Kunal Gupta's Blog, page 4

How to Love

Walking through the streets this week, love was impossible to miss.

Red roses stacked high at every corner store, the scent sweet and overwhelming. Heart-shaped balloons swaying outside cafés. Restaurant tables set for two, candlelight flickering in the window. The clink of wine glasses, the soft sounds of intimate conversation, the careful expressions of romance.

It’s the same every year. And yet, something about the overwhelming presence of it all always makes me pause. Not because I don’t believe in love, but because the version of love being celebrated feels so… specific. The kind that fits neatly into a dinner reservation, a bouquet of flowers, an exchange of words and gestures that say, I love you, and you love me back.

I think about the times I’ve said “I love you” in a relationship. What I was really saying was:

“I love the way you make me feel.”

“I love that you see me, that you choose me.”

“I love what we have built together, the life we share.”

Nothing about that is wrong. But it is transactional, whether I want to admit it or not. There is a lot of “me” in this. There is an exchange happening—love, given and received, measured in gestures, presence, and care.

It’s easy to forget that love doesn’t have to be this way. That love can exist without being returned.

I think about my grandmother. I have loved her my entire life, but it wasn’t a love that needed validation. It wasn’t about what she gave me, what she said, or how she made me feel. It just was.

There’s something freeing about that kind of love—love that doesn’t need to be acknowledged to exist. It isn’t about being seen. It isn’t about being chosen. It isn’t about filling a space within myself.

It’s the kind of love that expects nothing.

There are other loves like this.

Love for a childhood friend I haven’t spoken to in years, but who still holds a place in my heart.

Love for a city I no longer live in, but that still feels like mine.

Love for the ocean, steady and unchanging, even though it has never once loved me back.

These forms of love are quieter. They don’t come with grand gestures or celebration days. They aren’t the ones that get written into movies or turned into marketing campaigns. But they are, in many ways, the purest.

Most things I love still give me something in return—comfort, security, a sense of belonging. But I wonder, how many things do I love purely for their existence?

Love, in its truest form, is given, not traded. It is free of attachment, desire, or expectation. It asks for nothing. And maybe, that is what makes it special.

This week, love has been everywhere. But the love I’ve been thinking about most is the love that doesn’t need to be returned.

Some love is seen. Some love is returned. And some love, the purest love, simply exists.

And that is how I learned to love.

How to Mirror

I was running late for dinner.

Traffic had been a mess. Parking took forever. Now I stood outside the restaurant, watching my friends through the window. The warmth of conversation and laughter spilled into the evening air, but I was still carrying the tension of failing to get to dinner on time.

My first instinct was to blame the city. The roads were congested, the parking situation was impossible, and I had done my best. I pushed open the door, still thinking about everything outside of me that was the reason I was late.

But as I stepped inside the restaurant, something shifted. The glass door caught my reflection for just a moment—just long enough for a quiet thought to land.

Was traffic really the reason I was late?

If I was honest, I had left my apartment later than I could have. I had lingered unnecessarily, checked my phone one last time, let the minutes slip away in small, avoidable ways. It wasn’t just the traffic.

There had been a moment—maybe several—where I could have chosen differently.

The window had given me something external to point to. But the mirror from the glass door had offered me something else. A chance to look inside, versus outside.

When something doesn’t go as I want, where does my attention go? Do I scan the world outside for reasons, explanations, and excuses? Or do I look within? The difference is like looking through a window versus a mirror.

Through the window, I see everything beyond my control. A partner who doesn’t meet an expectation. A colleague whose habits frustrate me. A society that feels rigid in all the ways I wish it were flexible. The window gives me a view of all the forces acting upon me, and in doing so, it offers an easy and convenient answer: This is why things are the way they are. This is why I feel the way I do.

It is comforting in its simplicity. But it also makes me a spectator in my own life.

The mirror, on the other hand, is more demanding. It doesn’t offer easy explanations. Instead, it asks: What part of this do I have control over? Not in a way that is self-critical or blaming, but in a way that returns my power to me. What can I learn? What can I change?

It’s tempting to stay at the window. But the mirror is where change happens.

The window view is seductive in its simplicity, but exhausting in its consequences. The more I look outward for reasons, the more powerless I feel. There is always something to blame, but never anything to change.

The mirror, though, offers something different. It isn’t just clarity—it’s energy.

Looking in the mirror isn’t comfortable. It requires a particular kind of courage to see myself clearly, to acknowledge my part in the patterns that frustrate me. But it carries the gift of energy.

When I shift my gaze from the window to the mirror, something transforms. Complaints become questions. “They should” becomes “I could.” Powerlessness gives way to possibility.

This shift ripples outward. Teams respond differently when I own my part in challenges. Relationships deepen when I stop assigning blame and start getting curious about my patterns. 

The mirror offers no comfort, but it offers something better: a way forward.

Each day presents this choice anew. Each moment of friction, each disappointment, each challenge invites me to choose: window or mirror? The easy view or the true one? The story of circumstance or the story of growth?

I’m learning to choose the mirror.

And that is how I learned to mirror.

How to Bamboo

I wasn’t searching for it but felt it found me.

What initially caught my attention was Nine Perfect Strangers, the Apple TV series starring Nicole Kidman. The weekend yoga and mindfulness retreat I just finished took place where the show was filmed.

In the show, nine strangers arrive at a luxurious wellness retreat, hand over their phones, and are told they cannot leave. Nicole Kidman plays a new age guru and spiritual healer who comes off as more mysterious than mystical. Eventually, it’s revealed that their morning smoothies are laced with psychedelics. What begins as a utopia wellness experience shifts into a dystopian psychological experiment led by a power-hungry figure.

I rarely watch TV, but something about the series hooked me. Maybe it was the familiarity of having been on countless wellness retreats myself—and the curiosity of how something could appear serene on the surface while something entirely different unfolded beneath it. At the end, the guests figure out what’s going on, team up and escape.

When a friend sent me the website for this retreat centre, I recognized the setting immediately from the show–and thought it would be fun to see it for myself. Thankfully, we were allowed to leave. And no magic smoothies were involved.

The weekend was a nice mix of meditation, yoga, breathwork, and meals prepared according to Ayurvedic principles. The food was light, easy to digest, and yet somehow, despite eating a ridiculous amount, I never felt too full.

But what captivated me the most wasn’t the stillness inside—it was the bamboo outside.

Walking along the trails, I found myself in the middle of a grove, surrounded by towering bamboo stalks—twenty, maybe thirty meters tall. They were impossibly thin. I could wrap my thumb and finger around one, which seemed absurd considering their height. They were strong and dense—I could barely make them budge.

Then the wind picked up.

Suddenly, the stalks started rubbing against each other, emitting deep, eerie creaks. It wasn’t the gentle rustling of trees. It sounded haunted. Like a horror movie where the walls whisper just before something terrible happens.

I stood there, listening, watching, appreciating.

And then it came to me—what makes bamboo special.

It bends, it doesn’t break.

This simple quality makes it stronger than trees. When storms hit, oak trees resist. Sometimes, they snap. Bamboo just moves with the wind and stands back up.

In my fifteen years as the CEO of a tech company, I have been forced to adapt in ways I could have never predicted. Market shifts, customer demands, technological upheavals—every plan I ever made needed to be revised, reworked, or scrapped entirely. I used to think success came from strength, from holding my ground, from standing firm in what I believed. But in reality, the moments that defined my career were the ones where I was able to bend.

I used to think success was about standing firm. But the biggest breakthroughs came when I let go of rigidity.

Negotiating a deal? Bend.

Managing an unexpected crisis? Bend.

Leading a team through uncertainty? Bend.

I’ve come to realize that to survive in a fast-moving world, it’s not about being unshakable. It’s about being adaptable.

Bending isn’t just a business strategy. I see it in my body.

When I first started a yoga practice, I wanted to push myself into perfect poses. But real flexibility isn’t about forcing—it’s about allowing. When I resist, I tighten. When I soften, I expand.

It’s the same in relationships. To bend is to listen, to adapt, to make space for the other person. But there’s a limit. If I bend too much—if I ignore my own needs, overextend, or compromise on what matters—I don’t just bend, I lose myself.

One more thing about bamboo: before shooting up, it spends years growing underground. The explosive growth only happens after the roots have quietly spread deep enough to support it.

I’ve experienced this countless times. The quiet years. The ones where the work felt invisible, where I wondered if anything was happening at all. Like building a meditation practice over a decade of daily work. But just because something isn’t visible doesn’t mean it’s not growing.

The bamboo grove at the retreat centre became the source of inspiration for me as I look back at my time on the set of Nine Perfect Strangers.

Standing there, staring up at the bunches of bamboo stalks towering over me, The wind continued to howl through, the stalks creaking ominously, the whole thing looking as if it might collapse. But it won’t.

Life will throw storms. Some resist and snap. Others uproot and run. But bamboo? It bends and stays standing.

And that’s how I learned to bend, not break.

2034: How AI Changed Humanity Forever is my newest book and now available on Amazon on Kindle, paperback, hardcover or audiobook. You can also listen to it narrated by me on Spotify.

How to 70

A close family member turned 70 recently.

The night before his milestone birthday, we sat down for a small, intimate dinner—just a few of us gathered for a calm prelude to the big group celebration planned for the next day. It was the kind of evening where time slows down, and the conversations naturally become intentional.

The restaurant was loud, and it was hard to hear each other. For him, it’s sometimes harder to hear in general, so I had to be very pointed and specific with my questions. I didn’t mind. If anything, it made me more thoughtful and intentional in how I asked.

Finding a moment of quiet, I leaned in and asked him:

“In your 70 years, what’s the one piece of advice you’d want to give to someone else?”

I knew this was a big question—an impossible one, really. How do you distill seven decades of life into a single piece of advice? But I also knew he’d be giving a speech at his celebration the next day, so maybe this would help him reflect on what he might want to share with a larger audience.

He didn’t hesitate. His answer was simple, true, and, unfortunately, often forgotten:

“Don’t sweat the small stuff in life.”

I paused. I smiled. I let out a long, quiet sigh.

At that moment, his words felt like a wave of calm to me. I felt my shoulders drop, my jaw unclench, and the tension I didn’t even realize I’d been holding start to dissolve. His advice was like dropping a dot of food coloring into a glass of water—it spread instantly, coloring everything with its truth.

We started talking about how much of our mental and emotional energy we spend on things that simply don’t matter.

Take something as trivial as choosing a restaurant. We spend so much time deciding where to go, then agonizing over what to order, and later wondering if we made the right choice. We let our entire mood depend on how good the food is, how attentive the service feels, or how the ambiance matches our expectations. All of that energy—spent on something we likely won’t even remember a week from now.

And that’s just one example. When we zoomed out to look at the broader picture of life, we both acknowledged how many daily stressors, arguments, and moments of overthinking turn out to be inconsequential.

So, why do we let the small stuff weigh us down? Maybe it’s because, in the moment, everything feels important. It’s easy to let a bad meeting or a wrong turn on the way to dinner snowball into something bigger. But instead, what if we see it for what it is—a passing inconvenience.

As we talked, I realized how much I admired his clarity at 70. It wasn’t just advice—it was a philosophy, one that had likely taken decades of experience, reflection, and perspective to fully understand.

By the time I’m 70, I hope I have this understanding deeply ingrained in me too. I hope I’ve learned to let go of what doesn’t matter, to harness my life energy toward what really does, and to live in a way that brings joy to myself and those around me.

And that is how I learned to 70.

2034: How AI Changed Humanity Forever is my newest book and now available on Amazon on Kindle, paperback, hardcover or audiobook. You can also listen to it narrated by me on Spotify.

How to Monopoly

The first time I played the game, I was seven. 

The game wasn’t new—its box corners were worn, the lid barely clinging on, a hand-me-down from my cousin. But it felt like a treasure to me. Little did I know then that this game would become more than just a pastime—it would become a mirror, reflecting lessons on competition, relationships, and the art of knowing when something is complete.

Recently, while in Melbourne for the Australian Open, I stumbled across Monopoly Dreams, a physical tribute and museum of sorts dedicated to one of the most popular games of all time. As I wandered through its halls, surrounded by oversized dice and glowing property cards, my eyes widened in a way they hadn’t in years. Suddenly, I was back in that world—the wheeling, dealing, scheming world of my childhood.

I didn’t just love Monopoly as a kid—I lived for it. 

I forced my sister, cousins, and friends to play endlessly. I wasn’t playing for fun; I was playing to win. I studied patterns, perfected strategies, and approached every game with surgical precision as well as a ten-year-old could. 

Secure the blue or orange properties first. Negotiate deals as quickly as possible. Always keep cash on hand. My property empire always rose, and I always won. And I loved winning—until, one day, my streak came at a cost.

My younger sister, tired of endless defeat, declared a one-person rebellion. She made it her mission to convince everyone we played with that the game wasn’t fun anymore because I always won. And she succeeded. Slowly but surely, nobody wanted to play with me anymore. Just like that, my Monopoly career ended.

Standing in Monopoly Dreams nearly thirty years later, surrounded by pieces of a game that once defined my childhood, I was flooded with nostalgia. But what surprised me wasn’t the intensity of the memory; it was the absence of desire. 

I didn’t want to play again. I didn’t want to gather friends for a rematch or feel the thrill of victory. I simply smiled, remembering the joy the game brought me, and felt no need to drag my past forward into my present.

It is rare to feel so deeply about something and not want more of it. So many things in life we cling to, expecting them to evolve with us or remain relevant forever. Childhood passions, relationships, milestones—they often carry an unspoken expectation that they should follow us, as if their absence in the present is somehow a loss. But with Monopoly, I felt none of that. It was a chapter that had done its work, a story that didn’t need to continue.

The game taught me lessons I carry to this day. Strategy, negotiation, the balance of risk and reward—it all began on that worn-out board. It shaped how I think, how I make decisions, how I navigate the complexities of winning and losing. But like a book whose ending you already know, it doesn’t need to be revisited to be appreciated. Monopoly exists as a perfectly preserved memory, complete in itself, untouched by the passage of time.

Walking out of Monopoly Dreams, I realized that not every part of my past is meant to travel with me. Some things are beautiful precisely because they stay where they belong—in the past. They enriched me, they shaped me, and then they stepped aside, making room for what’s next.

The dice have been rolled, the properties bought and sold, and the game, in its own way, is gloriously complete. And in that completion, I’ve found a different kind of victory—not the thrill of winning, but the quiet satisfaction of knowing when to let go.

And that is how I learned to Monopoly.

Click here for a short highlight reel from my nostalgic tour of Monopoly Dreams in Melbourne, Australia.

2034: How AI Changed Humanity Forever is my newest book and now available on Amazon on Kindle, paperback, hardcover or audiobook. You can also listen to it narrated by me on Spotify.

How to Australian Open

Sitting in the stands at the Australian Open, I watched a tennis rally that seemed to stretch time. 

Nearly one minute passed as the players exchanged shot after shot, each return more precise and more powerful than the last. The crowd leaned forward, collectively holding its breath, each swing of the racket pulling us further into the tension. When it finally ended, the tennis ball grazing just beyond the baseline, the applause erupted with the kind of energy only a live sports moment like that can summon.

What struck me, though, was that looking at the player’s facial expressions, it wasn’t immediately clear to me who had won the point. Both wore the same expression—a blend of satisfaction and exhaustion. They shared a quiet understanding that the rally itself, not the outcome, was the real achievement. Another real life reminder for me that the journey matters more than the destination.

That moment brought me back to my own days on the court. I played tennis for nearly a decade in childhood, a few times a week with consistency. One of my clearest memories is of playing with Peter, a childhood friend. Peter was better than me—not so much better that he’d grow bored, but just enough to keep each other engaged. I could beat him only about a third of the time, but only after working harder than I thought possible.

Our matches would become a valuable life lesson for me that continues to give. Playing against Peter taught me that growth often comes from being challenged by someone better, stronger, or smarter. His skill pushed me to improve, to try hard, and to sharpen my own abilities. That lesson has stayed with me, far beyond tennis. If I find myself in a room where I’m the most skilled or knowledgeable, it’s a signal to seek out new challenges. Growth doesn’t happen in comfort. It happens in the long rallies—where effort, not ease, defines the moment.

Despite my years of playing tennis, I’ve never felt the need to pick up a racket again as an adult. Even watching Djokovic at the Australian Open, one of the greatest players of our time, didn’t stir in me any desire to return to the court. Instead, I feel a quiet peace. 

Tennis had its spotlight in my life, and I’ve let it go. There’s something freeing about releasing a part of my past, not out of frustration or loss, but from a place of satisfaction. I did it. I loved it. And I’ve moved on because I feel complete.

Each year, I set a one-word intention to help guide the year and this year, my one word is inspire. While it’s still early into the new year, this intention is already shaping me. Inspire isn’t just about seeking out what moves me; it’s also about recognizing what doesn’t. 

Watching the Australian Open, I wondered if this experience would inspire me to visit Wimbledon or the French Open while I’m in Europe later this year. I’ve already seen the US Open, so attending all four Grand Slam events could have been a fun challenge. But as I sat there today, watching the game unfold, I realized it didn’t inspire me. And that, too, is part of my intention. Knowing what no longer inspires me is just as valuable as discovering what does. 

That long rally I witnessed today at the Australian Open wasn’t a feat of sport; it was a metaphor for my life. It reminded me that life’s greatest moments and meaning are often found in the process, the effort, and the endurance—not in the outcome. The rally is the reward.

And that is how I learned to Australian Open.

2034: How AI Changed Humanity Forever is my newest book and now available on Amazon on Kindle, paperback, hardcover or audiobook. You can also listen to it narrated by me on Spotify.

How to Experiment

Experimentation has been the lifeblood of my philosophy as an adult. Like a scientist in their laboratory, I've transformed my life into a continuous series of thoughtful explorations.

Unlike goals and plans that have specific outcomes and expectations in mind, experimentation offers a different path—one without rigid expectations. It is the ultimate expression of the age-old spiritual teaching found in many scriptures: focus on the journey over the destination. Experimentation has become my way of putting this teaching into action.

I wasn't always this way. For years, I approached life like an equation to be solved, setting rigid goals and becoming frustrated when variables wouldn't cooperate. After taking a traditional approach to life and feeling unsatisfied with how I felt, despite often achieving what I had set out to do, I decided to change my approach to be less attached to outcomes.

At the start of each year, I like to set intentions.

The first task is to pick a one-word theme to guide my choices throughout the year. This is my North Star, helping me make decisions, big and small. Last year, my one-word theme was Flow, which taught me to release control and trust the natural rhythm of life. This year, it is Inspire. 

The one-word intention is purposefully broad and abstract, allowing space for it to unfold and manifest however it chooses to as the year progresses. If you have not yet picked a word as your theme for 2025, I encourage you to do so. Now.

Next are choosing a set of priorities—usually three to five areas of life that I wish to focus my energy on. These are fairly obvious categories, such as health, relationship, career, family, learning, writing, giving, and more. What's less obvious though are the relative prioritization of them and the implicit trade-offs needed to really call them priorities.

And next comes choosing my experiments. Last year, I had two experiments: Unscheduled and Unplugged.

Unscheduled was an experiment to bring to life my intention of Flow by relying less on calendaring and planning things in advance. After decades of being ruled by my calendar and commitments, adopting an unscheduled mindset gave me permission to be more spontaneous, to tune into how I was feeling and what I was needing. I loved it, and now it has become a natural part of my rhythm in life.

Unplugged was an experiment to see how many days I could disconnect from my phone completely—no email, no WhatsApp, no social media, no news. I ended up getting a second phone to support the experiment, which had only basic utilities such as Uber and Google Maps that I realized I needed for daily life. I tracked this experiment and had 63 days in 2024 without connection to the world. It was much higher than I would have guessed, and I appreciated each day that I unplugged from technology to connect more deeply.

As I brainstormed in my journal this morning about experiments for 2025, several ideas emerged, each aligned with my one-word intention of Inspire. 

In the realm of health, I'm curious about tracking days of fitness activity across strength, flexibility, and endurance, as well as documenting the changes I notice with regular red light therapy with my new home panels.

For professional growth, I'm considering challenging myself to avoid checking the stock market before noon, after noticing how market fluctuations influenced my daily mood last year.

I'm also excited about expanding my AI toolset beyond ChatGPT, which I currently use 30 to 40 times daily, to discover new tools that I can incorporate into my daily lifestyle.

I continue to love writing and appreciate all of the encouragement I receive from those around me about my books and my blogs. I am curious to see how many books I write and publish this year.

What's important to me with experimentation is avoiding specific goals or targets. That creates pressure and dramatically shifts the energy with which I approach the activity. The joy of experimentation lies in not knowing—or frankly caring about—the result, instead finding delight in the process itself.

The other powerful benefit of framing activities as experiments is their defined timeframe. An experiment has a clear beginning and end. When I commit to exploring something for a specific period, it becomes more approachable than making a lifetime commitment.

Through years of living this way, I've discovered that experimentation isn't just a method for personal growth—it's a mindset that transforms challenges into adventures and uncertainties into opportunities for discovery. 

Each experiment has shaped my understanding of myself and the world around me. This is the true art of experimentation: finding wisdom in the willing exploration of life's possibilities.

And that is how I learned to experiment.

2034: How AI Changed Humanity Forever is my newest book and now available on Amazon on Kindle, paperback, hardcover or audiobook. You can also listen to it narrated by me on Spotify.

How to 2025

I start each year with a simple ritual that has really shaped my journey: selecting a single word to serve as my guiding intention for the year ahead.

This one word intention acts as a North Star, gently steering my choices and actions without the rigidity of specific goals or resolutions. Unlike objectives, a one word intention is fluid and adaptable, allowing for growth and re-alignment as the year unfolds.

The process of discovering this one word intention involves meaningful reflection. I meditate, journal, or spend time in nature to tune into what feels most significant for the year ahead. Often, the right word resonates on an emotional level—a spark of excitement, a sense of alignment, or a quiet knowing that this is what I need.

Last year, my one-word intention was Flow. In previous years, my one word intention has been Discovery, Fearless, Trust, Space, Heart and Open to share a few. These words are intentionally abstract and expansive, inviting me to explore their meaning across different aspects of my life.

Yesterday, as I was journaling on how Flow showed up for me this year, I was in awe with how many instances it shaped the course of the year, and as a result, the course of my life. From spontaneous travel, to new and meaningful connections, to discovering hidden hobbies and interests, Flow gave me the space to be curious about what might just happen.

It also represented a shift for me from often forcing a specific outcome or result from a situation. Learning to flow and not force really was a gamechanger for how I felt. With this refined skill in hand, I saw myself develop greater acceptance versus tolerance for unexpected or undesired events.

I am so grateful that I had Flow as an intention by my side to guide my past year. 

My one word intention for 2025 is Inspire.

It is giving myself permission and space to be attracted to the projects, places and people that most inspire me. It is a prompt for me to dig deeper within myself to connect with what makes me feel inspired. And to not be shy to continue to share more of my journey with others.

Once I’ve chosen my one word intention, I like to share it with close friends and family. This not only reinforces my commitment but also invites their encouragement and support. Sharing this intention often deepens my connections and can inspire others to also set their own one word intention for the year ahead.

What is your one word intention to inspire 2025? 

Below are a few one word intentions friends have used in past years to help inspire yours. Take time to reflect, connect with your inner world, and allow the right word to find you. 

Acceptance

Adventure

Authentic

Awareness

Balance

Bold

Build

Challenge

Commitment

Compassion

Confidence

Connection

Control

Courage

Create

Discovery

Energy

Explore

Fearless

Flow

Focus

Freedom

Fun

Giving

Grace

Gratitude

Grounded

Growth

Harmony

Heart

Humility

Integrity

Joy

Learn

Light

Open

Play

Positive

Presence

Relax

Respect

Self Love

Serve

Simplify

Space

Surrender

Trust

Zest

2034: How AI Changed Humanity Forever is available today globally on Amazon on Kindle, paperback, hardcover or audiobook. You can also listen to 2034 narrated by me on Spotify.

How to 2024

The waiter had just taken our order. The conversation with friends over dinner had settled into that familiar, easy rhythm you get with close friends. 

I glanced around the table and asked innocently, “What was your biggest moment of 2024?”

Smiles bubbled up almost instantly. People leaned in, animated and eager to share. One friend recalled a career leap they hadn’t planned for. Another shared the obvious —becoming a parent. Someone else brought up a spontaneous weekend trip their partner surprised them with.

These were stories of celebration, achievements and experiences that stood out.

Then I followed with, “What was your most challenging moment of 2024?”

The energy shifted. More pauses this time. A few long sips of drinks.

I intentionally did not start, as a way to acknowledge the discomfort that some likely felt. Then slowly but surely, the responses started to come. Honest, vulnerable, a little rough around the edges. Someone opened up about burnout. Another mentioned losing someone they loved. A breakup. A health scare with a parent.

These were stories of the kind of moments we don’t always rush to revisit but shape us in meaningful ways. By the time our food had arrived, there were hugs, high fives, and that unspoken feeling of being in it together.

It struck me how much lighter the room felt once everyone had shared. Like the weight of those hard moments wasn’t something to carry alone anymore.

This time of year always feels like a harvest for me. This is the final stretch —a time to gather what the year has grown.

I become curious to uncover how I have been delighted or disappointed this year, how I have grown and how I have changed.

Unlike delight or disappointment, growth and change rarely feels obvious while they are happening. It is only when taking a moment to look back do I begin to notice the changes in myself, then I can begin to integrate them more fully and carry them with me as I move forward through life.

Travel was painted all over my 2024. I travelled to fifteen countries. But when I reflect about the places I’ve gone, the stamps in my passport aren’t what come to mind. It’s the moments – the small ones, the unexpected ones – shared with friends and family. 

Scrolling through photos on my phone, which I rarely do but hope to do more often, transports me back to these moments instantly. I love it.

Investing became another big theme for my 2024. I gave myself permission at the start to learn about the public markets this year. I’ve never been that interested in the stock market, but I felt it was time for me to experiment and see what I would learn.

I learned about my own tolerance for risk and volatility. I learned about the world through a financial lens. I learned firsthand how difficult it is to beat the index. And I learned that I enjoy the process of learning something new.

Health was a rollercoaster, with many ups and downs. I had stretches where I felt great – waking up early, moving every day, feeling strong. And then, there were weeks when I would struggle with symptoms for an undiagnosed issue. The mental energy I spent trying to care for my physical health felt disproportionate at times. There’s still work to do here. But I’m learning to meet myself where I am, instead of where I think I should be.

Relationships evolved as well. 2024 started with a deep dive into family systems therapy – something I hadn’t explored before. It helped me mature and evolve how I connect and integrate with my parents and sister  in ways I didn’t expect – and am highly appreciative of.

I spent more time outside Europe than in it this year, which meant less time with my Lisbon and London crew. There were many moments I felt the absence of the familiarity of friends who I have grown closer to over the past few years living in Portugal. But there were also new friendships and experiences that wouldn’t have developed if I’d stayed in one place.

As I gather the harvest of 2024, I feel grateful – for the joy I shared, the growth I witnessed, and the hardships that asked me to pay attention and make changes.

Now is an important time to make peace with the past, so that we do not unnecessarily drag unfulfilled desires and lingering disappointments into the future and can start 2025 with a blank slate, aligned and connected with what we value and need most at this moment.

Sharing with others close to me how my 2024 shaped me, and hearing about how their year has shaped them, has become a wonderful practice of closure and connection to finish the year.

And that is how I learned to 2024.

2034: How AI Changed Humanity Forever is available today globally on Amazon on Kindle, paperback, hardcover or audiobook. You can also listen to 2034 narrated by me on Spotify.

How to Harvest

This is a sacred time of the year for me, holding more meaning than even my birthday. 

There's something about the end of the year that creates a natural invitation to pause, to reflect and to harvest. To take stock of what was, what was not, and to make space for what might be.

The rush of daily life softens into something gentler. Like driving on an open highway – when I'm going too fast, all the signs blur together. It's only when I slow down that I can actually read what they're trying to tell me.

The same thing happens in my inner world. When I allow myself to slow down and take space, I start seeing signs that have probably been there all along. Signs pointing toward needed changes, toward growth, toward truth.

To harvest starts with slowing down. Giving myself permission to do less, talk less, be less, and go less. And from this place of less, I often find more. More clarity. More acceptance. And more peace.

To make peace with the year is the first step before I can even begin to think about my next year. When I don't fully acknowledge and accept my past, my future becomes tainted. I end up dragging unresolved feelings and disappointments into my future plans, trying to compensate or make up for what I may not feel great about. I then start the new year with a feeling of being in ‘debt’ and having to ‘catch-up’. It’s a terribly uninspiring starting point.

This is why making peace with my past has become such an important harvesting ritual for me.

Here are six reflection prompts I encourage you to write, reflect and share with someone close to you, to help harvest your past year.

1. My highlights of 2024…

2. My most difficult moments of 2024…

3. What I learned about myself in 2024…

4. How my identity evolved and changed in 2024…

5. Who I am most grateful for in 2024…

6. What my heart most desires now at the end of 2024…

Reality is full of the wisdom that I need to hear. This is a time for inner harvest. The fields are ripe for picking and this end of year ritual is my invitation to make the space to see what this year’s crop had for me.

And that is how I learned to harvest.

2034: How AI Changed Humanity Forever is available today globally on Amazon on Kindle, paperback, hardcover or audiobook. You can also listen to 2034 narrated by me on Spotify.