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How Getting Older Expands Our Heart

In my 20s, the thought of my approaching 30s felt like some other planet. The older people around me seemed to belong to a different era; their lives marked by concerns I couldn’t understand. But as the years passed and my 40s arrived, something shifted. Suddenly, I could see the people ahead of me—those 10, 20, or even 40 years older—in a different light. It was like I was crossing an invisible membrane I hadn’t realised was there. Their experiences that had once seemed so distant, began to feel closer. More comprehensible.

You stop looking at people through the lens of your own needs, and start seeing them for who they really are

When you’re young, you spend so much energy chasing approval, achievements, or even just trying to figure yourself out. Everything feels urgent, and your insecurities feel all-encompassing. But as you grow older, a lot of those things just start to fall away. The things you once thought were critical to your identity — how people see you, whether you’re doing “enough”—starts to matter less. You realise that no one is watching you as closely as you thought. That it’s not all about you. And honestly, that realisation is so freeing.

When all that mental clutter begins to shrink, something unexpected begins to take root in its place: understanding. You stop looking at people through the lens of your own needs, and start seeing them for who they really are. Philosopher Martin Buber talked about two ways we connect with others: “I-It” relationships, where we see people as roles or objects, and “I-Thou” relationships, where we truly meet them as whole, complex beings. Getting older nudges you toward the second kind. You’re not trying to measure people against what they mean to you anymore—you just see them. And that changes everything.

I often remember my grandparents and wish I’d known them better: not just as grandparents but as people. Asked them what their dreams were, their struggles, regrets. I had some of these conversations with my Nani, who was a friend, and these are among my most precious memories. But how much more I could have understood her and others if I’d had then the empathy I have now. How much deeper I could have experienced their lives beside mine own.

We’re taught to fear getting older, as if it’s a steady erosion of vitality or significance. But the slow letting go of youth and its ego creates space for something deeper. It brings us this profound gift of empathy. A way of seeing and understanding others that enriches your relationships and your sense of self.

Getting older, in this way, is not a loss but an expansion, a broadening of the heart and mind. And perhaps that’s its greatest gift.

Happiness is not the absence of unhappiness

We all want to be happy, but what that means is difficult to define. We usually define it in relation to something negative we are feeling right now. Some anxiety about the future. Emotions like jealousy, anger, or discomfort. And we tell ourselves that if we are able to get rid of this unhappy feeling, then we will be happy.
But is it really as simple as that?

Don’t try to escape unhappiness because not only is it an unavoidable fact but a part of our very nature

PANAS ( Positive and Negative Affect Schedule) is a psychological scale that measures our inclination towards two sets of emotions. The positive ones like joy, excitement and love, and the negative ones like fear, anger, jealousy, disgust, etc.
But PANAS sees these two sets of feelings existing in parallel in us at the same time. Let me illustrate that with two examples.

Imagine you have taken your child to the beach and are watching it play and have the time of its life, and you are feeling so much joy. But at the same time you are also tense that it does not go too far into the water, so much so that you cannot fully relax. So are you happy or unhappy?


Another example. Your best friend has just informed you how she finally found her soulmate and is soon getting engaged. And while you are absolutely thrilled for her, you are also thinking of how unlucky in love you have been. So again, are you happy or unhappy in this situation?
Both.

But at the same time, it is a fact that all of us are more inclined towards one set of emotions over the other because of our genetic makeup. But that still doesn’t mean that those of us more bent towards negative emotions are necessarily unhappier, because these negative emotions mix with the positive ones to define our own typical personality type – as Arthur Brooks shows in this excellent matrix he has devised.

In his categorisation, people who score very high on positive emotions and low on negative ones, are the eternal optimists who are always looking at the bright side of things. He calls them ‘Cheerleader‘.
At the opposite end are those who mull too strongly on all the sad and evil things in life. But this angst finds an outlet in their creativity, and with their finely-attuned sensitivities make them the ‘Poet‘.
Then there those who experience both positive and negative affects very highly, oscillating between extreme excitement and motivation, and then exhaustion and depression. This is the ‘Mad Scientist‘ and in fact many of today’s creative workers follow this very pattern of bursts of creative energy followed by down-time.
And then there is the ‘Judge‘, who is low on both types of emotions. That is neither do they get too excited nor too disappointed, and that gives them a cool detachment from things and allows them to see things more objectively.

This is a really useful matrix to not only understand our natural personality type, but also to understand how we can balance it better to find our sweep spot of happiness.

For example, if you are the cheerleader type, who always sees the best in everyone you meet, it’s more than likely that by the time you are in your adulthood, you have met too many people who took advantage of your trust.

But instead of allowing a deep cynicism to seep into you, you can just change your initial response to the new people you meet. That is, instead of just blindly trusting them on their words and charm, first let them prove their sincerity to you by their actions over some time. That is, exercise your Judge personality type more in the beginning, and then once you are sure of their intentions, give them all your unthrottled love.
Similarly, if you are a Judge, try to cultivate some excitement, some creativity, so that you are not always watching life from a distance but also actively participating in it.
And so on.

Our inclination towards one personality type should not mean we have a single monotonous response to everything that comes in our life

Because here’s the nub. I believe happiness is really a balance of all these personalities present in us to different extents. Our inclination towards one type over others should not mean we have a single monotonous response to everything that comes in our life.

So, if you are feeling unhappy right now, don’t look to eliminate it to find happiness. First understand where this negative feeling is coming from. What are you feeling afraid of? Or envious, disgusted, sad about? Sometimes, these feelings have a rational basis, but more often than not you’ll find that you are overreacting to a situation. And it may help here that instead of looking for it to miraculously pass, you balance it with the right PANAS personality.

For e.g., if you are feeling sleepless and all your life’s regrets are visiting you right now, bring out your Cheerleader and think of all the things you can be grateful about. Or, bring out the Poet and savour this bittersweet flavour of life that gives us beauty in pain. The whole foundation of Urdu poetry lies in this. Similarly, a Judge can help you create more distance through detachment and a Mad Scientist can drown out this passive depression with the passion of some new work.

Different remedies might work at different times, but they are all accessible to us because – as I said – we all have these personalities in us to different degrees.
So, don’t try to escape unhappiness because not only is it an avoidable fact but a part of our very nature.
Instead, discover your personality type and also try and develop the other types within you also, to to some degree.
Find that balance within you first.

When change is taking too long to happen

Think about the world barely five-hundred years ago.
We believed we came into this world as two fully-fleshed adults around 4000 BC. The sun circled our earth. Basic laws of physics like inertia were still to be discovered. As was calculus. Books were just beginning to be printed after centuries of being copied by hand and kept locked in monasteries, any disease was treated by blood-letting, and we believed that if we rowed too far we would fall off the edge of the earth. (Okay, some people still believe that one but you can’t please them all.)
I am citing here the beliefs held in Europe at that time, but the rest of the world was not very far ahead. And it was in Europe of course that the spark of the scientific revolution was lit, that defines the world we live in today.

But it took nearly two millennia for Euclid’s geometry to progress to Newton’s calculus. And even within this later revolution, more than a century separates Copernicus’ heliocentric theory from Newton’s three laws. The complete overhauling of our knowledge of the world thus began excruciatingly slow and was full of setbacks and self-doubt. Copernicus in fact delayed publishing his work for over 30 years because as a churchman himself he was too racked by doubts!

And yet the world changed. One by one, all long-held beliefs were challenged and most fell. The world we have inherited today, is like that Ship of Theseus where every original plank has been substituted with a new one.

But this is the point: Copernicus could no see as far as Newton, and Newton not as far as Einstein. Similarly, between Kant and Foucault, lie several philosophers. And so even the greatest minds can see only a little ahead of the knowledge of their time, and this is where they work from. Changing one thesis at a time. Or to extend the analogy with Ship of Theseus, one plank at a time.

This is how any change begins. Slowly and nearly invisibly. Whether it be this greatest revolution of our time, or that inner transformation we are struggling to put.
For a long time, we see minuscule progress when we are impatient for an instant makeover. And yet, if we have the strength to persevere, we will wake up one day in the future and realise how far we have come from where we started with.

For there cannot be a makeover without these incremental shifts of vision. All the self-help books that promise overnight transformation, all the advertisements seducing us – they are lying. For the shift we are looking for happens not outside us but within.
It is not our circumstances that have to change, but us. We have to begin questioning the beliefs we took as self-evident, and we all know how difficult that is. It is like shaking the very ground one stands upon.

To state my own case, for a long time I was ridden by anxiety of failure. To the point that I would be physically assailed by the most painful ulcers when I was stressed. But slowly I realised that it was not my circumstances that were driving my anxieties, but my most basic fears and shame. I began to work on these core beliefs I held, questioning them when a ‘catastrophe’ hit, asking myself what is the worst that can really happen. The shift in my responses were only gradual, for going against our past conditioning is like trying to wade against a very powerful current, but slowly – inch by inch – I began to shift. I am still not where I want to be, and I will perhaps never reach that ideal, but I know how far I have come and quite pleased with that.

I remember the terror every time I ventured into something new. Quitting at thirty-three with little savings and no plan other than to read and write for the next few years. Interviewing a stranger, asking him to revisit a harrowing tragedy. Stepping in to alone conduct a workshop of 30 young cynical men. Climbing a vertical glacier with pick-axes at the age of forty-five. And most of all, exposing myself to the disapproval of others after a lifetime of shining as the ‘high-achiever’.
But I persisted, through far more failures than successes. And the shifts began to slowly fall in, tiny incremental steps. And with every shift, my horizon expanded. Things I feared turned out to be not that frightening after all. I could now progress to the next level, in gaming terminology. My worldview changed so many times over that I no longer believe in the totality of any knowledge or opinion I hold now, realising its limits.
Many, many more shifts await me. But I know now I would not see them manifest in me for a long time. And I also know that is all right. For I know, deep down within me, something is happening.

An example I have witnessed was this fifty-year old lady who joined my yoga class, very out of shape in the beginning and taking months before she could touch her shins bending forward. But by the end of the year, she was reaching her ankles.


For a transformation is never in a flash, it inches forward – and then rushes ahead when the momentum has built up. In neurobiology, the longest wait happens when the brain is rewiring itself to new pathways of thinking.


So if you feel frustrated then with your very slow progress in whatever you are trying to change in you, remember Copernicus. One of the greatest mathematicians of all times, struggling to overturn the foundational worldview of his time with only the basic math of his time as his tool – and withholding his discovery for thirty years from the world.
Even if that’s how long it takes for you to reach somewhere, it’s worth many times more than staying where you are right now. A place you no longer believe in, but are still to discover its alternative.

To quote Martin Luther King – “If you can’t fly then run, if you can’t run walk, if you can’t walk crawl, but by all means keep moving.”

The journey is the transformation.

Friendships That Come to Us Later in Life

When I shifted careers midlife, moving from the corporate world into the less defined spaces of theatre, arts, and education, I expected many things to be different. What I didn’t fully anticipate was how much it would redefine my circle of friends.

Starting over in a new field meant working with people from very different backgrounds. We hadn’t taken the same academic streams; didn’t share the same lingo. I remember my quiet confusion at many of the references they traded, rooted in worlds I hadn’t yet learned to understand.

But my questions in life had shifted, and I found myself connecting with them more than with many old friends, who were now moving in different directions.

And so, over time, a new set of strong friendships began to form for me. Built on this resonance in ideas — and on why we cared enough to make them our life’s work.

There’s a popular belief that after a certain age, you can’t make “real” friends. And I understand why we believe it. Those early friendships are still a lifeline for me, woven through my life with a depth of history no new bond can easily match. They carry the weight of a thousand unspoken memories.
But it’s one thing to cherish the friendships of youth. It’s another to believe they are the only ones that can ever be real. What changes isn’t just how friendships form, it’s what they are built on.

When we’re young, friendships often grow because we are thrown together in schools and colonies, hostels, first jobs, and endless late-night conversations. They are intensely emotional and leave their imprint on us forever.
But one quiet danger of midlife is an excess of nostalgia. Not just for the past, but for the person you once were.
Like many others, some of my favourite evenings are still spent with old friends, going over the same old stories, beer mugs in hand. But I don’t grieve the ways I’ve changed since then. I don’t carry guilt for the fact that, while those old friendships remain deeply rooted in affection, they don’t always reflect the questions that shape my life today.
And that’s natural. Because the friendships we need are shaped not only by memory, but also by the values, interests, and contexts we grow into over time.

If we don’t acknowledge this, we risk downplaying the friendships that are quietly forming around us. That may not carry years of shared history, but carry something just as vital: a shared present. A resonance with the person we are becoming, not just the person we once were.
Because even if you haven’t shifted careers, life itself shifts you. You grow. You outgrow.
And some friendships, new or old, grow with you. Others remain precious, but belong to a different part of your journey.

Later friendships may not come with the explosive intensity of youth. But if you stay open, you may find they are just as real, sometimes even truer — because they are built for the person you are becoming, not just the person you used to be.
And there is nothing to mourn in that. It is simply the quiet way life continues to move forward, carrying us, and our friendships, with it.

The Philosophy of Regret: How Experience Shapes Us

Like many young people, I used to be my own harshest critic. Every mistake, every failure felt monumental, like it revealed something essential about who I was. That inner voice was loud, unrelenting, exhausting.
But as I’ve gotten older, something shifted. The weight of mistakes no longer feels crushing. Regret doesn’t gnaw the way it used to. But for a while, I wasn’t sure if this was growth — or just the dulling of sharp edges with time.
But reading upon Kierkegaard’s biography, I came across how after he broke off his engagement to a Regine Olsen, it haunted him for years. He saw the decision as a sign that he was deeply flawed and unworthy of happiness. And he carried this guilt and relentless self-criticism right through his youth. I so resonated with his feelings here!
But as he grew older, he began to see such “failures” more and more as experiences. And with this shift in mindset, what once felt like a devastating mistake, became the foundation for his groundbreaking inquiries into love, despair, and selfhood.

Philosophy—real philosophy—isn’t just found in books. It’s lived. It’s earned.

No one becomes wise by collecting profound quotes.
We don’t gain wisdom just by reading about regret, longing, or failure. We only truly understand them when we’ve lived through them—when life makes us wrestle with loss, when our desires go unfulfilled, when we face the consequences of choices we can’t undo. A quote about love, despair, or resilience might seem profound when we first read it, but it’s only after we’ve stumbled through love, felt the weight of despair, or endured something that tested us, that those words begin to mean something.
This is why experience matters. It doesn’t just add years to our lives—it shapes us. It forces us to move beyond theory and face reality as it is. What once felt like ruin becomes the ground where something deeper can grow. And the real difference time makes isn’t that we stop making mistakes, but that we learn how to sit with them, learn from them, and turn them into something more than regret.
Philosophy—real philosophy—isn’t just found in books. It’s lived. It’s earned. And in that process, what once felt like an unbearable weight becomes the very thing that gives us depth.

The Quiet Joy of Being Overlooked

This is my letter to the World

That never wrote to Me—

The simple News that Nature told—

With tender Majesty.

Emily Dickinson has always been one of my favourite poets, drawn to her enigmatic style. But as I’ve grown older, what once felt abstract now feels personal. And her quiet, contemplative life resonates with me as much now as her poems.

It’s not about how others perceive you—it’s about how deeply you connect with yourself and the world around you.

Dickinson spent most of her life in quiet obscurity. Out of nearly two-thousand poems, fewer than a dozen were published while she was alive. She rarely left home, preferring to immerse herself in her thoughts and the natural beauty around her.

Dickinson reminds us of the quiet joy in creating for its own sake, without the pressure of acknowledgment. Her poem “This is my letter to the World,” that I have quoted above, captures this very sentiment.

When we’re young, attention feels like the ultimate prize. We chase recognition, believing it’s the key to self-worth. But as time passes, the need to be seen starts to fade.

Stepping out of the spotlight can feel liberating. It frees you to move at your own pace, make choices without the weight of external judgment, and notice the subtler joys in life. When you’re not performing for an audience, you can finally focus on what matters most to you.

Being overlooked also gives you the chance to reconnect with yourself. Without the constant pressure to be “seen,” you can rediscover the parts of you that were hidden by the need for approval. It’s not about how others perceive you—it’s about how deeply you connect with yourself and the world around you.

In her playful poem “I’m Nobody! Who are you?” Dickinson celebrates the freedom of anonymity:

I’m Nobody!

Who are you?

Are you—Nobody—too?

Then there’s a pair of us!

Here, she turns anonymity into connection. It’s not loneliness—it’s a shared understanding of life outside the spotlight. There’s camaraderie in being “Nobody,” a quiet joy in knowing that life’s greatest moments don’t need an audience.

The Magic of Watching Life on the Big Screen

It had been a while since I stepped into a movie theatre. And so last weekend, on a whim, I decided to watch All We Imagine as Light running its final show at a nearby PVR. The film was already streaming online, but something about seeing it on the big screen felt important.

So, I went alone, found a seat among the small but heartwarming crowd, and for the next two hours, I rediscovered something I had forgotten—the power of watching ordinary life unfold on a 30-ft scale.

Movies often avoid the tragic truth about being human: the unbridgeable gap between what we want and the circumstances we are trapped in. Instead, they offer us glossy escapes into neat plots and perfect endings, let us vicariously experience the big emotions played by larger-than-life stars. But there is another kind of beauty, of everyday life. The quiet dreams we hold onto, and the small joys that make life bearable.

The film’s key protagonists, Prabha and Anu, are two nurses restrained by traditions even as they live by themselves in a slummy quarter of Mumbai. Prabha’s absent husband keeps her from returning the love of a kind doctor, while Anu loves a Muslim boy. Their reality is one of cramped dingy homes, exhausting commutes, and words like “Passion” and “Purpose” must feel as distant to them as Port Wine. But their story isn’t just all bleak. Pierced now and then by moments of tenderness and joy: the curiosity and excitement at an unexpected parcel, the MRI of their pregnant cat, sea breeze grazing their skins on a stolen trip.

Philosopher Hannah Arendt spoke of how even in the darkest times, humans find ways to keep a little light alive— “a kind of spiritual survival instinct”. This light, she said, is something that only those who struggle and those who are pushed to the edges of society truly know.

It is this tiny light that I believe the movie’s title alludes to. The light that the ‘Drowned Man’ describes he tried to imagine as he remained stuck inside his factory for days.

That light—that persistence of hope—shines through the characters’ stories and their eyes, and seeing it on a big screen rather than on my laptop greatly elevated the experience for me.

For too long now the bigness of cinema-screens has been reserved only for spectacles of CGI-charged action and megastars dishing out their stardom. We have forgotten the wonder of a human face blown up to the same scale, an ordinary face like ours, but imparted a heroic quality in this largeness. Turning their quiet struggles into something epic.

When darkness falls, the pupils expand to find smaller sources of light, and it was the same hugeness of these actors’ tired but wonderfully alive eyes that reminded me how life tinily compensates for its misfortunes by gifting us this spiritual sensitivity to its unseen but always-swarming beauties.

I only wish we gave more screen time to these stories where the hero is our everyday resilience. Where we celebrate life itself in its plotless fashion, instead of always looking to escape it.

Imagine the self-compassion we could develop if we were not always trying to flee our frustrated desires, but embracing them now and then, reflected in other characters, and realising how beautifully alive and human they really make us.

Imagine we as a nation sometimes gathering together to quietly watch ordinary people like ourselves, persisting with the will to beauty and joy despite all odds. Will we look at each other differently when we step out of the hall? Recognise in each other the same struggles, the same search for happiness?

Ordinarily when I step out of cinema that has immersed me for a few hours, the world jars harshly. But I stepped out of All We Imagine as Light with a soft sympathy for the bright chaotic world around me – and also a quiet joy in being part of this earthy resilient life we all share.


Cover image source: Still from Iranian movie Shirin

What If You Never ‘Find’ Your Purpose?

When my generation was growing up, the pressure on us was simple: get a job. Stability first, everything else later.

But working with younger people as an educator, sometimes for several months at a stretch, I’ve noticed something else—a different kind of anxiety. It’s no longer just about getting a job; it’s about finding a purpose.

The right purpose.

Something waiting for them out there, their true calling, that they had to—had to—arrive at.

It’s the same across generations now, I think. Purpose has become a mantra, defining identity in the same way a bucket list does.

And when we don’t have an answer, we feel lost. We assume something is wrong, that we’re behind, that we haven’t searched hard enough. We chase passion, hoping it will turn into purpose. We read stories about people who found their one true thing and followed it all the way to success.

But real life doesn’t work that way.

For most of us, purpose isn’t some aakashvani breaking out from the sky, announcing our life’s direction. Nor is it some hidden treasure buried deep inside us, something we must dig for, uncover, and then dedicate our lives to.

The fact is that most of us don’t have a singular, defining purpose that arrives fully formed.

And the ones who do?

They usually stumble into it—through years of trial and error, through accidental encounters, through commitment to something long before they were sure it was the thing.

Because –

Purpose doesn’t arrive as certainty—it grows through engagement.

I’ve seen theatre makers who began with nothing more than a desire to stage one play — only for the work to shape them, not the other way around.

People who built small setups in non-sexy spaces. Who started with just one client, one problem to solve, and only later realised that something deeper had begun to evolve.

At the start, there was no grand mission—just one step forward.

That’s how purpose happens. It’s not something you find; it’s something you build.

This has been true in my own life. I didn’t start writing with a grand vision of purpose. I wrote because I had to.

Same with teaching. In the beginning, it was just a gig. A way to make some money and also practice my burgeoning theatre skills. But the more I did it, the more I realised—this matters to me.

And because I had removed all fallback options, I had to put in my all into these choices I was making, no matter how vague they felt then. The purpose began to evolve only later.

But many people never get there, simply because they are afraid to commit to anything too hard. They are always asking of themselves –

  • What if I invest in this career, this skill, this direction—only to realise later it wasn’t my true purpose?
  • What if I choose wrong?

And because they never find the answer upfront, they never do commit fully. And so purpose eludes them.

Because you cannot think your way into purpose.

You have to live your way into it.

So instead of asking ‘What is my purpose?’, try asking:

What am I willing to show up for, even without clarity?

What feels meaningful enough to invest in, even if I don’t have all the answers yet?

What am I curious about right now?

That’s all. No big pressure. No perfect answer.

Keep it simple. Take one step at a time.

Because purpose isn’t a destination: it’s a way of living. Purposefully — in whatever you do.

When Roads Close: Embracing the Art of Imperfection

The first novel I intended to write, inspired by Saramago’s style, was about a man who, upon learning he has only a year to live, decides to retrace his steps and resolve everything he has left unfinished—from yesterday all the way back to childhood.

I never wrote it beyond a few chapters, but the idea of things piling up that are seeking closure must have haunted me since college, because that’s when this novel was stillborn.

The things we never do for ourselves, the forks we could have taken, the unmade calls and the unspoken words. And the more the years pass, the more the roads behind are closed for good. Houses are sold, friends have moved oceans away, a parent dies.

Perhaps this is why, as we grow older, we naturally become more stoic. There’s only so much regret we can carry before it becomes too heavy to bear. We finally tell ourselves that what’s done is done, and what remains unfinished may never be completed. That we can only act in the present moment and accept the rest as it is.

But there is another way to look at these regrets. A philosophy concretised in the strange Japanese art of repairing broken ceramics with gold, kintsugi

Why would anyone highlight cracks, instead of using the usual transparent glue and hoping no one notices the cracks?
It wasn’t until I read about it that I discovered it was rooted in the Japanese aesthetic philosophy of Wabi-Sabi, which celebrates imperfection. Finding beauty in what is transient and unfinished. 

I love this rich idea. It has shifted my taste in what I read and watch – I no longer seek neatly resolved plots but instead relish the beauty of hanging threads. (My review of All we Imagine as Light touched upon the same theme.)

Wabi-sabi as a philosophy has helped me to shift focus from what I lacked to what I do have. From what I did not do, to what I did end up doing. It has made me embrace the life that partly I chose and which mostly happened to me; made me celebrate the people around me.

As I grow older, more people and opportunities will slip away from me. But I no longer seek a perfection in my life, but instead see it as a mosaic made of shards that survived and the cracks that hold them together. These regrets and dreams deferred are not flaws—they are what make my life uniquely my own. The things we leave undone are not burdens to bear but reminders of life’s true nature—its strange, cracked beauty.

Perhaps the truest form of closure is not in tying every loose end, but in the art of letting go: in embracing what we still have.

Why it matters we call the glass half-full

Whether we call the glass half-empty or half-full matters because it defines the direction we’re looking towards. 

Calling it half-empty means that we are measuring what is there with what is still missing in it. And calling it half-full celebrates how much is already there.

These two different outlooks reflect in the passion and perseverance we bring into anything we do.

A few years ago I was running an online channel where we broadcast interviews and panel discussions around community issues. We didn’t have enough budget to get professional anchors, but I still managed to recruit a small bunch from my theatre circle who were willing to work for a minimal fee because they believed in our content. And in no time they were improving by leaps and bounds and discovering their own unique styles.

But one of my partners did not see it that way. Right from day one, he kept complaining they were not as good as ‘Oprah Winfrey’! That is, he could only see how short they were falling, the half-empty bit. 

This thinking led to two outcomes:

Firstly, the feedback he gave them was almost entirely useless to them because it came from this imagined Oprah standard in his head, and not from where they were right now. (Imagine presenting for the first time before a really big audience, and the feedback you get is from how much better Steve Jobs was, rather than a more useful “Move across the stage a little more” or “Project your voice more”.)

Secondly, he was missing out on the journey the rest of us were having: of steadily improving with every show. He was missing out on the fun of learning.

Now extend this example to the obscene standards many of us demand of our own selves. The same two problems surface here. 

First, we are setting ourselves goals that are all but impractical. Remember the many, many times we all have promised ourselves that starting tomorrow, we’re going to overhaul our whole lifestyle. Adopt the whole seven thundering habits of highly successful people. That motivation lasts out as long as any New Year resolution: a week at the max. Because when the goals are inorganic – that is not coming from where we are right now – we are setting ourselves for failure. 

Second, it takes the fun out of learning. Instead of looking at our steady progress, we are measuring only our shortcomings. Instead of focusing on the 2-3 new things we are learning every day, we are kicking ourselves for all that we don’t know yet. We become our own hard and impatient taskmasters, and that leaves us feeling so demotivated that we ultimately drop out of the game altogether. 

Improvements are always incremental before they suddenly explode into non-linear results; sometimes so tiny we might not see them emerge for a long time. It is the law of the learning curve – and this is where a half-full attitude can make such a difference. It can give us the inspiration to persevere just long enough to reach that tipping point when suddenly change happens.

Call it optimism. Believing that things are looking good regardless of how they really are, because this belief creates its own self-reinforcing loop.

And with this optimism, what seems like a shortfall to a half-empty mindset is celebrated as a minor but significant improvement by the half-full mindset. 1% more than yesterday’s half-full. 

So wherever you are in your career, your career and personal projects, your life — stop looking forward for a while at where you want to go, and look back. See how far you have come. 

You are already half-full. 

And now look forward and go ahead with the belief that you are doing good and getting there wherever you want to go: one tiny step after another.

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The Philosophy of Regret: How Experience Shapes Us

Like many young people, I used to be my own harshest critic. Every mistake, every failure felt monumental, like it revealed something essential about...