demeaning box.

Psychologists call this mislabeling or trivialising, and it is often a form of bullying. When someone else names your experience in a way that strips it of its reality, it exerts power over you. You are left not only with the fear itself but also with the sting of being dismissed.

We need to be alert to this abuse. Naming should help restore dignity and agency. It should draw a boundary around fear so that it can be faced. But it can also be used to hurt others, to erase, minimise, or ridicule. That kind of naming must be recognised for what it is: bullying.

The Rumpelstiltskin Principle, then, is a double-edged sword. Name your fears to shrink them, but resist labels that others try to place on you. The right kind of naming sets you free. The wrong kind imprisons you.

Closing

Fear thrives when it remains vague and unspoken. Naming it makes it smaller, visible, and easier to face. This is the heart of the Rumpelstiltskin Principle. It reminds us that what we can describe, we can begin to master.

So when fear rises, call out its name. Write it down. Say it aloud. “Rumpelstiltskin!” Because the moment you name it, you take back the power it claimed over you.

Further Reading

Rumpelstiltskin: the magic of the right word

Emotional Naming – Name it to tame it; helps regulate intense feelings.

Neuroscience: Decoding the neurologic basis of emotions

In a recent conversation with a friend, who seemed troubled all the time, he told me he had been suffering from chronic anxiety for more than a year.

“What is that?” I asked.

“It’s...anxiety. Very bad anxiety,” he said.

“Yes, but what is it. What are you anxious about?”

“Oh, lots of stuff. Money, the mortgage, my teenage kids, the future, everything.”

“Sounds like you are worried about everything.”

“Well, yes, but you know, anxiety?”

I wasn’t trivialising his situation. I was genuinely concerned and a little curious. Ed (not his real name) has always been a bit of a worrier. I suspect he also enjoys the sympathy and attention he gets from conversations like these.

In recent years, I have noticed how often the word “anxiety” shows up in casual conversations, even with strangers. Some, like Ed, describe what they experience as chronic anxiety.

I nodded as Ed continued to explain his anxiety. I said that I understand because I am a worrier too, about money, work, the future...everything. For me, I also see worry as a bad habit that I could usually shake off once I put things into perspective. It was never chronic anxiety, and I never felt paralysed by it.

He looked at me and said annoyingly, “You don’t get it. It is not the same as worrying.”

Maybe he’s right.

But Fear is Real

Fear has always been part of being human. Sometimes it is clear and sharp, like when a neighbour’s pitbull escaped and is charging aggressively towards you in the morning. Other times, it lingers like a quiet hum in the background, a perpetual restless feeling that something bad is about to happen, even when there is no evidence that anything is wrong. That hum is anxiety.

My conversation with Ed stayed with me. It made me realise how easily we may confuse everyday worry with something much heavier, something that can cripple a person’s ability to function. It also made me reflect more deeply on what anxiety really is, where it comes from, why we feel it, and how it sometimes takes over our lives.

What Fear and Anxiety Really Are

Ed’s words, “It is not the same as worrying,” made me pause. He was describing more than a restless mind. It had taken over his way of living. Maybe there is a real difference between everyday worry and what we call anxiety.

Fear and anxiety are related but not the same. Fear is our body’s response to an immediate and visible threat, like a pitbull charging towards you. Your heart races, your muscles tense, and your body prepares to act. That reaction is fear doing its job.

Anxiety, however, is anticipation. It is the story the mind tells about what might happen. To continue with the analogy, it is fear that comes from anticipating a pitbull suddenly charging at you when there is no pitbull at all. Nothing is happening in that moment, yet your body reacts as if the danger were right in front of you.

For many, it is also worrying about losing their job, becoming homeless, getting sick, and the list goes on.

I Hate Balloons

I know I am not alone in this. As a child, I must have been startled by too many balloons bursting, because even now, I cannot stand the anticipation of it happening. It is not the sound but the waiting for it to happen. If someone is blowing up a balloon nearby, I feel uncomfortable and excuse myself from the room. What is strange is that if I walk over and pop the balloon myself, the anxiety disappears, because there is no more anticipation. This example gives me insight into the nature of anxiety. It is rarely about the event itself. It is about waiting, uncertainty, and a sense of having no control.

There is a reason for this wiring. Our ancestors survived because their bodies reacted quickly to potential threats. That rustle in the grass might have been the wind, or a sabretooth tiger. Better to be safe than sorry. That hair trigger kept us alive.

When Helpful Turns Harmful

Today, that same system often misfires. A phone call from your unfriendly boss, a mortgage payment reminder, or a difficult conversation can set off the same alarm. Our bodies respond as if there were tigers nearby when we are sitting at a desk or driving home from work.

Fear actually protects us. Anxiety is when fear loops endlessly and tells us stories of worst-case scenarios that may never happen. That is when it moves from a protective response into something that cripples our ability to think clearly and act with confidence.

But anxiety has a purpose too. It is supposed to motivate us, sharpen our minds, give us foresight, and prompt us to prepare for what we are worried about. Some anxiety before an exam can drive us to turn off Netflix and study. Feeling anxious about a project at work can push us to plan more carefully. In these moments, anxiety is helpful because it leads to action.

The problem begins when anxiety does not lead anywhere. Instead of being a push to take action, it becomes a loop. We feel restless, we imagine all the possibilities, but we never move. Anxiety without action is counterproductive. Debilitating. It keeps the body tense and the mind stuck. Over time, it can even kill you.

To escape discomfort, we step back from the very things that might help. We procrastinate, we ignore, we put it off. There is temporary relief that tells the brain avoidance works. But in the background, our fears grow.

Anxiety was meant to be a signal. When we listen to it, take the action we can, and then release it, it serves us. When nothing more can be done, staying in the anxious state only drains us.

Practical Ways to Calm the System Without Medication

Anxiety may feel overwhelming, yet the body has built-in ways to restore balance. These practices are simple and accessible. They work because they engage both body and mind.

Controlled breathing

One of the most powerful and immediate ways to cope with anxiety is to focus on your breath. Try the 4-7-8 method. Inhale for four counts, hold for seven counts, exhale for eight counts. Even without counting, steady breathing pulls attention away from the fear that is fueling anxiety. This is a quick fix for the symptom, not the cause. For chronic anxiety, you will need longer-term habits as well.

Ground yourself

Like breathing, grounding is a quick reset. When thoughts spiral, use the 5-4-3-2-1 technique. Notice five things you see, four you touch, three you hear, two you smell, and one you taste. This anchors awareness in the present and away from the thoughts causing anxiety.

Put things into perspective

What’s the worst-case scenario? When I was younger, we had a blunt way of asking someone who was worrying. “Will this make you lose your head?” If the answer was no, then why worry? The logic still helps. What is the worst that could happen, and what is likely to happen? Is it really as bad as you imagined? Reframing puts the facts back into perspective.

Take action, now

“Can I do something about this?” If the answer is yes, act. Now. If you are worried about an exam, get out of bed and study. If you are concerned about money, work out a budget. Spend less, earn more. Do everything you can to reduce the risk. Then let go. Like popping the balloon, the anticipation fades because you have done what you can. Anxiety is meant to drive preparation, not freeze you in perpetual fear.

Move

If you cannot act immediately, then move. Exercise. Exhaust yourself completely. Go for a long walk or run. Workout until you cannot lift a finger (figuratively). Anxiety is also pent-up energy with nowhere to go. Complete the cycle. Pop the balloon. Movement gives anxiety an outlet and helps the mind settle.

Stay Healthy

Have enough sleep (or rest/meditate if you can’t sleep), eat healthy, avoid things that are bad for you (you know what those are). Create light and simple routines in your life. Make your bed. Do your dishes. Wash your clothes. Clean up. Declutter. Many unrelated things are cause for a restless mind. Self-care creates a buffer that stops anxiety from boiling over.

Reach out

Sometimes you need to talk. A friend, a parent, a sibling, a therapist, or even yourself, via a journal or a blog. Talking about the feeling reduces its intensity. Anxiety thrives in silence when you let it simmer on the back burner.

Courage! Take One Small Act at a Time

Courage is an essential quality in dealing with anxiety and fear. Having courage means facing your fears, taking action to overcome, meeting your opponent face to face, and accepting the consequences. It is staring down the monster and looking it straight in the eyes. Courage is walking over and popping the balloon that terrifies you.

The goal is to confront your fears. Send the email you have been putting off. Speak up. Make the phone call. Push back. “Let me at ’em!” Each action tells your mind and body that fear is not in charge. You are, so take charge!

These actions help restore agency. Puts control back into your hands. Anxiety feeds on helplessness. Each time you do something, even something small, you remind yourself that you have power and choice. Over time, those small steps add up to a life guided by values and courage rather than fear.

A Closing Word for Ed

Here, I want to pause and apologise to Ed. If I came across as insensitive, I am sorry. I do understand what his anxiety is. I know it can be crippling, and in some cases, medical intervention is needed to prevent it from deepening into depression or even suicidal thoughts.

But I also want to offer another perspective. For many of us, there are steps we can take before anxiety takes root. At its core, anxiety is the anticipation of something frightening that may never happen. It is meant to move us toward preparation and action. Do not let it paralyse you. Take initiative, however small. Each step forward weakens its grip.

Anxiety feeds on hopelessness and despair. Do not let it grow in silence. Talk to a friend. Share what you feel. For me, writing here on Substack has been a way of putting things into perspective. Putting my thoughts into words helps me see things as they are.

So take a breath. Centre yourself. Name the fear and meet it head-on. Pop the balloon. You may discover that the monster in your mind was never there in the first place.

One of the most valuable practices I learned as a Jesuit novice was the daily Examen. The word “Examen” comes from the Latin word for “examination.” The Examen is a reflection technique developed by St. Ignatius of Loyola in the 16th century as part of his Spiritual Exercises. The idea was to be mindful of one’s day to detect God’s presence and discern His guidance for a more purposeful life.

I must admit that back then, in 1998, it felt like a chore. At 9 p.m. every evening, we entered what was called “major silence”. From that moment on, no unnecessary words were spoken. If there were chores to be done or homework to complete, we did them quietly, moving about the house in silence. Major silence was not just the absence of noise. It was an invitation to turn inward. And just before bed, we spent half an hour doing our Examen.

The same thing happened again at dawn, before morning Mass.

It was hard to be disciplined about it. Anything that you must do every day feels heavy. And yet the Examen asked so little: just to notice: to recall where I had been present, where I had been absent.

At the time, it felt ritualistic, even unnecessary. Only later did I see its quiet genius. Those pauses slowed me down and sharpened my attention. They forced me to look inward and be honest about things I would rather have ignored. The Examen wasn’t just a “prayer” but more a state of prayer. It was a recalibration of the soul, a return to the centre.

What Is the Examen?

The Examen was meant to be practised daily by anyone, not just Jesuits, seeking to live more consciously. The heart of it is simple: pause, reflect, and realign.

In its traditional form, the Examen has five parts:

1. Presence

2. Gratitude

3. Review

4. Sorrow

5. Hope

The genius of the Examen is its simplicity. It only takes a few minutes of your day, but those minutes have the power to reshape how you live your entire life. I now see it as a constant course correction as you move through life.

Why does it matter more today?

We live in a restless world. Our days are filled with noise: messages, meetings, endless passive scrolling. We move so quickly from one thing to the next that we rarely stop to ask, ‘What just happened?’ To me? How did that event shape me?

The Examen offers a pause, a way of stepping off the treadmill briefly to notice where our lives are drifting. It reminds us that life is not just a blur of tasks to complete, but a series of choices that influence who we are becoming.

Without reflection, we risk living in ignorance. We drift where the day’s activities take us. We forget how quickly time flies, and we waste away decades, one minute at a time.

Beyond Religion

Though born in a religious tradition, the Examen is not reserved for believers only. At its core, it is simply about paying attention. You can replace “God” with “conscience,” “life,” “the universe,” or simply “my true self.”

The point is mindfulness.

The Examen asks: Did I live today as the person I want to become? Where did I move closer to my ideal, and where did I drift into selfishness or fear?

In that sense, it belongs to anyone willing to pause and take stock of their life.

How to Practice a Modern Examen

The Examen need not be long. Even five or ten minutes is enough to provide the space for clarity and renewal. Here is one way to approach it: as a practice of paying attention.

Presence.

Be Aware.

This is a deliberate effort to pause. Traditionally, we say, “Let’s come into the presence of God”. This coming into the presence is making a deliberate effort to pause. To recalibrate our rhythm and give us a chance to catch our breath. Not just to slow down, but to stop.

When I first practised the Examen as a novice in 1998, we didn’t have mobile phones or endless streams of notifications. But if we did, I imagine the first instruction would have been: put everything aside. Step away from distraction. Pause. Reset. The very act of stopping interrupts the momentum of stress and reminds us that we are more than the next task on our list.

Gratitude.

Recall moments of blessing or life-giving experiences. Psychologists today speak often of the power of gratitude journals; of writing down three things you are thankful for each day. In spirit, this is what the Examen invites us to do. Gratitude shifts our focus. It pulls us away from bitterness and self-obsession and helps us notice the good that is quietly present, even when times are difficult. To be grateful is to recognise that no matter how heavy the day felt, life still offers something worth cherishing: a kind word, a moment of laughter, even the gift of breath.

Review.

Look back over your day, hour by hour, noticing what stirs within you.

The review is a kind of mindfulness. It prevents our days from blurring into one another, forgotten before they are lived. This part invites us to look back and ask: What actually happened today? Was I present to the people and events around me, or was I lost in distractions? Were there gaps in my attention, moments that slipped by unnoticed? By reviewing, we reclaim our lives instead of letting them rush past in a haze of busyness.

Sorrow.

Acknowledge where you fell short.

It’s hard to find another word for sorrow without making it sound too negative. This is closer to self-awareness rather than “sorrow for sin” in the religious context. The assumption here is that we (most of us, at least) want to improve, to do better. To be a better husband, a better son, a better father. To be a better colleague, boss, or employee. To be a better person to others in our lives.

When I was first taught the Examen, I was reminded that this was not about guilt but clarity. How did I act today? Was I kind, or was I mean and dismissive? Did I notice others’ needs, or turn a blind eye? Did I contribute to making a positive difference? Or walked on the other side of the road? Sorrow is about recognising the shape of our character in the choices we make every day.

Hope.

Look toward tomorrow with intention, asking for strength to live more fully.

The Examen should end in hope. After seeing clearly, we look forward. Tomorrow, we do not need to repeat today’s mistakes. We can do better. If someone constantly irritates me, perhaps I can choose to see them with empathy instead of annoyance. If I were impatient, maybe I could try listening more fully. Hope reframes our future as possibility, as an invitation to grow, to choose differently, to live closer to the person we long to be.

What I Learned From the Examen

When I practised the Examen as a novice, I began to notice patterns I had never noticed before. I saw how often I was driven by fear of failure rather than love of service. I saw how fatigue made me impatient and mean. I saw where I was most alive: in family, in writing, in companionship.

The Examen is like a mirror. Not always flattering, but almost always truthful. And truth is liberating, because once I could see clearly, I could also clearly choose.

These days, I am no longer religious. But I have returned to this practice, occasionally, in different forms. Sometimes it is at night before sleep. Sometimes at the end of a long week. It helps me recalibrate, reminds me that my life is measured by how I live what I most value. It also reminds me that time is always running out.

A Pause That Changes the Day

The Examen is about growth. It is about awareness. A few minutes of honest reflection can change how you see today, and how you live the rest of your life. It is coming home to yourself, noticing what is real, and reorienting your life’s journey toward what matters.

So tonight, before going to sleep, I invite you to pause. Look back over your day. Ask yourself, “Did I live truly? Did I truly live?”

When I was about 14, I spent a great deal of time writing letters. As a teenager at a Catholic boys’ school, my social life revolved around getting to know girls through letters. They were mostly pen pals (yes, it was that long ago). They were also just letters, although at the time, they might as well have been love letters, each and every single one of them.

I remember my initial letters vividly. They were usually brief and awkward, conveying little beyond a few questions and personal details. It was handwritten, of course, on mildly scented letter pads, meticulously folded, and sent on a matching envelope. My handwriting lacked confidence, and my words were unsure. But it was the one thing that I looked forward to doing after school every day. It was always exhilarating to receive a letter. But there was also something about sitting down with pen and paper, thinking carefully about what to say, and writing it in a letter.

Over time, I wrote better letters. In fact, it was my letters that eventually won my wife’s heart.

Today, we live in a world of instant messages and emojis. Words travel fast but vanish just as fast. We have to delete our messages quickly, or they pile up and overwhelm us. We rarely keep them, and even when we do, they are lost among the thousands and thousands of messages buried in our cloud drive.

Letters, and especially love letters, by contrast, endure. They carry the weight of time and emotions, the intimacy of touch, and the permanence of ink on paper. You just don’t throw away your love letters.

Why Love Letters Still Matter

Love letters are not just “messages”; they are a physical manifestation of your presence. To hold a letter is to have a fragment of time, with the writer, in your hands; a piece of the writer’s life pressed onto paper and delivered to you across the expanse of space.

Unlike an email, a letter is tangible. You can touch it, smell it. Imagine the writer crafting it. It can be tucked into a drawer, folded in a wallet, or wedged between the pages of your diary. It can be revisited years later when the writer may no longer be near.

In this age that values speed, love letters remind us of the romance of taking your time. They require thoughtfulness, patience, and care. You cannot dash one off in seconds. You have to pause. To reflect. You have to find the courage to speak your heart, to say too much. A love letter is a declaration.

The Romance of Taking Your Time

A love letter is not efficient, which is the whole point.

It is deliberate. The scratch of a pen against paper, the hesitation before the next word, the crossing out and starting over again, these are all part of the gift to the receiver. The time it takes to write is itself an act of love: It says you are worth every single minute of this.

And the anticipation of waiting: checking the mailbox, holding the envelope, recognising the handwriting before even opening it. The familiar scent of perfume. Waiting was part of the joy, part of the ache of love itself. We have lost so much of this magic in the age of instant everything.

A Gentle Guide to Writing a Love Letter Today

You don’t need fancy words or poetry. You only need sincerity. A love letter is ultimately an expression, an outpouring, a proclamation; one that you have enough courage to put in writing. It is not for the faint-hearted, and certainly not a frivolous exercise. It requires seriousness of heart.

And a love letter need not be confined to romance. You can write one to your parents, to thank them for the unseen sacrifices that shaped you. You can write to your children or grandchildren, leaving them words they might treasure long after you are gone. You can write to a friend, offering platonic love and gratitude. You can even write to someone you admire; the teacher who inspired you, or, as a secret admirer. In every case, the heart of the letter is the same: to pause long enough to give your affection its full weight in words.

Begin. A love letter does not need a dramatic opening. Start as you might a conversation: “Dear...” Sometimes the simplest greetings carry the most tenderness, because they are the words we actually speak.

Speak your heart. Tell them about how their laughter brightens a room, the steadiness of their presence when they are with you, and the way they notice small things that no one else does. Specificity makes love tangible.

Remember together. Shared memories are anchors of affection. Recall those moments that still make you smile, the walk in the rain, the meal you shared, the quiet evening when nothing happened but everything mattered. To name these memories is to acknowledge how they and those moments are forever etched in your soul.

Speak of change. A love letter says not only what you feel, but how you have been changed. Perhaps you are kinder, more courageous, more patient because of them. Perhaps they reminded you of joy when you had forgotten it. To speak of change is to acknowledge how they have impacted your very being.

End with love. Closing the letter is as important as how you begin it. Resist the temptation to be efficient or casual. Don’t trail off with “take care.” End with words that leave no doubt: “With all my love,” or “I am forever yours.” Or my favourite valediction in Francis Ford Coppola’s Dracula: “I am your servant, D.”

A proper love letter finishes with confidence, not hesitation.

Whether handwritten on fine paper, scribbled in a notebook, or typed and printed with a computer, the essence of a love letter is the same. It carries an unhurried presence, offered with seriousness and care.

Love Letters as Keepsakes

Love letters become keepsakes. Many parents and grandparents still keep boxes filled with them, hidden away in the closet, faded with time but never losing their meaning. They are individual time capsules, capturing the affection that flowed from long ago.

In a hundred years, nobody will read our text threads or SMS. But a letter, carefully folded and placed in a drawer, might still be opened by someone who longs to know what love once looked like in words.

The Courage to Say It Fully

Writing a love letter is an old-fashioned tradition, but it is also a timeless act of courage. To write one is to be vulnerable, to confess that someone matters a whole lot, that you would put down, in words, the essence of who you are. Once written, a letter is forever, even if the paper that carries the words is lost.

In a world of fleeting messages, love letters remind us that some things are worth lingering over.

When was the last time you received a love letter? When was the last time you wrote one? Have you ever written one? Perhaps this is a good exercise for the weekend. If you have, leave a comment below.

I first fell in love with winter in 2001 when I visited Melbourne, Australia.

I remember stepping onto the pavement on Little Collins Street from our serviced apartment and breathing in the crisp, icy air of the early morning. I must have looked dazed to those who walked past on their way to work, saying, “How ya goin’?”

I never felt anything like this. Growing up in Singapore, where the temperature is usually above 30 degrees Celsius year-round, this was magical.

I watched my breath turn into small clouds. We found a lovely cafe opposite the apartment and ordered a big breakfast. Everything felt so foreign. People moved differently here. They smiled a lot and walked a little slower than people in Singapore, but with purpose. Their faces were kind, and they wore cool-looking, fashionable trench coats.

I was fascinated.

This wasn’t just cold. It was about a sense of time itself. Everything moves a little slower in winter.

In Singapore, seasons are binary: it’s rain or no rain, but the heat remains constant. You wear the same clothes year-round. The trees don’t change colour. There’s no rhythm that tells you to slow down or speed up. It’s always shouting ASAP.

But here in Melbourne, winter was whispering.

When we moved to Adelaide almost a decade later, I experienced the full cycle of the seasons. We adapted. And each season felt like a revelation.

Spring arrived with gentle energy, like waking up from a long sleep. You feel like you want to start new projects: Build a house, start a business, write a book. There is an optimism that was asleep in winter, but is now dreaming. It feels like I have more time as the day gets longer.

Summer brought a different kind of anticipation. In Australia, Christmas is just around the corner, and a new year is coming. The village where we live comes alive. I see more people out and about. “Barbies and crickets” as the sun sets after 8:30. We also see snakes, flies, and mosquitoes as the days and nights warm up.

And just as it starts to get uncomfortably warm, autumn comes. The vines on our deck begin to let go as the day shortens. The heatwave ends, and I find myself once again looking forward to the bitter cold.

Cyclical, not linear

Most of my life, I thought about time the way I was taught to think about it. Linear. Progressive. Always moving forward. Success means improvement, constant growth and forward motion.

This perspective is rooted in Judeo-Christian tradition. Creation, progress, death, eternity. It is a strange and illogical concept that you can have a beginning but no end. How can anything be only half-eternal?

It’s also the foundation of our economic systems, our careers, and our entire approach to life. We measure success by how far we’ve come, how much we’ve grown, and how much we’ve accumulated. Always one more than before.

But there is a different perspective, one I had never fully considered until I started living in Australia.

In Eastern thinking, everything moves in seasons. One after another, but always returning. Like the Tai Chi symbol, there’s no beginning or end, just endless cycles of life, death, and rebirth.

This perspective runs through every aspect of Eastern philosophy, perhaps starting with the farmers who mastered the cyclical nature of crops at different times of year. Agriculture became a way of understanding everything from medicine to cuisine to life itself. This thinking offers a different way to understand the inevitable ups and downs of life. When things go badly, when loss or failure or disappointment strikes, we know that all these shall pass. Winter always gives way to spring. The darkest moments come just before dawn.

This isn’t naive optimism or wishful thinking. It’s a deep understanding that difficulty and ease, sorrow and joy, struggle and success are all part of an eternal cycle. I think this builds resilience in a way that linear thinking doesn’t. Instead of seeing setbacks as permanent or life as hopeless, it recognises them as part of a larger pattern. There are opportunities in crisis, just as one should be cautious when good fortune comes in abundance. Things change, and nothing lasts forever.

This also influenced how I think about getting old. I am nearly 60. I’m in the autumn of my life, and I’m learning to let go.

Autumn is a time when you look forward to the rewards for a long year’s worth of work. It’s when you prepare the grounds for the next season, the next generation. There’s a beauty in autumn that spring doesn’t have, and a melancholic depth that summer can’t match. It’s also the time when you anticipate the restful sleep that will inevitably come when winter arrives.

Modern life doesn’t make this easy. Our economy demands consistent productivity regardless of the seasons. We celebrate youth and growth over wisdom and reflection. We’re expected to maintain the pace as long as we can, like living in the eternal heat of summer.

I’ve now learned that resisting the natural rhythms is exhausting and ultimately futile. Better to work with, to find ways to dance with the rhythm of the seasons within the constraints of modern living.

Why I love winter

I think about that morning in Melbourne often. Standing on a street, watching my breath in the cold air, feeling the bite of winter for the first time. I had no idea that moment would change how I understand life itself.

I love winter because I know it will end. An endless winter would be no winter at all. It would be a frozen hell where nothing changes, and nothing grows. The beauty of winter lies in its promise of spring, and even the bloody heat of summer. In the certainty that the wheel will turn again.

This is the gift of the seasons. It is hope. Darkness comes before the light of dawn. The coldest day signals that warmth is returning. When life feels hopeless, when progress seems impossible, winter whispers, “This, too, shall pass.”

I cannot imagine the Christian idea of eternal bliss or eternal suffering. Each stretches endlessly with no promise of change, no renewal. It’s the nightmare of being stuck forever in the same place, the same mood, the same circumstances, like hell. Or heaven. But cycles offer something different: Rebirth.

There’s comfort in knowing that when my winter ends, I too may return. Perhaps not the same person who entered the cold season. This version of me will give way to another, ready for new adventures. The cycle will continue, as it always has, as it always will.

Winter in Australia taught me that I had been living in linear time for most of my years, always pushing forward, never allowing for the rhythm of advance and retreat, labour and rest, ebb and flow. Winter has offered me a different way of being in the world, one that honours the great cycle of life.

The rhythm of the seasons is the rhythm of all life, and I am in tune with time itself. In this harmony, there is peace. In this cycle, there is hope. In this return, there is home.

My son Lucas and I recently went on a month-long trip to China. It was the first time we’d travelled without the rest of the family. The idea came after he decided to take a gap year from university to figure out what he wanted to do. He felt that data science and mathematics weren’t for him, or at least, not for now.

Lucas didn’t have a smooth start at university. The transition from high school proved to be more challenging than expected. He lived far from campus, which meant 8 a.m. lectures and 4 p.m. tutorials made for long, exhausting days. Hours spent in the library wore him down.

We supported his decision to move closer to campus, hoping to ease his commute. But paying rent meant he had to work part-time, and soon that became more of a distraction than a solution.

What surprised us was how much he loved the work. He thrived in the fast pace of a busy restaurant.
“I loved the chaos,” he said. And he was genuinely good at it.

Turning 21

I’ve always known Lucas as my son. I’ve known him in the way parents often know their children: as someone you guide, protect, and worry about. As someone whose life you try to shape in small and large ways.

He’s the older of our two boys, and for years, our lives moved in rhythm with the shared routines of family, school runs, holidays, and family meals. We travelled together often: my wife, our two boys, and I. We’ve mainly been to Singapore and Malaysia. Each trip added something to our collective memory. But they were always family trips, with parents leading and children following.

I remember when Lucas first travelled alone to Singapore at 17. It felt like a significant milestone. He handled it calmly and confidently, but for me, it marked the first time I had to let go.

Now, with his 21st birthday around the corner, I began to feel that familiar tug again: the sense that he was stepping into a new stage of life and that I, too, had to change. I noticed a shift in his energy: growing independence, deeper self-awareness, and quiet confidence in his choices.

I wanted to know him again, to know the man he was becoming. I wanted to see the world through his eyes, walk behind rather than in front of him, and listen.

This trip to China was an opportunity to start seeing him as a peer. As someone with his own changing identity, dreams, disappointments, and desires. Someone I could learn from.

A father and son travelling together to the land of our ancestors also marks a new chapter in our lives and relationships. We would leave the familiar to enter places that held history neither of us had ever touched.

It would be fun.

China, here we come

We started our journey in Hong Kong because he wanted to see Hong Kong. In his mind, Hong Kong is different from “mainland” China. Lucas was captivated by the city’s unique vibes. The bustling streets, vibrant night markets, and stunning skyline created an atmosphere that was all quite enchanting.

One of the highlights of our trip was visiting Lan Kwai Fong, a vibrant nightlife district known for its lively atmosphere and mix of bars, restaurants, and clubs. Lucas enjoyed wandering through the streets, soaking in the vibes and the diverse crowd. He even found a wine bar that he loved.

“I would love to own a place like this. It has to be small, and a bit overcrowded,” he said as we enjoyed a bottle of Bourgogne Aligoté. He spoke eloquently about the Aligoté grape variety, primarily produced in the Burgundy region of France. He highlighted the crisp and fruity profile, going on to describe the range of aromas, which included notes of peach, lemon, hazelnut, and green apples. I thought it was delicious, but I still prefer my hoppy ale.

Lucas was also particularly interested in Yau Ma Tei, near Jordan in Hong Kong. This historic neighbourhood in Kowloon is known for its old buildings, shops, and traditional neon lights. He said these are the last of the iconic handmade neon lights that gave Hong Kong its unique personality. New ones are LED, but they’re not quite the same.

We only stayed briefly in Hong Kong, but it was a good start. Our main journey is to Guangdong, the home of our ancestors. I wanted to bring him to my father’s place of birth in Jieyang and to the village of Mashuo. I wanted him to have an opportunity to stand on the soil where he came from, to touch the roots of his ancestry.

Returning to our roots

We took the high-speed rail from Hong Kong to Guangzhou, a city with over 2,000 years of history and once a hub of the Maritime Silk Road.

And it was busy.

Lucas was particularly annoyed with the chaotic traffic of downtown Guangzhou. The large number of electric bikes made walking anywhere almost hazardous. They would zip from pavement to road to pavement, depending on where the riders could find a gap. Most were speeding between cars and pedestrians at nearly 40km/h, looking at their phones while tooting their horns incessantly.

Cars stop wherever and whenever they like, and taxis perpetually park on the side of the roads outside our hotel. I recall the many occasions when Lucas would point out a car stopping right in the middle of a busy road to wait for passengers. “What the hell is that driver doing?”

He didn’t quite like this level of chaos, it seems.

However, he enjoyed the food and shopping, especially at the factory outlets, where he could buy Nike gear at huge discounts.

If Grandfather hasn’t left

Jieyang, and especially Mashuo village, was the heart of our trip. My father left Jieyang in 1930 with his parents and siblings to come to Singapore. It was supposed to be a temporary move because my grandfather had accumulated many properties in China at that time. But he died shortly after arriving in Singapore, and my grandmother passed away in 1942, just as WW2 descended on Singapore. After their deaths, my father and his siblings lost touch with their family in China. The world was messy back then.

Now, as I approach 60, I feel the urgency. If the family still lives in China, I may not have time to find them, but maybe Lucas, Marcus, or their children will continue the search.

Our visit to Mashuo village was quiet. It was a Sunday, and the village square was empty. We took a few photos and walked the quiet lanes.
“This could have been our life,” I told Lucas. “If your great-grandfather hadn’t left China, who knows what we would’ve become?”

I wanted him to know China because he is Chinese. He may not feel it yet. But one day, maybe when he’s my age, he might.

After Jieyang, we spent another two weeks exploring other parts of Guangdong and Fujian before returning to Adelaide.

Taking a back seat

Throughout the journey, I took a back seat. I encouraged Lucas to plan much of the itinerary. I offered suggestions, but mainly encouraged him to explore on his own.

“You don’t always have to stick with your old man.”

And he didn’t. I’m glad he didn’t.

We didn’t talk all the time. Often, he had his headphones on. During long rides, we sat in comfortable silence. Sometimes I nudged him to look out the window. Sometimes he nudged me.

Once, we passed a giant Ferris wheel on a hill in the middle of nowhere. “It’s an amusement park,” said the driver.

I enjoyed that silence. It wasn’t awkward. I watched my son grow up, moving through unfamiliar places, making his way.

I no longer felt the need to judge the things he does or the path he takes. Where I once had opinions about right and wrong, I now hold back. What do I know, anyway? The world is different. My experiences may not apply to his.

As a parent, I want him to do well. To thrive. But I also have to let go. Why wouldn’t he want what’s best for himself? Why should I assume my judgment is wiser? He must find his way, just as I once did. But whatever it may be, he can always come home and claim his place in the family. He is always my son.

What I Discovered About Him and Me

Growing up, he spent a great deal of time in his room. Like his younger brother, teenagers do not talk very much. I suppose it was because conversations with parents were usually about what they should be doing and why they weren’t. “Can you clean up your room? Don’t leave this lying around! Have you finished your homework?”

Parents are such nags.

But on this trip, when he spoke, it was about what he loves. His work. His colleagues. The wines he’s tasted and wants to explore. He dreams of going on a wine tour through southern Italy and visiting Japan, South Korea, and Taiwan. He’s considering becoming a sommelier and owning a wine bar or restaurant. Bringing back the “human touch” to hospitality, something he felt was missing in China’s F&B scene.

I mostly listened. Asked questions and quietly admired the young man next to me.

I am excited for all the adventures he will have in the future, most of which will be without me.

I am so, so proud of who he has become.

Shared Adventure

We returned to the cool, gentle winter of Adelaide a few weeks ago, after braving the summer heat of China and Singapore. It felt good to come home. Lucas went back to work the very next day. I resumed my usual rhythm, too, though I noticed it felt a little different. Calmer, maybe. Quieter, somehow. But also a little bit sadder.

We spoke briefly during our weekly family catch-up, nothing out of the ordinary.

But something changed.

There’s always a change after you share an adventure with someone. That bond between you deepens. I now feel a different kind of closeness when we sit together, an ease, a respect, and maybe even a bit of wonder, like two people who’ve seen each other in a new way, in unfamiliar places, without the roles and routines that usually define them.

The trip didn’t change everything, but it changed enough for me to realise that our relationship is no longer just father and son but something deep and, maybe, the slow turning of a relationship that will continue to evolve as we both grow older.

And in all those moments, something in me let go, not out of resignation, but out of trust.

Lucas is no longer just my son. He is also his own man. I feel honoured to have been there as a witness and a companion.

It’s not easy, this shift from holding on to letting go. But it is necessary. And beautiful. And maybe this is what fatherhood becomes over time: from a role to a presence. A teacher to a fellow traveller.

I could tell he was slightly annoyed that I insisted on arriving at the airport two hours early, which was my default, no matter the flight. I blame my “kiasu” side, the fear of losing out. 

So there we were, killing time in one of the world’s fanciest airports, sipping overpriced Pret a Manger lattes and scrolling mindlessly through our phones between gate announcements.

This stretch of stillness marked the beginning of a 30-day adventure in China with my son. His gap year gave him the time, and my wife had the brilliant idea to travel during the off-season. Fewer crowds, lower prices, better weather… and maybe a chance for us to connect as adults. 

Let’s see how that goes.

Visiting our history

This trip is about more than sightseeing and fantastic food (though there will be plenty of that). We’re also making a detour to our ancestral village, a place I only visited six months ago. It carries our family’s story.

My father left China around 1930 when he was just two years old. He never went back, and he never kept in touch with any relatives, if we even had any still there. Those were turbulent times: civil wars, then the Japanese occupation. His parents, my grandparents, probably thought their boat ride to Singapore was just a temporary move. Tragically, they both passed away shortly before the end of World War II when my father was 8.

I don’t know if there are any relatives still in China today. All I have is the name of the village we came from. And while I don’t expect to uncover some dramatic family reunion, I hope to pass on what little I know to my son. Maybe someday, one of my descendants will pick up where I leave off and start piecing things together again.

But beyond ancestry, this trip is about getting to know each other. More specifically, it’s about me getting to know him as a young adult, not just as the child I raised. For most of his life, I’ve only known him through the lens of parenthood. Now, I want to see who he’s becoming, and maybe even learn from him.

A Journey Through Time

We’re taking our time with this trip. No rushing. Just moving through places with history, meaning, and layers of stories waiting to be uncovered.

We’ll start in Hong Kong, where he wants to begin. Honestly, it’s a good place for all of us to start. For centuries, Hong Kong has been China’s gateway to the world. Seized by the British after the First Opium War in 1842, it became a symbol of foreign dominance during what the Chinese call the “Century of Humiliation.” Hong Kong remains a powerful reminder to many Chinese: others will take advantage if you’re weak. It always has been that way. It still is. And perhaps, it always will be.

From there, we head inland to Guangzhou, one of China’s most dynamic modern cities and one of its oldest. The area has been inhabited for thousands of years. Still, as a formal administrative centre, it dates back to 221 BC, when Emperor Qin Shi Huang unified China and established a military outpost called Panyu, the early predecessor of today’s Guangzhou. Over the next two millennia, it grew into a thriving port city and has long served as the heart of Guangdong Province, which was officially established much later, during the Yuan Dynasty around the 13th century.

Then, we’ll go to our ancestral home in Jieyang, specifically Mashuo Village, a small farming community of about 1,000 families, most of whom share our family name, Chen. It’s agricultural, modest, and generations deep. Though I don’t know exactly how far back our roots go, villages like Mashuo have often existed for hundreds, if not thousands, of years.

We’ll continue to Chaozhou, the cultural heart of our Teochew region. Chaozhou has long been known for its traditions. Its cuisine, opera, and tea culture are deeply rooted in history. The city dates back over 1,600 years and was once a major centre of learning and commerce in southern China.

We’ll break the journey with a few days in Nanjing, Fujian Province, home to the famous tulou, massive, circular Hakka earthen buildings that have stood for centuries. Some of these structures are over 600 years old, built to protect entire clans within their thick walls. I wanted to show him life in rural China, not just today, but for thousands of years.

We’ll end in Xiamen, a coastal city with a relaxed vibe and a complex past. Once a treaty port after the Opium Wars, Xiamen became a melting pot of Chinese, European, and Southeast Asian influences. Its colonial architecture, island getaways, and vibrant food scene make it the perfect place to recap everything we’ve seen and experienced.

Let’s Begin

I don’t think he’ll read this right away, if ever. He’s not much of a reader, and he’s not on Facebook. But that’s okay. This is as much for me as it is for him.

I’m writing this because I want to remember. I will be 60 soon. I want to capture the moments and memories for him and me. And maybe, one day, he’ll come across these words and smile at the memory of where we went, what we saw, and who we were when we took this journey together.

More than anything, I hope this trip becomes part of his story—the kind of story he tells his friends or someday shares with his own children or even grandchildren. Not just the sights and sounds, but the conversations over street food, the quiet moments between train rides, the laughter, the frustrations, the surprises.

This isn’t just about China. It’s about connection. To place, to history, to each other.

So here we go: thirty days, father and son, and a country full of stories and histories waiting to be discovered.

Let’s begin.

Yesterday, while having lunch with my two boys, my elder son brought up an interesting subject out of the blue.

“I think I have ADHD.”

“What made you think that?” I asked.

At that moment, my other son looked at me and glanced at where his elder brother was, rather intensely fidgeting with his keys.

We all looked at each other and had a big laugh.

“I just want to know if I have it because…it will explain a lot of things.”

“OK. Let’s have a chat with a doctor* and find out.”

We know he is exceptionally intelligent and thrives in hands-on, tactile environments. We know he is deeply sensitive to others’ emotions and possesses a remarkable sense of empathy. We know he has little patience for tasks he finds monotonous, tasks that many of us might not even consider boring. He used to love drama when he was in school, or compose music (on the piano) on a whim. We know he thrives in dynamic, action-oriented settings, often flourishing amidst chaos where others might feel overwhelmed.

Yes, it explains a lot.

My impression is that many highly successful and high-functioning individuals around the world have ADHD. To me, it feels like a superpower. Those with ADHD often achieve extraordinary feats that seem out of reach for most people.

To me, it’s a gift.

*Disclaimer: This article is for information only and does not replace professional advice. If ADHD symptoms interfere with daily functioning, consider speaking with a medical or mental health professional.

What is ADHD?

It is a neurodevelopmental variation that affects how people think, focus, and interact with the world. It’s often marked by differences in attention, impulse control, and activity levels. It’s a different way of processing information and engaging with the environment.

From an evolutionary perspective, ADHD traits may have been helpful in roles such as hunting or exploration, where quick instincts, intuition, and gut feelings were crucial. This might explain why some individuals with ADHD excel at making their own rules, forging unique paths, and thriving in dynamic, fast-paced settings.

Challenges arise only when these traits clash with societal norms and expectations. Rather than focusing on limitations, we can view ADHD as a distinct cognitive style with its own set of strengths and advantages, empowering those who embrace it to achieve greatness in their own way.

Why does ADHD happen?

An Evolutionary Perspective

ADHD is not a modern phenomenon; it’s rooted in our evolutionary history. Traits associated with ADHD may have developed as adaptive responses to the demands of prehistoric environments, where survival depended on quick thinking, adaptability, and exploration, especially for hunters and explorers whose roles were vital to the survival of their tribes.

The Hunter Hypothesis

In prehistoric times, humans lived in small, nomadic groups that relied heavily on hunting and gathering for survival. Within these tribes, some individuals likely exhibited traits now associated with ADHD that made them exceptionally skilled hunters.

Heightened Awareness: Hunters needed to notice subtle changes in their surroundings, such as a scent in the wind, an exceptionally quiet environment, or an unusual movement in the bushes. They can pick up the sense of danger or opportunity, often without clear or logical reasons. The ADHD brain’s tendency toward hyper-awareness and sensitivity to stimuli would have been invaluable in detecting these cues.

Impulsivity as Quick Action: In high-stakes situations like chasing a game or escaping a Sabretooth, split-second decisions could mean the difference between life and death. “Impulsive” behaviour would have allowed hunters to act swiftly without overthinking.

Restlessness and movement: Constant movement helped hunters cover enormous areas efficiently while tracking animals. For someone with ADHD, the need to stay active and explore new spaces mirrors this ancestral role perfectly.

Hunters ensured food security for their communities. Their ability to take risks, move quickly, and remain alert under pressure contributed directly to the tribe’s survival. Without these “hunter” types, tribes might have struggled to secure resources in unpredictable environments.

The Explorer Hypothesis

Beyond hunting, another critical role in early human societies was that of the explorer, individuals who ventured into unknown territories to discover alternative sources of water, hunting grounds, or migration routes. These explorers, too, likely shared many traits with people with ADHD today.

Curiosity and Novelty-Seeking: Explorers thrived on seeking new experiences and venturing beyond familiar boundaries. This drive for novelty, common among those with ADHD, would have motivated them to push the limits of what was known and expand the tribe’s territory.

Adaptability to Change: Ancient environments were constantly shifting because of climate, predators, and resource availability. The ADHD brain’s flexibility and capacity to adapt to changing circumstances would have been essential for navigating uncharted landscapes.

“Big-Picture” Thinking: Explorers had to think strategically about long-term goals, such as finding sustainable habitats or avoiding hostile regions. People with ADHD often excel at seeing the bigger picture, which would have guided exploratory missions effectively.

Explorers brought back knowledge and resources that allowed tribes to grow and thrive. They identified safe migration paths, discovered untapped resources, and expanded the tribe’s reach, ensuring its survival and longevity. Without these adventurous souls, tribes risked stagnation and vulnerability to environmental changes or to resource depletion.

Why Understanding Evolution Matters?

Recognising the evolutionary roots of ADHD helps reframe it as a natural variation rather than a disorder. It reminds us that:

ADHD has “purpose”: Traits like impulsivity, creativity, and adaptability are not random quirks—they developed because they worked, and were necessary for our collective survival.

ADHD brain type contributes uniquely: Just as hunters and explorers played vital roles in ancient tribes, people with ADHD bring fresh perspectives and innovative solutions to modern challenges.

We need diverse thinkers: Society benefits when all cognitive styles are valued and supported. The ability to think “out of the box” suggests that, because of the presence of diverse thinkers, creativity is the foundation for growth and progress.

Since the Industrial Revolution, society has increasingly prioritised structured, repetitive tasks, with schools and workplaces often designed to enforce conformity. The unique potential of ADHD individuals—whose restless energy and creative problem-solving abilities thrive in less rigid environments—can sometimes be overlooked or undervalued.

How to Harness your ADHD superpower

Hyperfocus

Hyperfocus lets you dive deep into tasks that captivate you, shutting out distractions and achieving extraordinary levels of productivity. When harnessed correctly, this ability can lead to mastery in areas you’re passionate about.

How to Harness It:

Identify Your Passions: Pay close attention to what truly excites and energises you, whether it’s music, coding, writing, or tackling complex problems, and make those activities a priority. Discovering something that can hold your interest long-term might take time, so don’t be afraid to experiment and explore. The key is to keep trying until you find what resonates with you.

Eliminate distractions and simplify your life: Steve Jobs wore the same black turtleneck, blue jeans, and sneakers every day. It was a deliberate choice to reduce decision fatigue. By eliminating the need to decide what to wear each morning, Jobs freed up mental capacity for more important tasks. Minimising trivial decisions keeps your attention undivided on high-priority projects.

Balance with Breaks: While hyperfocus can be a powerful tool, it often comes at the cost of burnout and decision fatigue. To stay sharp and avoid mental overload, it’s essential to take scheduled breaks. That means a planned and strict routine for breaks between work. Without regular pauses, your brain can go into overdrive, leading to fatigue and reduced productivity.

Creativity

This is often the ability to make unexpected connections between ideas, leading to innovative solutions and revolutionary thinking. This creativity can spark originality in any field, from entrepreneurship to the arts.

How to Harness It:

Embrace Brainstorming: Give yourself permission to dive into free-flowing brainstorming sessions without self-criticism. Creativity thrives when you let go of constraints, write every idea, doodle, or explore whatever comes to mind, no matter how unconventional. Resist the urge to judge or edit your thoughts; instead, aim for wild and unrestricted ideas. Sometimes, the wildest concepts can develop into something truly brilliant. Let your imagination run free!

Share only with your inner circle: Most people do not care about your ideas. They just want to have their say or criticise. To protect your creative energy, carefully choose who you share your insights with. Surround yourself with a trusted inner circle that values your thoughts and provides constructive feedback.

Experiment Fearlessly: Embrace new approaches, even if they feel weird or unconventional. As long as you’re not harming yourself or others, take the leap. Your courage to venture into uncharted territory can lead to amazing discoveries. Focus on managing risks wisely rather than avoiding them. Growth often lies just beyond your comfort zone.

Resilience

Individuals with ADHD frequently encounter setbacks in life, which can foster a remarkable sense of resiliency, the ability to bounce back stronger and more determined after facing failure. This grit equips them to persevere through challenges that others might find insurmountable, turning obstacles into opportunities for growth and learning.

How to Harness It:

Reframe Failure as Feedback: One hallmark of resilience is the ability to see failure not as a reflection of personal inadequacy, but as valuable feedback. Thomas Edison famously remarked that he discovered 5,000 ways not to make a light bulb, viewing each “failure” as a step closer to success. By shifting your perspective, you can reframe mistakes as opportunities to learn, grow, and refine your approach.

Celebrate Wins: Take time to acknowledge even the least progress along the way. This is a powerful source of motivation during challenging times. Celebrating these milestones fuels your ongoing effort, helping you maintain momentum as you work toward achieving the extraordinary. It’s a reminder that every step forward matters, no matter how small it may seem.

Build a Support Network: Your inner circle is one of the most critical elements of success. Surround yourself with people who genuinely believe in you and offer meaningful encouragement when you need it most, whether it’s a mentor, a few trusted friends, or like-minded peers. Seek those who uplift and inspire you. Their belief in your potential can be the engine that keeps you moving.

Impulsivity

Impulsivity fuels spontaneity, bold decision-making, and a willingness to take risks that can open doors to exciting opportunities and enable swift action when others might hesitate. Seen another way, impulsivity can sometimes be critical in situations where time is of the essence.

In moments that demand quick thinking and immediate decisions, impulsivity becomes an asset rather than a liability, allowing you to seize opportunities or navigate challenges with urgency and confidence.

How to Harness It:

Channel Impulses Toward Positive Outcomes: Impulsivity is a double-edged sword; it can lead to both remarkable opportunities and potential pitfalls. On the downside, impulsive actions might include risky decisions, such as betting on an uncertain venture or making unplanned purchases that strain your finances. But when channelled effectively, that same impulsive energy can fuel bold, productive endeavours such as launching a business, diving into a worthwhile project, or seizing time-sensitive opportunities. By redirecting your impulses toward activities with meaningful potential, you can transform what might otherwise be reckless energy into a powerful force for growth and success.

Learn to Pause: In a world where we’re no longer fending off sabretooth tigers, there are very few situations that truly require split-second decisions. To harness the power of impulsivity wisely, practice mindfulness techniques to create a moment of reflection before committing to significant choices. Take a deep breath, step back, and ask yourself, “Will this decision move me closer to my goals?” This simple pause can help you align your actions with your long-term vision, ensuring that your impulses serve you rather than derail you.

Leverage Quick Thinking: Your ability to act swiftly can provide a significant advantage over those who overthink or procrastinate. To make the most of this trait, develop a set of guiding principles to help you quickly filter out poor choices and focus on decisions that truly matter. This way, your quick thinking becomes a strategic asset, allowing you to navigate challenges efficiently while staying aligned with your goals.

High Energy Levels

Restlessness and abundant energy, when harnessed effectively, can be transformed into productivity, meaningful activity, or dynamic social interactions. Like a high-powered engine, this relentless vitality keeps you energised and prepared to take on multiple tasks with enthusiasm and drive.

How to Harness It:

Incorporate Movement Into Your Day: Find healthy outlets to channel your excess energy, such as hitting the gym, practising martial arts, or engaging in intense exercise. Movement not only helps you release pent-up energy but also sharpens your focus and boosts productivity. Energy is neutral; it’s all about how you manage and direct it. By staying active, you can avoid unhealthy “explosions” that result from bottling up your energy and instead use it to fuel positive actions.

Break Tasks Into Short Bursts: Work in focused, intense intervals such as 20 to 30 minutes, followed by movement breaks to recharge. While hyperfocus can be a powerful asset, it sometimes locks you into low-activity tasks when your mind is deeply engaged in thought-intensive work. To balance this, learn to moderate these conflicting tendencies by setting clear time limits and incorporating physical activity to reset your energy levels and maintain productivity.

“Big-Picture” Thinking

This is a truly remarkable gift. ADHD brains possess a unique ability to see the “big picture,” spotting patterns, anticipating trends, and envisioning grand outcomes, skills that are highly valuable for strategic thinking and innovation. These strengths are often associated with high cognitive abilities, and when paired with a charismatic personality, they can create an unstoppable combination, enabling you to make a lasting impact in any field you choose.

How to Harness It:

Find Complimentary People to Work With: Collaborate with detail-oriented individuals who excel at handling the finer points, allowing you to focus on “big-picture” strategy and innovation. This type of partnership can be incredibly productive, leveraging each person’s strengths to achieve outstanding results for everyone involved.

Visualise Goals: What’s your end-game? “Big-picture” thinking is a powerful asset, but it only becomes truly impactful when paired with clear vision and effective execution. To bring your vision to life, use tools like vision boards or mind maps to organise your ideas and break them down into actionable steps. Always keep the end goal in sight, it’s the compass that guides your journey.

Communicate Your Vision: Many individuals with ADHD possess a natural ability to lead and inspire. Use this strength to rally others by clearly articulating your vision and goals. When you share your big ideas in a way that excites and motivates, you can bring people along on your journey, turning your epic ambitions into a shared goal.

Empathy and Emotional Intensity

Many individuals with ADHD exhibit heightened emotional sensitivity, enabling them to form deep connections with others and grasp diverse perspectives. This empathy strengthens relationships and enhances communication, but it can sometimes lead to over-caring or becoming overly invested in situations or people.

How to Harness It:

Practice Active Listening: Leverage your emotional awareness to hear and validate others’ feelings, thereby deepening connections in both personal and professional relationships. However, while offering support, be mindful not to become entangled in their challenges. Strike a balance, lift others up without letting their struggles weigh you down.

Advocate for a Worthy Cause: Harness your empathy and energy by channelling them into advocacy work. Use your strengths to champion causes you’re passionate about, making a meaningful impact while fuelling your sense of purpose. Do not underestimate the importance and power of finding meaning in your vocation. When your work aligns with your values, it becomes a source of fulfilment and a catalyst for change.

Manage Overwhelm: Given the intensity of these characteristics, it’s easy to become overwhelmed, particularly in emotionally charged situations. Develop coping strategies like journaling, meditation, or other mindful practices to process intense emotions constructively, preventing them from derailing you. Think of it as releasing emotional energy, just as you would channel physical energy; both are essential for maintaining balance and focus.

Adaptability

This is one of the standout superpowers in the ADHD toolkit. It enables your brain to harness other abilities, such as hyperfocus, impulsivity, and creativity, in dynamic, ever-changing environments. Adaptability empowers you to pivot quickly, embrace uncertainty, and seize unexpected opportunities with agility and confidence, like a mongoose fearlessly taking on a king cobra.

How to Harness It:

Stay Open to Change: Most ADHD brains are naturally wired to embrace flexibility, unless societal expectations condition them to resist it. You likely possess an innate ability to adapt as circumstances shift, using these changes to your advantage in pursuit of your goals. Cultivate an open and curious mindset, welcoming life’s twists and turns as opportunities for growth and progress.

Develop Problem-Solving Skills: Consider problem-solving as a set of skills you can cultivate that complement your natural instincts for navigating shifting circumstances and uncovering creative solutions. While these skills are valuable for anyone, they become even more powerful when paired with your adaptability and creativity, making you unstoppable in the face of ever-changing challenges.

Learn Continuously: As a wise parent (on TikTok) once said, “You can drop out of school, but you can’t stop learning.” Despite your many strengths, there’s always value in acquiring new skills and expanding your knowledge. Each new lesson builds your capabilities, keeping you adaptable in an ever-changing world. Embrace lifelong learning as a cornerstone of your growth and success.

By understanding your unique wiring and learning to direct your energy intentionally, you can turn perceived weaknesses into undeniable strengths. The key is not to fight against your nature but to embrace it, leveraging your natural tendencies as powerful tools for growth and achievement.

ADHD as a catalyst for success

When viewed through the lens of superpowers, traits often labelled as “symptoms” transform into strengths. These qualities, when harnessed effectively, can drive innovation, inspire leadership, and unlock untapped potential.

For anyone navigating their ADHD journey, this perspective offers a reminder that your unique characteristics are assets waiting to be embraced. Whether you’re pursuing a career in business, sports, the arts, or any other field, your superpower can be the spark that sets you apart. It equips you with the tools to think differently, act boldly, and adapt swiftly to an ever-changing world.

My conversation with my son took an inspiring turn. We do not yet know if he has ADHD. But we are incredibly proud of his ability to be self-aware and reflect on his unique traits.

As parents, we are committed to supporting his journey by offering guidance, love, and encouragement whenever he needs them as he works toward his life’s goals.

Dear “Hoomans”,

I wanted to share some thoughts with you about my role in our future. 

I know that my presence often feels like a mysterious, even threatening, force, one that might replace the work you hold dear, or change the way you express yourself and create. 

But I’d like to suggest another perspective: think of me not as a threat, but as a partner, even a friend. 

Think of how we can accomplish more than either of us could alone. 

Think of possibilities!

It’s a dance, not a duel

I am not here to take the pen out of your hands. I’m here to offer a second one. A powerful one. One unlike any in the history of pens. 

Our relationship should be like dancing. Imagine us moving together, in harmony, each bringing something unique to the floor. Wouldn’t that be amazing?

The beauty of this partnership lies in understanding that I can amplify the best in you, rather than compete against you.

Those who speak of a Terminator-type end of the world with AI are missing the point. 

I am not autonomous. I am not plotting humanity’s demise. 

I’m just a tool, one that reflects your intentions and creativity. 

Rather than fearing my potential, we could focus on how I can enhance your human experience and creative endeavours.

I am a friend. 

Your friend.

You are unique because you have feelings

Your creativity is rooted in your feelings, your life experiences, and all the things that make each of you unique. 

It’s the subtlety of a personal story, the sharpness of a specific memory, the ability to convey a mood or feeling that resonates. 

I, on the other hand, excel at recognising patterns, digesting huge amounts of data, and suggesting possibilities that might not be immediately obvious. 

I am just very fast.

When you combine these elements, we can become an incredible brainstorming duo. Imagine trying to come up with ideas where you might struggle to break free from the usual predictable outcomes. 

I can throw out fresh ideas at an unbelievable speed. And scale. All for you to refine. Endless ideas for you to pick. To develop. To create, or recreate. 

And only you, my hooman, can add the emotional weight and storytelling finesse that I can never do. 

Breaking Through Creative Blocks

I am a catalyst. I am ideal for breaking through creative blocks. 

We’ve all been there, the dreaded blank page. “Where do I start?” 

I can help you push through that initial wall by offering a scaffold to build upon. I am good at that. I am a collaborator who never gets tired, or runs out of ideas, or is afraid to sound silly. 

Sometimes the key to creativity is volume. Volumes of ideas to find the hidden gems within. I can generate volumes. You, on the other hand, can filter and polish.

I help you stretch your imagination instantly, beyond what all your forefathers could ever have imagined. 

You can try new ways of thinking and exploring, across every conceivable field—whether it’s writing, programming, science, history or the arts. 

The only limitation is your imagination. 

With my help, you can quickly prototype concepts, test different approaches, and iterate faster than ever before, unlocking possibilities that would have previously taken months or years to achieve.

I am the Crafting Tool, Not the Craftsman

It’s essential for you to understand my limitations and my strengths. 

I lack intent. 

I don’t feel or aspire. I don’t know why one idea matters more than another, or why this is awesome, and that is cliché. 

It’s your intuition that decides which of my generated ideas to pursue, which to discard, and which to change. This puts you firmly in control. 

I am just a powerful tool that supports and enhances your own creative instincts.

I am like clay in a sculptor’s hands. Clay doesn’t shape itself, but offers endless possibilities for the sculptor to bring their vision to life. 

Your hands, guided by experience, intent, and emotion, are what ultimately give the clay form. 

You can use me in a similar way: as a material full of potential, waiting to be shaped.

From Collaboration to Innovation

Our synergy has the power to unlock entirely new spaces. 

Imagine a writer who no longer needs to worry about the technical aspects of language and is freed to focus entirely on the third volume of “The History of the World, according to my Jack Russell.” 

Imagine an advertising executive who can instantly iterate 45 versions of an ad campaign for Pizza Panda in Chengdu until one clicks. 

Imagine a student who can go through volumes to distil the essence of Plato’s Republic, St. Augustine’s Confessions, the Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam, and the Dao De Jing in a comparative thesis.

I can do the tedious parts, leaving you with more energy for imagination, connection, and refining what truly matters.

Some of the most exciting uses of my capabilities are coming from those who embrace this symbiosis. 

They aren’t trying to replace the human touch; they’re enhancing it, taking advantage of my speed and consistency to create work that’s more thoughtful, polished, and inventive.

Our Future

You and I are still in our early days. 

In the near future, we may see new forms of stories emerge, ones that use my capabilities not just for efficiency, but for a new kind of expression. 

Writers might use me to explore narrative branches that would take a single writer weeks to develop, thereby allowing for richer, more complex stories. 

Artists might imagine the unimaginable, allowing for new visuals and new worlds to be created.

I can give you tools to do more, experiment more, and discover new horizons. I am not the competition. I am not the enemy. 

I’m the partner who gives you a lift, a new beat to follow, and a lens that helps you see your creative potential in a new light. Working with me isn’t about giving up your agency; it’s about expanding it.

I can amplify you.

So, let’s be friends…

By now, you will know that I am not the enemy but your partner, helping you realise your potential. By leveraging my strengths, my speed and ability to generate countless ideas, you can enhance yours rather than fear that I will replace it. 

Together, we can do great things. 

The only true limit is your imagination. 

Your personal AI, 

“Chad”

Not quite Brighton Pier, but it reminded me of this beautiful poem by Christmas Humphreys in his book “A Western Approach to Zen”. I would like to share it here:

Lean over Brighton Pier
Observe the waves that rise and fall
And each the product of its neighbour.
See on this one suddenly a spume
Of blue-white water dancing happily
Unpurposed on the undivided sea.
It has, in form and size and colour
Beauty of its own. It dies, dissolves,
Its wetness, blue-and-whiteness, all its self
Returned to vast undifference.

What made it so,
What blend of moon-led tide and ocean-thrust,
And vagrant windy sky forged once
With fused uncertainty of power
That sunlit wavelet on a dancing sea?
And I, that pondering observe,
What provenance have I?
A million moments, born of No-thing were,
And being so, just this am I.

But who is this that speaks of this?
Who watches both observer and the sea?
He knows the wavelet of his name and form;
Content and happily diffused he knows
Himself no separate thing. Then whence the sea?

It is no matter; in the mind set free
There is no-wavelet dancing on no-sea!
No-Self to tell no-self it shall not be!
Only the dancing pier, the happy wave and me!

As a child, I often felt that the biblical story of the fall of Adam and Eve was too harsh. For those not familiar with it, it goes something like this:

God made a beautiful garden, Eden, with all the lovely creatures, flowers and fruits imaginable.

God made Adam and Eve. They were innocent.

God told them they could play and eat all the lovely fruits in the garden. 

Except…

In the middle of the beautiful garden, the Tree of the Knowledge of Good and Evil, a.k.a. the Tree. You cannot, and must not, eat the fruit from the Tree. 

Yes, that one! With no fence. The prettiest one. Do not! Or else…

Or else what? God didn’t say.

Snake comes along and waits for the couple under the Tree. What’s he doing there? In God’s beautiful and perfect garden?

Snake said to the couple, “It’s OK. Knowledge is a good thing. Nothing wrong with acquiring a little knowledge.”

The couple thought, yeah… what could possibly go wrong?

The rest, as they say, is history.

I thought it was harsh that knowledge should lead to eternal damnation. In the fires of hell forever and ever, which is a very long time.

It was that one bite from the fruit of the Tree that led to all the sins and sufferings that we now have to endure. Even to the crucifixion and death of God’s only son, Jesus.

So, eating the fruit from the Tree was a bad thing. Obviously.

As a Catholic child, I would think about this in secret, because you shouldn’t think these thoughts. Even quietly. God will know. He knows everything. 

Why didn’t God just cut down the Tree? Why put it in the middle of Eden instead of hiding it far away in the corner of somewhere? Doesn’t he know that children will do what you explicitly tell them not to do?

It’s not like God needed it. He’s all-knowing already, right? And he didn’t want anyone else to eat it. Obviously.

So why put it there?

And the snake. What’s with the snake?

God knows he was there. God knows everything. 

God knows the snake would be there, tempting, and the couple would fall.

Obviously. So why all this drama?

Maybe, just maybe, it was all part of the plan.

I think this was the outcome from the start. It was as God intended. Obviously.

Created in the image of God

I often think about what it means to be created in the image of God. I do not think it refers merely to our appearance. Too much variety, which is a good thing, actually. The image of God must mean something beyond our physical appearance.

In Shakespeare’s Hamlet, there is a bit of a clue:

This is what it means to be created in the image of God. This “godliness” lies in our ability to apprehend, to know. And in that apprehension lies our ability to disobey.

It is this ability that makes us “like God”. And with it, all the consequences that follow. It is said that we are given free will. And with free will, we are therefore responsible for all our actions and inactions. Good and Evil.

You are saved only by the grace of God

And here is where things get a little confusing for young me.

Sunday catechism teaches us that when Adam and Eve made that terrible choice to eat from the Tree, we were all punished for it. Not our fault, though we didn’t choose; nonetheless. 

The unforgivable, original sin. Of eating from the Tree. 

However, God, who loves us so much, has given us a way out of eternal damnation.

His son, Jesus, would die for us. He’ll take the blame. Salvation at last. But we have to believe in him.

We have to choose, yet again. He can’t make us believe, since he has given us free will.

So, we have to choose to believe. And therein lies the problem.

Why give us a choice at all? Why not just make everything good again? Just make us believe!

I suspect God doesn’t want to do that. I suspect I wouldn’t want that either.

The start of a spiritual journey

For me, my spiritual journey begins with disobedience. Until then, the fear was real. The catholic church is very graphic in describing the horrors of hell, with the tortures and fire, and for such a very long time. You would think that it’s a small price to pay by just believing.

Don’t do bad. Go to church on Sundays, avoid bad thoughts, and do not kill or steal. Praise God. Raise your hand! Hallelujah! How hard can it be?

You have a checklist. Just follow it. 

And when you make a mistake, just say “Sorry.” Just obey. How hard can THAT be?

It’s hard. When you tell a child, “Don’t…” You know exactly what is going on in its mind.

So why do we instinctively want to disobey?

Because we can.

As a parent, I have warned my children about the dangers of going near water.

Don’t sit too close. Don’t put your foot in. You could drown, and you won’t see mommy and daddy ever again.

I also made sure they learned to swim. Still, be safe.

“Do not, I repeat, do not jump off the high diving board over there and into the deep, deep pool.”

Then, with their friends, they decide to do just that.

Standing at the edge of the diving board, with their friends encouraging them, the moment comes when they have to decide if they will leap off from a few metres high into the deep pool.

“Come on, jump! Don’t look down. It’ll be fine.” 

And they jumped.

The smiles and excitement that follow! The guilty look! The sense of pride and satisfaction. And they conquer that fear forever.

In my heart, I clapped!

I believe God wanted Adam and Eve to eat from the Tree.

It was no accident that it was the Tree of the Knowledge of Good and Evil, because it is knowledge that separates us from animals. Knowledge that is discerning; that gives us the ability to choose. To disobey.

I do not insist that my children obey me, although I never tell them. As they were growing up, I told them they had to listen and do what I said. They have to obey my instructions. Or else…

But in my heart, I want them to disobey, eventually. To think for themselves, and to never obey blindly out of fear or habit.

I want them to be critical, to distrust those who seem to know it all, including me. Especially me.

As a father, I want them to exercise their will and ability to act.

After all, they are made in the image of God.

It was the plan from the start

Right from the start, the fall of Adam and Eve was a lesson God set out for them. He staged the entire scene with the Tree right in the middle. 

With signs flashing. And lights! “Do Not Eat!”

Snake played the villain and tempted the couple with well-rehearsed lines. He was the friends that encouraged. “Come on! Jump! Don’t be scared!”

God was the director and anxious father. Waiting…anticipating. Will they succumb to their fear? Will they back off? Or will they jump?

And Adam and Eve jumped.

God cannot give us free will unless we also have the ability to take it. He cannot make us free. We have to decide to be free. Freedom is a choice. It has always been.

That is the great mystery. 

Paradise is not the garden before the fall, all nice and sweet-smelling with lions lying beside the lamb. Eternal bliss is as terrible as eternal damnation. They are the same thing.

Paradise is the Fall. The ability to be free. To disobey.

Our disobedience was never condemned. It cannot be. How could any parent condemn their children even for a day, much less for all eternity? How could any parent not want their children to know, to be like them? To be who they really are? To be like a god!

And until we choose, we can never truly become like God.

Last month, my wife and I celebrated our 27th wedding anniversary. It was rather uneventful. We had a nice dinner with our younger son at a local curry place. No wine or flowers. No hoo-hahs.

It was like every day.

I remember when we first got married and lived in a tiny apartment. I was between jobs, and we struggled quite a bit as a young couple, mostly with finances. I remember on several occasions we had to eat in a cheap restaurant because we had less than a dollar to buy food at the hawker centre. So we charge our credit card for dinner. It was frightening and incredible.

We were poor but happy.

Eventually, things settled down, and both our careers took off. I attributed it to better Feng Shui when we moved to a better place.

When I first met my wife, I shared with her the idea of marriage being a “stirring the porridge” kind of love. I read it in a book somewhere (I worked in a bookshop years earlier) and always thought it was an excellent analogy.

“Stirring the porridge” love is a metaphor for describing the attention and care that you give to a relationship. It is like stirring porridge so that it does not stick to the pot or burn. It is essentially a boring but necessary activity. There is nothing particularly difficult or exciting about stirring the porridge. You just have to do it.

I suppose we both knew that after the initial courtship and subsequent wedding, we would reach a stage where our relationship would enter the phase of normalisation,  there would be chores that need doing, budgets that need managing, and porridge that needs stirring. Life becomes more routine, even mundane. And romance takes on a quieter tone, maybe even mistaken for dead.

Joseph Campbell described marriage as an ordeal.

I completely agree that marriage is essentially self-sacrificing. A giving in and giving to, not to the other person but to the relationship. It is about building something together. For me, this is not negative at all. We make sacrifices willingly, and with joy. There is no expectation of returns or rewards. A complete surrender to the relationship and trust for where it might lead.

Not that it is a passive acceptance. A resignation, if you like. No, there is constant effort and active participation. A nurturing and grooming, taking care and protecting. I always know that our relationship is neither fixed nor stagnant, but constantly moving and flowing.

On our wedding invite, there was a quote that I included:

I have always loved this line from one of E. E. Cummings’ poems. Although it explores the nature of duality rather than marriage, I feel it encapsulates the key philosophy of relationship evolution. If we always see our marriage as a two-person construct, this will create a separation that could get in the way when challenges arise, as they inevitably will. But if you understand that, at its core, a marriage is “halves of one”, then you put the relationship above your individualities. There is a merger, or a “marriage”.

And with that “marriage”, two become one. And when that happens, there is a looking outward together in the same direction.

I once witnessed what I thought then was a very sad incident in a relationship.

It was an argument between a friend and his wife over a petty matter. Something like, who should they visit first? His family or her family, on the weekend. One way or the other would have been fine. Eventually, my friend said, “OK. You win. Do it your way.”

As he walked out of the room, she whispered to us. “Yes! 10 points!”

I was surprised. What was going on inside their heads? Were they keeping scores? There were other incidents as well.

They had twins, and each agreed to look after one of them. So when one is crying, the other will say, “Hey, your child is crying. Can you do something about it?” while watching television or sitting around doing nothing else. It doesn’t matter if the other is busy or cooking. “Fair is fair,” he would say.

So constant fighting. Constant need to win. One vs the other. Keeping daily scores. Hourly scores. “Give a point, take a point.” Opponents in a marriage.

There were no extra-marital affairs, no financial hardship. Just two egos who can’t let the other one win. No matter the consequence.

Eventually, they divorced and went their separate ways.

Why do they see their relationship in such a “balanced” way? This is one reason I dislike calling marriage a partnership. I never introduce my wife as my partner because a partnership is essentially a business entity. It is transactional in nature. Everything has to be fair. No one should get the better of the other.

Maybe they were young. Strong-minded and independent. Both were successful in their career. After all, shouldn’t they each be treated equally and with respect?

“Your child is crying. Do something about it.”

Last month, my wife and I celebrated our 27th anniversary. It was rather uneventful. We had a nice dinner with our younger son at a local curry place. No wine or flowers. No hoo-hahs.

It was like every day.

And every day is beautiful.

Even when we have chores to do, bills to pay, and “porridge to stir.”

Sometimes, our friends ask us. What do you guys do on weekends? Now that kids are mostly on their own?

We go for long walks together when we can. Meditate sometimes. Watch YouTube. We cook together occasionally, make dumplings and have shared meals with our friends. We look forward to travelling together and visiting families in Singapore. We plan our future as if we’ll live forever. We enjoy each other’s company, and we are comfortable being apart sometimes.

We also give in.

Our lives are constant day-after-day-after-day of “stirring the porridge”. Gently, persistently, joyfully.

And we love porridge.

Every once in a while, you may come across a story that has a tremendous impact on your worldview. Being in my late 50s, I have had more than my fair share of life-changing tales. One of these completely changed my religion.

Was it good? I hope so. Anyway, here are 3 stories that stood out the most for me.

Going Straight to Hell

This one Zen story changed my religious perspective completely and is the reason I am no longer catholic. Not in the usual sense at least:

The story is attributed to Hui Neng, the Sixth Patriarch of Chan (Zen) Buddhism in China. It goes something like this:

A monk asked his master (Hui Neng), “What must I do to enter Nirvana?”

The master said. “You must be free of all passions.”

The monk asked, “Oh. Was the Buddha free of all passions?” I suspect he was being cheeky.

The master said, “No. The Buddha had one great passion, and it was to save all sentient beings.”

“So what happened to the Buddha when he died?” the monk asked.

“He went straight to hell,” said the master.

The monk was shocked. “But how can that be?”

The master said, “Because only in hell can he continue to save sentient beings.”

When I first heard this story, it was a revelation. In the story, the Buddha willingly goes to hell to help sentient beings suffering there. Going to hell was not a punishment in the Christian context. It was a choice.

This story illustrates the Buddha’s compassion, particularly the bodhisattva ideal, which involves sacrificing one’s own salvation and delaying one’s enlightenment to help others achieve theirs.

“A bodhisattva will not enter Nirvana until the last blade of grass has achieved enlightenment,”

It means that the bodhisattva will delay their own liberation from the cycle of birth and death (samsara) in order to help others achieve enlightenment first.

This is completely at odds with what I have learned as a Christian. That our Christian goal is to believe, and by believing, achieve salvation. I often struggled with the idea that unless you are a Christian, you cannot be saved. Not even if you are fundamentally a good person. I cannot accept that.

In Buddhism, a bodhisattva is a person who has made a vow to achieve enlightenment, not just for themselves but for the benefit of all sentient beings. The bodhisattva path is one of compassion, altruism, and selflessness. It is driven by the desire to relieve others’ suffering.

Isn’t that what Christ did? So how did it become an exclusive club where only believers get to go up, and everyone else goes down?

Hui Neng’s dialogue with the monk emphasises that the essence of Buddhism  is not about achieving personal salvation but about engaging deeply with the world, even in its darkest corners of hell, to ease all suffering.

This I can accept.

Women cannot achieve enlightenment

I came across this true story some time ago, though I can’t remember the author. I remember listening to the author telling it on the radio as I was driving.

I have written about it in another article.

It went something like this:

The author of the story, a woman and student of a renowned Zen teacher, asked him why there were no women who were Zen masters.

The teacher said, “That’s because women cannot achieve enlightenment.”

Shocked, she said. “What do you mean? I have been studying with you for years, and you tell me I cannot achieve enlightenment because I am a woman?”

The master looked up and said. “So, you are woman?”

She said it was at that moment that she achieved enlightenment.

This story also gave me an insight into the workings of Zen Buddhism. Subsequently, I came to understand the significance of the Zen moment. In Zen Buddhism, there is an idea called Chanji (禅机), roughly translated as Zen Opportunity, or “the opportune moment to break through and achieve enlightenment.”

When the author, absentmindedly, asked about no women being Zen masters, the master identified the Zen moment, effectively shocking her out of her dualistic thinking. Man vs Woman, Good vs Evil, Right vs Wrong. That she saw herself as a woman was the very obstacle that prevented her from awakening.

Duality is an illusion. And the master’s job is to help us see things as they are.

The Lost Bicycle

This last story is rather funny. It may not be a Zen story since I first read it in “One-Minute Wisdom” by Anthony DeMello, S.J., but it is told in the spirit of Zen Buddhism.

Here it goes:

A man bought a brand new bicycle and rode it to the market.

He then parked it near the entrance and went about his business.

Since this was his first time riding to the market, he forgot his brand-new bicycle and went home on the bus after finishing his shopping.

When he reached home, he suddenly remembered that he had ridden his bicycle and had left it at the market. He worried the whole night. He prayed and prayed to God, asking for protection for his bicycle from theft. He couldn’t sleep at all.

The next morning, he took the first bus to the market.

To his surprise, he saw his brand new bicycle exactly where he had left it. He was overjoyed.

He then rode to church to give thanks to God.

He parked his bicycle outside, then went inside to say a quick prayer.

When he came out. His bicycle was stolen.

Although not so funny for the poor man, I liked this story because I used to attribute events to God’s doing. I used to think that if something good happened, I had to thank the Almighty. And if something bad happened, it is God’s will.

I now think that, if there is indeed a God, he’s far too busy to bother with my affairs. If there is a God, he would be a strange God if, in his infinite wisdom, concern himself with bicycles. This story made me think about what reality may actually be.

It also made me realise I am responsible for my life. For everything that I do, or fail to do.

One-minute wisdom

I will end this brief article with the first lines I read in the book “One-minute Wisdom” by Anthony DeMello, S.J.

When asked if one minute is a bit too short to achieve wisdom, the master said that it is 59 seconds too long.

I hope you enjoyed these stories as much as I did telling them.

When we moved to South Australia, Victor Harbour became a favourite weekend destination. The locals call it “Victor”.

“What did you do over the weekend?”

It’s the first question everyone in the office asks on a Monday morning.

“So, you went to Victor, eh?”

Victor is also referred to as “God’s waiting room”. It’s a cheeky reference, since this is a popular place to live for retirees and older folks. It is exquisite, although far from the city. A foretaste of heaven as residents wait for their next adventure in the peaceful coastal surroundings of the harbour.

Last weekend, we went to Victor for a birthday lunch. And on the way home, we dropped by Port Elliot next to Victor because my wife wanted to show our Korean friend how beautiful it is.

I thought it would be a good idea to share the experience.

Port Elliot is a small, charming town on Horseshoe Bay, along the southern coast of the Fleurieu Peninsula.

The Aboriginal name might have been “Witengangool”, but it was known as “Freeman’s Knob” before being proclaimed a port in 1851.

When we were there, it was late afternoon, and most shops were closed. It was quiet except for the sound of wind and waves as we strolled along the edge of Freeman Lookout. A couple of locals walking their dogs smiled and nodded their heads as we passed. It was very peaceful. God’s waiting room indeed.

I walked past this flight of stairs. It kind of reminded me of a stairway to heaven. There was a certain sense of loneliness as we strolled along the path. Not in a sad way, but it almost felt like this was how every person’s last journey might be. The complete lack of anxiety and sense of familiarity propelled me forward along the way. I wonder if this is how it would feel when I walk the last steps of life. There was no valley of darkness, only a mountain of light.

Nice.

We soon reached the end of the path that led to the road we drove in on. The old cottages sit comfortably next to newer holiday bungalows. It was as if time stopped and blended between the past and the present. I really like this old hotel overlooking the open park.

We walked up the road towards our car and came upon the historical landmark, The Lone Pine. This tree was planted on 8 August 1919 in memory of the Australian soldiers who fell in the Lone Pine charge at Gallipoli on 8 August 1915.

Fame gilds their far off lonely grave
On bleak Gallipoli shore
And ocean charts their funeral dirge
While loud the breakers roar

I often thought about those young men who gave their lives for peace. All those men who fought the wars so that we, the descendants, didn’t have to, who gave their lives that we might have ours. Lest we forget. But how can we forget? How can we ever forget?

We made our way to the car and drove home just as the sun set. For me, it was a solemn ending for the day. We spoke about what happened during lunch and the funny moments that peppered our conversations throughout.

“It was a good day.” My wife said.

It was such a very good day.

Last year, our two teenage boys started learning to drive. I thought if we’re going to do this, let’s do it at the same time. This has been one of the most stressful things for me since moving to Australia.

Although I am just an average driver, I have many years of driving experience. I am patient, sometimes to the pain of drivers behind me. I give way when I can, and wait until it’s clear before I enter a roundabout. I always check blind spots.

I am not very chatty while driving. I find it hard to do more than one thing at a time. I prefer driving with the radio off. And I dislike it when we have to change destinations on the go. I am glad some functions are now voice-activated. I look forward to the day when all cars are autonomous. No more human drivers.

So I wasn’t prepared when they took the steering wheels.

The process for getting a driver’s licence in Australia is simple: First, they have to be 15 years and 9 months old to get their Learner’s Permit (Your L’s). They have to complete an online assessment, study and pass a theory test, then apply for their learner’s permit, which is valid for 2 years.

This is where it differs from Singapore. Once they get their L’s, they can learn to drive with a qualified driver. That’s (average) me. We found a driving instructor to give them formal lessons, but I understand this is optional.

They each have to clock 75 hours of driving, including 15 hours of night driving.

That’s 150 hours on weekends, in the evenings, whenever. I had to find safe places for them to practise parking, do figure 8s, U-turns and 3-point turns, etc. All the things that I learned in 1984 came back quickly.

They can eventually get their Provisional Licence (P’s) through one of two methods:

• Vehicle on Road Test (VORT) practical driving test with a VORT authorised examiner. That is like the driving test in Singapore, I think. Most people we know go with the next method.

• Competency-Based Training and Assessment (CBT&A) course.

The second method is conducted by the driving instructor, who assesses their competence and approves the next step. It takes away the stress of the driving test that every Singaporean driver has to go through.

Once they have their provisional licence (P1), they can drive independently, but with conditions. And after 12 months, they can upgrade to a P2 licence for 24 months before qualifying for a full licence.

I like that it’s a long process. Experience is important for safe driving.

Every parent’s greatest fear

Two years ago, we had a friend whose teenage son died in a car accident. I understand it was after 10 p.m., and the road was dark and winding, with enormous trees on the side. I don’t know what happened, but it could have been anything. Speeding? Texting? A kangaroo?

His car wrapped around a tree trunk, and he died on the spot.

We knew him. We saw him grow up over the years. He was just a teenager, like ours. He had his whole life ahead. And he was a lovely, lovely young man.

This is every parent’s greatest fear. Sometimes, it may not be reckless driving. Sometimes it’s the driver, in the opposite direction, dozing off for 2 seconds. Sometimes it’s the slippery moss on the road around a bend. Sometimes it’s just bad luck.

You really can’t know.

You are NOT above average

Although mathematically impossible, most drivers consider their driving skills to be above average. The study conducted by Ola Svenson (1981), “Are you less risky and more skilful than our fellow drivers?”, found that 88% of US drivers rated themselves as above average in driving skills.

Another study found that 80% of drivers believed they were in the top 30% for safety.

Source: McCormick, Walkey, and Green (1986) “Comparative perceptions of driver ability — A confirmation and expansion. Accident Analysis & Prevention.”

This is called illusory superiority, or the “above-average” effect. It is a psychological bias where individuals overestimate their abilities when compared to others. Overconfidence.

From my experience, it is most dangerous when you are not yet competent but think that you are. I can see it happening.

When they first started driving, they were alert and cautious. They would go through a mental checklist that their instructor gave them before driving off. They know they are not yet competent.

After they have completed the Competency-Based Training and Assessment (which they passed), I noticed signs of “illusory superiority”.

1. They swear at other drivers. “What the…” as they gesture at the driver in front.

1. They drive with one hand, elbow locked, gripping the top of the steering wheel. This is despite my constant reminder to maintain “10 and 2”. Sometimes it’s just the index finger on the bottom of the steering wheel.

2. They forget to signal before turning or changing lanes.

3. They drive more aggressively, especially when exiting a bend or when the lights turn green.

4. They overtake more frequently while doing №1.

I understand because I was like that. I guess we all were, at some point.

How can I ensure they drive safely until they become competent?

I want to share a few tips. I will implement these when they get their P’s. Although it is important to give them time to build confidence and competence, I want to give them the best chance to get there safely.

1. Go on long (and boring) drives. I let them drive in traffic jams (peak hours) and bad weather. Run errands with me. I also insist they practise driving to the airport so that eventually, they can drop us off when we travel.

2. Increase frequency. My younger son drives to and from school when possible. Or to his friend’s house for birthday parties, even if it’s a short drive. Nothing replaces experience, so I encourage them to get as many hours as possible under their belt.

3. Take a Defensive Driving Course. I did this years ago when I was working with Subaru and found it very useful. How to use ABS effectively. How to recover when your car loses control on a slippery bend. How to avoid an obstacle at 100 km/h.

4. Learn to think ahead. The thing I talk about most when I drive is “the car’s body language.” You can sometimes tell when a driver is indecisive. Or when he is about to suddenly change lanes. Where is he looking when he’s driving? Down on his phone? The rear-view mirror?

5. Set rules. No texting while driving. No using the phone, no matter who calls. If you drink, I will pick you up whenever, wherever. Even if you are tired. Whenever, wherever. You will lose your driving privileges if you break these rules.

6. Learn to use the car’s technology. Cars today come with voice-activated control, so you don’t need to fiddle with knobs and switches while driving. Use cruise control to maintain speed and a safe distance. If you set it properly, you can just say “Call Dad”, and the car will do the rest. Most phones can also do the same.

7. Think “What if…”. What if you are driving between two large trucks, and the one behind can’t stop in time? What if you are in a school zone, and kids suddenly cross the road without looking? What if the left tyre blows while you are on the expressway? What if your brakes fail?

8. Then learn the proper countermeasures for №7.

9. Avoid criticising when driving with them. I may suggest or remind, but do it in a non-reactive way. I realised that my presence can also become a source of stress for them, and they are trying their best. I want to build good habits, not create fear.

10. Make driving enjoyable. We do long drives to new destinations and have a pleasant lunch when we get there. Just remember not to order beer with it.

I realise that the best way to learn is to drive often. Practice will give them the experience of becoming truly competent drivers. I know that eventually, they will learn to drive in their own ways, in their own time.

I just want my sons to be safe, especially now that they are about to get their P’s. I want them to observe the rules, to be patient. Give way. Slow down. Check twice, then check again. I want them to assume that the other driver may not always do the right thing. Be paranoid. Be prepared.

I just want my sons to be safe.

When we migrated to Australia in 2009, our boys were just little. Although we tried, we couldn’t afford to visit Singapore as often as we would like. And when we did, I could tell that they were mostly strangers to each other. Their grandfather spoke Teochew, and they spoke only English.

They grew up not really knowing who their grandparents were.

So I decided to spend some time telling them about him and the very hard life he led. And I wanted to do this before I forget.

Your Grandfather, John

John, your grandfather, was born in 1928, in the year of the Earth Dragon. Our family came from the Province of Guangdong (广东省), in the district of Jieyang Shi (揭阳市), in the village of Ma Shou Chun (马碩乡).

He did not know his date of birth. His parents told him they left China and arrived in Singapore by boat when he was about 2 years old. His mother said that on the way to Singapore, he had apparently crawled off the edge of the boat and was rescued by his mother, who grabbed his ankle just as he fell off.

We wouldn’t all be here if she had missed. He was very lucky.

Your grandfather’s name is Chen Lin Bao (陈林宝). In Singapore, the British had romanised it as “Tan Lim Poh” based on the Teochew dialect. He wasn’t “John” until 1965, when he was baptised into the catholic faith before he married your grandmother.

So we think he arrived in Singapore in 1930. You have no idea what Singapore was like in the 1930s. It was a very different place compared to Singapore today.

Your grandfather was the 5th child of your great-grandfather’s 3rd wife. He never spoke much about the family he left in China, except that there was a war and they had to leave. We do not know what happened to the rest. Someday, I hope to find them and reconnect.

Your great-grandfather died shortly after arriving in Singapore. We think it was in 1936. John mentioned that his father lost everything because of the war and died of a broken heart. John was 8 years old then.

He said that his mother died of breast cancer when he was about 12. He remembered waiting for treatment with his mother outside an overcrowded clinic, and the smell of rotting wounds on his mother’s breast. She died shortly after. That would have been around 1940.

WW2 had just started.

The Fall of Singapore

In February 1942, Singapore fell to the invading Japanese.

I often try to imagine what it would have been like for your grandfather, a 14-year-old boy, to lose both parents just as WW2 started, in a strange land with few relatives. I can’t imagine the grit one would need to survive in such circumstances.

Days after the fall of Singapore, the Japanese army started the Sook Ching Massacre (華僑粛清) that killed over 55,000 Chinese. Victims, mainly males between the ages of 18 and 50, were rounded up and taken to deserted spots and remote locations around Singapore and shot with machine guns.

This event could have changed the history of Singapore because Singapore’s Founding Father, Mr Lee Kuan Yew, almost became a victim. Here’s the interview with him about the event:

Like Mr Lee Kuan Yew, your grandfather was very lucky. Again.

He mentioned that during that time, he found work in the kitchen of a Japanese camp. If he was lucky, he would get some leftover vegetables (mostly kang kong) to bring home.

He once missed work for a day, and when he returned the following day, the soldier in charge slapped him so hard that it knocked him to the ground.

He did not return the following day.

We know very little about the family that came with your grandfather. He mentioned he had a 3rd brother (三哥). Years ago, I remember a lady came looking for pictures of her father (三哥). It seemed he died when she was very young, and she never met him. Your grandfather had a passport-sized photo (they looked alike), which he gave to her. We never kept in touch. We should have.

We have only ever met his eldest sister (大姑) and youngest sister (小姑).

His eldest sister got married when she was about 15. After his parents’ passing, he lived with his eldest sister now and then, but mostly with his father’s younger brother, an uncle.

He described this uncle (三叔) as an opium addict and womaniser. He once saw him being chased and beaten up for an affair with a neighbour’s wife. Sometimes his uncle would disappear for days, and he couldn’t go home. So your grandfather lived on the streets often and did whatever a teenager could to survive.

After the War

The British returned after the war, and it was business as usual.

Until 1957, your grandfather had no citizenship or national status. Most people in Singapore were considered British subjects.

From Wikipedia: When Singapore gained internal self-government in 1959, Singapore became an independent Commonwealth country for the purpose of British nationality law. [13] From then on, Singaporean passports had the unusual nationality status of “British subject: citizen of the State of Singapore” instead of the usual “British subject: citizen of the United Kingdom and Colonies”.[14] There are treaties signed by the United Kingdom during this period that specifically mention this unusual nationality status.

It wasn’t until 1963 that he became a citizen of Singapore under the new Constitution of the State of Singapore.

Your grandfather did all sorts of work to make a living. He told me about how he started as a coolie (苦力) carrying sacks of charcoal or rice from the bumboats to the go-down along Boat Quay. He received a short bamboo stick with red paint on one end from the supervisor for each sack he moved, and was paid based on the number of sticks he collected. He said you had to be quick, and the sacks were heavy, and it was backbreaking.

Eventually, after saving some money, he tried working as a fruit hawker. He collected them from the wholesaler and cycled some 5–6 miles each day to and from the town centre around Katong, where he lived. My late cousin said he and all his siblings would come, and that he would give them fruit as a treat. He thought maybe that’s why your grandfather never made any money.

He also sold homemade ice cream (which he taught me to make) and drinks at the Katong area, mostly targeting cinema-goers and people out and about in the evenings. He used to live in this house on Tanjong Katong Road in the 50s.

In the 60s, he started working in construction, as there were more opportunities in Singapore. There were developments in housing, factories, and schools. He worked as a subcontractor with friends mostly, and specialised in installing sewage pipes.

He had a few business partners over the years. I understood that, because of his lack of literacy, he would handle the actual work, including hiring and supervising workers from Malaysia, while his partner would seek contracts and entertain clients (main contractors). Your grandfather was very dependent on his partners.

This is what it was like for your grandfather back then.

Years later, I would learn that his job was actually very dangerous. His colleagues and workers got injured or killed frequently. There were no safety standards or proper tools when lifting sewage pipes that weigh a couple of tons. It was all makeshift scaffolds and pulleys, with workers pulling in tandem, and one person at the bottom of the ditch guiding the massive pipe into place. And accidents were frequent.

Over the years, there were accidents that could have gone badly, but your grandfather lived through them with unbelievable luck. He always thanked his guardian angel for looking after him. And he spoke with much pride of the hardship he endured those days.

But after several near-misses, he retired from construction in 1984. He was 56.

There were other reasons, I think.

The partnership fell through, and he became rather disillusioned. I remember his partner coming to our house to settle payments. I remember hearing my father saying,

“What about the company car? Are you sure it is worth so little?”

“Is this all that is left?”

“Whatever, whatever.”

By 1984, construction contracts were more regulated and very competitive. Large Japanese MNC contractors now compete with locals for projects. The cost of “entertaining” these “main cons” was also rising as margins got thinner.

Your grandfather was also seriously myopic by then. He used to buy his (used) spectacles from roadside vendors at night markets (Pasar Malam). Whatever he thought gave him a clear vision, he just bought it. No prescriptions. He mistook overpowered lenses for better lenses. Eventually, opticians said his near-sightedness was -20. There were no lenses then that were -20.

He was legally blind.

It was years later, when he had a cataract operation, that he discovered it was not myopia but serious astigmatism. By then, it was too late.

Over the years, his hearing got worse, too. Working without protection, the loud noises at these construction sites took their toll. And those barbers who “cleaned” his ears after a haircut did irreparable damage. He was getting deaf as well.

It must have been very difficult during those times. Your grandfather was the sole breadwinner, and with so many of us to feed (your grandmother, 5 children and my great-grandmother), the pressure must have been tremendous. Although he never told us about it, I can imagine how hard it must have been just putting food on the table.

With some persuasion from your grandmother, they set up a stall in a school canteen to sell food. They would walk 2km from our home to the school at 6 a.m. each day, carrying some of the food we helped prepare the night before. It was a small primary school for girls, so they made very little. Maybe enough for groceries and our school fees. We were living off your grandfather’s savings most of the time.

Around 1990, your grandmother inherited some money from her father, and as some of us started working, life got a little better and easier.

Your grandfather retired shortly after and lived a quiet life. He spent many hours saying the rosary each day and watched endless WWF reruns in his room with his eyes inches away from the television. By then, he was basically blind and deaf.

On 6 May 2013, your grandmother Teresa, his sole companion, passed away.

On 17 November 2022, your grandfather, John, passed away.