Kunal Gupta's Blog, page 5

How to Unplan

I used to live a life ruled by plans. 

As a CEO for 15 years, I thought planning was my superpower—strategy decks, quarterly targets, financial forecasts, calendars crammed with back-to-back meetings. 

My personal life wasn’t much different. Living in New York for 10 years, I got used to planning everything: yoga classes booked weeks ahead, dinner reservations meticulously timed, dates squeezed in. I had mastered the art of control—or so I believed.

Three years ago, I moved to Portugal. 

At first, I tried to carry this same hyper-planned approach with me. I scheduled my days the way a New Yorker would, expecting precision and efficiency. But Portugal doesn’t work like that. My plans didn’t just fall apart—they were ignored entirely. Appointments shifted without warning, restaurants closed early or opened late, and time seemed to flow at its own unhurried pace.

At first, I fought against it. I was critical of the inefficiency, irritated that things didn’t work on my timeline. But slowly, I realized it wasn’t the culture that needed to change—it was me. 

As I started to let go, I noticed something unexpected: the stress and anxiety of forcing my plans disappeared. Instead, I began to experience the delight of the unplanned—the spontaneity, the freedom, the surprise. 

Moments like these planted a seed of doubt in my obsession with planning. For so long, planning felt like security, like the scaffolding holding my life together. But as I started to let go of those rigid plans, I realized they weren’t security at all—they were shackles. I had been clinging to the illusion of control, mistaking busyness for meaning, and I began to wonder what would happen if I planned less.

The world doesn’t make it easy to live life unplanned though. Society glorifies planning and rewards it. Book a flight early, and you’ll pay less. Make a reservation, and you’ll avoid disappointment. Productivity apps promise to organize every second of your day. Planning feels responsible, even virtuous. But more and more, I’ve come to see that planning isn’t about control—it’s about trying to deny the nature of reality.

Reality knows that I’m not in control. Plans fail. Flights get delayed. Things fall apart. I’ve been stuck in airports for hours or had flights canceled entirely, and I can’t recall the last time I felt anger or frustration in those moments. Instead, I’ve come to accept them as part of life’s flow. The energy I used to spend resisting what was happening now goes toward responding to it.

Living an unplanned life isn’t the same as living chaotically. It takes a deliberate trust—trust in myself, in the process, and in life itself. It’s a skill I’m still learning. 

This year, my one-word intention has been Flow, and it’s shaped me. Flow has helped me to let go of expectations and respond to life as it happens. It’s not about passivity; it’s about presence.

Letting go of plans also builds resilience. There’s no denying that the unknown is intimidating, but it’s also exhilarating. Each time I’m faced with an unexpected turn, I grow a little stronger. I’ve come to trust that I’ll handle whatever comes my way. And the more I embrace this trust, the more confident I feel. It’s a feedback loop: resilience builds confidence, confidence makes uncertainty less daunting, and that makes planning less necessary.

Looking back, my years in New York conditioned me to plan for everything. My years in Portugal have shown me the beauty of planning for nothing. Neither is inherently better—it’s just that one way no longer serves me.

When I think about the moments that have brought me the most joy, none of them were planned. They were the spontaneous turns, the unanticipated encounters, the surprises that life delivered when I left space for them. 

The unplanned life isn’t perfect—it’s messy, unpredictable, and at times unnerving. But it’s also alive, rich with possibility, and full of surprises I could never orchestrate. Letting go of planning has been my way of saying yes to life, exactly as it is. And in doing so, I’ve found more freedom, more joy, and more trust in the process than I ever thought possible.

And that is how I learned to unplan.

How to Friend

“What brings you to town?” was the question I continued to hear over the past month.

“To see you!” I’d say enthusiastically every time, and their reactions always caught me off guard. Some laughed, others paused, surprised, as if visiting friends wasn’t reason enough.

I just wrapped up a whirlwind tour across the globe over the past four weeks—Singapore, Canada, Chile, Portugal, and the UK. At every stop, everyone assumed I had some professional reason for visiting. It felt good to say it out loud. This trip wasn’t about work. It wasn’t about sightseeing or ticking off countries. It was about reconnecting—with people I care about, with the places that feel like home, and, in many ways, with myself.

As an expat moving between cities throughout the year, friendships have become a conscious effort. 

I’ve found myself gravitating toward a few hub cities—places I’ve lived, loved, or traveled to often enough that they feel like an extension of me. These cities are more than just familiar places I know where to eat, how to get around and how much things are meant to cost. They’re touchpoints to my past and present. Spending even a few days in one of these places doesn’t just recharge me—it reminds me of who I am in the company of people who know me best.

It’s said that life is a journey of self-discovery, and while that can take a lifetime, I’ve learned that putting myself in different environments can speed up the process. Meditation and journaling are helpful for quiet reflection, but there’s a different kind of clarity that comes from being with others. Friends bring out different sides of me, sometimes ones I’ve forgotten or neglected. Their perspectives can act as mirrors, reflecting back parts of myself that I can’t always see.

I’ve long believed that “we are the company we keep.” Research supports this, showing that we are the average of the five people we spend the most amount of time with. This is reflected in our health, our spending and saving habits, our travel, our hobbies and more. 

Looking back, the company I kept as a child was mostly circumstantial—neighbors, classmates, the kids I sat beside in school because their last names were right before or after mine alphabetically. These relationships shaped my early years, even if I didn’t realize it at the time.

By university, friendships started forming around shared interests—classes, conferences, the things we cared about deeply as young adults. Later, in my 20s, my friendships reflected the phase of life I was in. Fresh out of school and building a company, I spent most of my time with other tech entrepreneurs. We were navigating similar challenges and found solidarity in each other’s energy, struggle and ambition.

When mindfulness became a cornerstone of my life, my circle naturally shifted to include meditators and yogis. We supported each other through shared practices and personal growth. Later, as I transitioned from being a business operator to a business owner, I sought out people who had successfully made that shift, learning from their experiences as a financial investor. 

Now, with an increasing focus on health and longevity, I’m surrounded by friends who are just as curious about optimizing their well-being. Together, we try new routines, experiment with therapies, and share our data and discoveries.

But some friendships endure regardless of the stage of life I’m in. These constants remind me that while life changes, certain relationships remain foundational. They’ve been there through my evolving interests, shifting geographies, and personal growth, and they continue to feel as vital as ever.

As I’ve grown older, friendship has become less about circumstance and more about choice. 

Now, I think carefully about the kind of person I want to become and the qualities I want to nurture in myself. Then, I seek out people who embody those traits. Sometimes they’re already within my circles, and all it takes is intention to deepen the connection. Other times, it means stepping outside my comfort zone to meet new people who inspire me.

When I think about the role of friends in my life, a few things stand out. 

They help me feel connected, less alone. They offer support at moments I didn’t realize I needed it. And they remind me that living well isn’t just about physical health or career success—it’s about the quality of our relationships. Studies show that strong friendships are one of the most significant predictors of longevity and well-being. That feels deeply true to me.

Friendships are distinct from family, partners, or colleagues. They hold a unique place in the tribe of relationships that shape a life. And as I’ve learned, they require intentionality. It’s not enough to rely on chance or history to keep them alive.

This past month, enduring flights and jetlag, traveling to see the people who matter to me wasn’t just about staying connected—it’s about honoring the relationships that make me who I am. And every time I show up for them, I realize I’m also showing up for myself.

And that is how I learned to friend.

How to Less

The other day while sitting at a cafe, I found myself staring at a laptop on the table next to mine while the person had stepped away for a moment. I couldn’t help it. The person’s color coordinated calendar was up and so was their very long to-do list. Meetings to attend, projects to finalize, friends to catch up with, errands that had been postponed. 

It looked exhausting, and likely felt exhausting. And reminded me of my time while running a company and as a result, running myself mad with a maniacal focus on always trying to cram more in. 

“More is more” was the mantra that had driven me for years. As I started to question this philosophy, I began to experiment with a different mantra: “less is more”. 

Acting on it meant something very uncomfortable: making trade-offs.  

Life, at its core, is about making trade-offs. It’s about choosing one thing over another, not because one is inherently good and the other bad, but because in choosing, I give weight to what matters most. Without trade-offs, I’m not really making decisions; I’m just moving through the motions, saying yes to everything, and hoping it will all somehow work out.  

But it doesn’t work out. At least not well. It’s easy to say yes to everything, to try to be everything to everyone. The harder thing, the thing that feels unnatural, is to say, “this is more important than that.” 

In a professional environment, I’ve seen this truth play out repeatedly. Over the years, I’ve come to believe that when someone feels overworked, it’s not because there’s too much work. It’s because no one—either the person or their organization—has had the courage to make the necessary trade-offs. No one has said, “this project matters more than that one,” or even better, “we don’t need to do this at all.”  

When I think about my own approach to business, I’ve leaned toward setting priorities over setting goals. Goals, while helpful in some contexts, can be limiting because they’re specific and static. They tend to define success in rigid terms, ignoring the fluidity of reality. Priorities, on the other hand, are dynamic. They aren’t about what I want to achieve but about the trade-offs I’m willing to make. They force me to ask: “What am I willing to let go of in order to focus on what truly matters?”  

This shift has been liberating. When I focus on my priorities, I can accept the outcomes, whatever they may be. I don’t cling to the false comfort of goals that feel incomplete or unmet. Instead, I remind myself that I’ve chosen to invest my time and energy where it counts most, and I’ve made peace with whatever outcome results from that investment.

Of course, trade-offs aren’t just about work. They show up in every corner of life. To be in a romantic relationship with one person often means giving up the possibility of exploring romantic relationships with someone else. It’s the trade-off that creates the foundation for commitment.

Even in friendships, the choices are constant. To hang out with this friend might mean not spending time with another. To show up for one person’s party may mean missing someone else’s. There’s nothing wrong with these decisions—they’re simply the reality of how time and relationships work.  

Travel is another example that comes to mind. To vacation in one place is to not go somewhere else. Even within a single destination, there are trade-offs. I might choose to see one landmark and skip another, or decide to relax on the beach instead of exploring the city. Every decision, no matter how small, comes with its own set of sacrifices.

What makes trade-offs so challenging is that they force me to confront something deeply human: the need to please, to be liked, to avoid disappointment. Saying no can feel like failure or rejection, even when it’s necessary. There’s an inherent discomfort in prioritization because it requires honesty. It asks me to admit that I can’t do it all, that I can’t be everything to everyone, and that trying to do so often leaves me with nothing that feels real or meaningful.  

I’ve come to see that making trade-offs is the only way to live with intention. It’s not about limitations; it’s about clarity. It’s about recognizing that my time, energy, and attention are finite.

Trade-offs I make aren’t about what I lose but about what I gain. They aren’t about saying no but about committing fully to my yeses. And when I live that way—when I prioritize with intention and let go of the rest—I find a sense of freedom that no goal could ever give me.

And that is how I learned to Less.

How to Zip Line

There’s something magical about being tucked away in the mountains of Chile, surrounded by friends both old & new. We were there for a wedding celebration—a group of thirty people, brought together for a week. With barely any cellular reception or WiFi, the usual distractions faded away. We were present in the truest sense, and the sense of connection was refreshing given the fast paced life we all live.

One morning, our hosts handed out a sign-up sheet for activities: hiking, white-water rafting, horseback riding, or zip lining. My eyes stopped at zip lining, and a memory from nearly ten years ago surfaced. I was in Costa Rica then, standing on a zip-lining platform for the first time, heart pounding, legs trembling. But I still remember the thrill of that leap, the way it felt to fight a fear of heights and soar inside and out. That day had been about leaning into adventure. I felt called to do it again.

As we hiked up to the first platform, the forest came alive around us. The trees seemed endless. The air smelled crisp and earthy, and the sounds of rustling leaves and distant birds were all around. But as we approached the first line, my stomach churned. My palms were sweaty, and every glance down at the ground below made the distance seem even greater.

Yet being surrounded by friends was grounding. Their laughter cut through my nerves, their encouragement softened the edges of my fear. We were in this together, the energy building as each person prepared to leap.

When my turn came, I stepped forward, was clipped in, and took a deep breath. The guide smiled and said, “Lean back, trust the line.” With one final inhale, I pushed off.

It was over in seconds, but it left a mark—a mix of exhilaration and disbelief. I’d done it. Again. 

The second line came easier, the fear loosening its grip. By the third, I was grinning. A few lines later, I was volunteering to go first, laughing as I jumped into the void. Each time, I felt a feeling of sadness when the line ended, like waking up from a dream I didn’t want to end.

What struck me most wasn’t just the thrill of the zip line. It was the way the experience awakened something childlike in me—a joy that felt pure and unburdened. It reminded me of summer camp, of days spent outdoors with friends, trying new things, and simply being in the moment. There’s something about pushing through fear that makes the fun on the other side feel so much sweeter.

And then there was the four-year-old in our group. She stepped up to the platform with a calm confidence that took my breath away. After her first line, she didn’t just want to go—she wanted to go first. Watching her was humbling. She didn’t carry the weight of fear that we adults do. It reminded me of when I started my first company at 20, bold enough to jump into the unknown simply because I didn’t know any better. That kind of untested bravery can be a gift.

What made the day unforgettable wasn’t just my own transformation, it was seeing everyone else overcome their fears, cheering them on, and feeling their excitement as if it were my own. 

I thought about the difference between joy and enjoyment I had once heard. Joy is what you feel in your own heart—private, personal. Enjoyment is when joy is shared with others. It amplifies everything. It’s what made this day more than just a series of zip lines. It was a shared connection and experience between all of us. Similar to sport, music, food and even work. 

I can see how my zip lining experience mirrors life. It’s an adventure that requires trust, courage, and the willingness to step into the unknown. It’s scary and thrilling and beautiful all at once. And the best moments aren’t just about what I experience—they’re about who I share them with. Even though the journey is fleeting, the connections we make along the way are what stay with us.

And that is how I learned to zip line.

How to Cycle

I can still picture my first bike. 

It was red, with black handles and training wheels that made a distinct clatter against the pavement. I was six, and the idea of riding without those training wheels felt as impossible as flying. 

My dad was crouched beside me, steadying the seat. His hand felt solid, reassuring, like an anchor I wasn’t ready to lose. When he finally let go, I remember the magic of those first few seconds. The wind tickled my face; the world seemed to blur. But then I fell, and everything came crashing back to earth—literally. My knees scraped against the gravel, stinging with fresh cuts, and I burst into tears. It wasn’t just the fall that hurt. It was the heartbreak of how quickly the magic disappeared.

Still, I got back on the bike. Not because I was brave, but because my dad encouraged me to be curious. What if the next ride lasted longer? What if I could feel that way again? The questions were enough to overcome the fear of falling. 

There’s a rhythm to cycling, a flow that mirrors life itself. 

Pedal, coast, pedal, coast. Every push forward is deliberate, fueled by effort and determination. And then there’s the coasting, those fleeting moments when everything feels effortless, as though the world is carrying me forward. That’s how hope works. It’s fragile, fleeting, and sometimes illogical, but it’s the spark that keeps me moving forward, even after a setback.

Hope is the fuel for life’s journey. 

Sometimes it’s the dream of something better, something brighter, something new. Other times, it’s the hope of avoiding something worse. But hope isn’t tied to reality—it’s tied to possibility. And because of that, it’s powerful. It’s also vulnerable.

The most fragile hopes, the ones closest to my heart, often stay unspoken. I hold them quietly, protectively, because saying them out loud feels scary. I might lose them.

I’ve learned the hard way that hope often turns into attachment. There was a project I was leading years ago, one that my team and I poured months of effort into. I wasn’t just working on it—I was building a story in my mind about how it would turn out. I could see the recognition we’d receive, the pride we’d feel, the validation I was chasing. 

That story became so real to me, so vivid, that it felt like a certainty. But when reality unfolded, it didn’t match the story I had crafted in my mind. The disappointment was overwhelming. It wasn’t just the failure of the project—it was the collapse of the story I had clung to so tightly.

That’s the thing about attachment. It’s not physical; it’s emotional. It’s the tethering of my identity, my worth, to an outcome that only exists in my mind. And when reality doesn’t align with that outcome—as it so often doesn’t—the disappointment can feel crushing. Reality, in its quiet, indifferent way, just is. It doesn’t apologize for being what it is, and it doesn’t try to align with the fantasies I create.

But disappointment isn’t the end of the cycle. Sitting with it is painful, but also illuminating. I’ve found that when I take the time to reflect on my disappointment, I can begin to see what was at its core. What was I really hoping for? Recognition? Security? A sense of accomplishment? When I understand the “why” behind my disappointment, it starts to lose its grip. And once it loosens, hope begins to creep back in. Slowly, quietly, I find myself pedaling forward again.

Curiosity has been my greatest ally in breaking the cycle of hope, attachment, and disappointment. It reminds me that life is rarely about a single outcome. Instead of anchoring myself to one possibility, I try to stay open to the range of what might unfold. I think back to that first bike ride—falling wasn’t the end. It was part of the process. And each time I got back on, I discovered something new, even if it wasn’t what I wanted.

Reality will always have the final say, and it rarely matches the stories I tell myself. But that doesn’t make the journey any less valuable. Life isn’t about the destination. It’s about the rhythm, the movement, the small victories of simply continuing. Even when I fall, even when the magic doesn’t last, I can get back on the bike of life. And maybe that’s enough.

And that’s how I learned to cycle.

How to Miracle

My four year old nephew adores planes. 

He loves to talk about taking a plane. He loves asking about when he’s going on a plane next. He loves to ask if visitors came on a plane. He proudly announces to his parents often that his uncle, me, is probably sitting on a plane right now. 

It’s not just him that loves plans. I do too. 

While waiting to board a recent flight, I found myself staring out the window at the gate. The sun was shining brightly off the jumbo jet, that had a majestic presence despite resting on what looked like such delicate feet. 

I began to notice the airport ground crew, some in a rush, some not so much. There were people loading cargo bags, others driving trucks with what looked like food containers, and even more people that it wasn’t clear to me what they were doing. 

I glanced and saw the airline agents checking people in, one by one. My fellow passengers, all different ages, ethnicities, and stages of life. For just a moment, I imagined all of the different places they have all come from, and are all going to after we land. 

Then it hit me. The coordination required to make happen what I was about to experience was unreal. 

The pilots. The flight crew. The ground crew. The food. The cleaners. The airport control tower. The airline. The airport security. Border control. And so many other. Within a mere few hours, so many people had to be involved for this moment to happen. 

And it’s not just my sole experience of taking one flight. There are thousands of such flights, each with hundreds of people, across tens of thousands of airports, all being coordinated simultaneously with no one person or entity in charge. Every single day.

This is not even accounting for the engineering that has gone into figuring out how to lift a piece of metal, with hundreds of humans, into the sky and safely move it across an ocean to a different part of the world. And then put it back onto the ground. 

It felt like a miracle. 

It is a miracle when I take just a moment to think about it. The opportunity for something, anything, to go off plan is tremendous and yet, nine times out of ten, ninety percent of everything goes to plan. 

And when that one time out of ten something inconvenient happens, we more than often lose our patience or peace, with little aknowledgement for what did go to plan. 

Now apply this to so many other experiences in our day-to-day lives. 

Taking a train or bus to work. How many people were involved in the engineering, the building of the stations, the management, cleanliness and safety of the entire process? And when the train takes an extra two minutes than anticipated to arrive, we feel a bout of disapproval and disappointment. 

Or take buying groceries at the supermarket. How annoyed do we get because the avocados for sale are not ripe enough, the tomatoes not soft enough, or the lineup to pay too long? Forgetting the fact that produce has been grown and transported over months from hundreds of locations around the world to give us the variety, selection and convenience we desire within ten minutes of our home. 

We are experiencing miracles day in and day out. And it completely changes my experience of them when I take just a moment to recognize reality for what it is. 

Yes, there are disappointments that naturally arise. It’s part of the human experience. But there can also be appreciation and gratitude for what we get to experience as humans. 

It is absolutely incredible. It fills my heart with gratitude and my mind with awe. 

Miracles need not be the rare, once-in-a-lifetime moments or acts reserved for a divine life force. The best miracles are the ones I experience every single day, when I truly open my eyes and see. I suspect that’s something my nephew knows how to do naturally and why he loves planes so much.

And that is how I learned to Miracle.

How to Diwali

“When my candle is used to help light yours, mine doesn’t get any less dim but rather there is now more brightness in our world”.

Light is a symbol of celebration, and Diwali for me has become a celebration that I look forward to and cherish the most each year. Which begs the question, what am I celebrating exactly?

I grew up celebrating the Indian new year with family and friends, steeped in cultural traditions, often intertwined with colorful religious ceremonies that have become rituals I look forward to each year.

As I grew older and grew out of my childhood home, and then relocated to New York and then Lisbon, it has been telling to reflect on which childhood traditions I would retain and which ones I would shed.

The annual festival of lights has for me become a celebration of what is versus what is not. 

Oftentimes in religious traditions, from any faith, the focus can easily become on asking for something we don’t have. This is the norm that I grew up with and so did those around me. Be it birthdays, calendar new year, Christmas, or Diwali, amongst siblings, cousins and friends, we’d excitedly gossip about what we asked for.

Maybe six or seven years ago, as I began to feel more connected with my own spirituality, I started to notice a rejection of this idea of using celebratory moments to ask for something. 

I began to flip the script in my heart, and now use these moments to share appreciation instead. Everytime I bring my palms into a prayer in front of my heart, I find someone or something to appreciate within my heart.

Celebration is not much fun when experienced alone, and is much more joyful, energizing and meaningful when shared with others. The sharing of appreciation and gratitude with others is one of the highest forms of connection I have experienced. Connection to myself, connection with others and connection to a greater life force.

When I take even a moment to reflect on what I appreciate, the list is endless. Hearing what others appreciate spurs me to discover even more that I appreciate. It’s an infinite loop of continuous appreciation!

Now when I wish family and friends a Happy Diwali, what I am really saying is I appreciate you. And when I receive greetings from others, I hear I appreciate you. All of this warms my heart.

The candles, sparklers, fireworks and every imaginable form of light is simply a symbol of that appreciation. The spread of lightness helps put any darkness we feel or fear into perspective. It is not about eradicating darkness, as often the darkness helps us understand the lightness. It is more about putting any darkness we have in our lives into perspective. The light is a reminder that we are not alone, and the greetings from others are reminders that we are seen.

Some of my most cherished memories from childhood center around Diwali celebrations and now I better understand why these moments, more than others, continue to sit so deeply in my heart. These are the moments when my heart has felt the most connected to those around me, thanks to the spread of appreciation.

And that is how I learned to Diwali.

How to Hold

“The longer you hold the pose, the more it reveals your weaknesses.”

These words hit me harder than expected during a recent yoga class. 

The instructor held us in an extended pose—one that tested every ounce of my patience and strength. As I stood there, thighs burning, arms trembling, my mind wandered: How much longer? Should I just drop it? But I stayed. I could feel parts of my body I hadn’t given attention to before, now glaringly obvious. Had I let go at the first sign of discomfort, I would have missed that information.

When we finally let go, her words stayed with me:

“The longer you hold a pose, the more it reveals your weaknesses.”

It’s easy to flee discomfort—not just in yoga, but in life. 

The temptation shows up everywhere. 

In conversations, where glancing at my phone feels like an escape. In work, when I shift to trivial tasks rather than face the hard ones. In relationships, when it feels easier to withdraw than to communicate.

In the discomfort I feel is important information. Staying present through the discomfort is where my growth begins.

Holding doesn’t mean passively tolerating something I don’t like. It’s not about gritting teeth and bearing pain mindlessly. It’s a conscious practice of staying with what I find difficult and finding out how to breathe while in it, versus holding my breath waiting for it to pass. Like standing still on a windy bridge, knowing it will pass but choosing to be with every gust.

This isn’t about punishment—it’s about noticing. Noticing where I tighten, where I want to run, and where I need support. Holding is a practice in self-awareness.

It extends beyond the physical into the emotional.

There was a moment the other night, sitting at lunch with a new friend, when silence stretched between us. I felt that itch to pull out my phone, or to change the topic. I caught myself just in time and chose to hold instead. It was uncomfortable—those long, silent moments. But then, out of nowhere, my friend opened up about something personal, something they wouldn’t have shared if I hadn’t stayed present. If I had distracted myself, I would have missed it. Holding space in connection isn’t about fixing silence; it’s about trusting that something valuable might emerge if I stay long enough.

When a task feels overwhelming, my first instinct is to busy myself with smaller, more manageable to-dos—anything to avoid the hard thing. But the problem never really goes away. I’ve learned that the real breakthroughs when I’m working come only when I resist the urge to flee. 

The biggest challenge, though, is holding space in relationships. It’s tempting to shut down when emotions run high or when the other person isn’t giving me what I need. In those times, holding on has taught me the most.

Holding isn’t about forcing myself to endure indefinitely. It’s about recognizing when discomfort is pointing toward growth. Like a bridge, holding asks us to be steady in the midst of what flows beneath. Sometimes that flow is doubt or fear; other times, it’s boredom or frustration. But if I stay—just long enough—I can discover strength I didn’t know I had.

There’s wisdom in the moments between ease and quitting. Weaknesses aren’t failures—they’re invitations for me to build resilience. Every time I hold, whether it’s in a yoga class, a conversation, or a moment of emotional vulnerability, I teach myself how to endure discomfort without fleeing. Strength isn’t about avoiding the hard stuff; it’s about meeting it with presence and curiosity.

So the next time life feels overwhelming—whether it’s a difficult pose, a tedious task, or a challenging conversation—I’ll remind myself to breathe, to stay, and to hold. Growth happens in the hold. And when I finally release, I’ll do so with a deeper understanding of myself and the quiet satisfaction of knowing I stayed long enough to discover what I was meant to learn.

And that is how I learned how to hold.

How to Full Moon

I had a long conversation with a close friend recently. She was calling from Europe, and I’m in Australia. Despite the oceans apart, we both had been experiencing heightened emotions this past week. There was something comforting about being halfway across the world from someone, yet feeling the same, at the same time. 

She reminded me, ‘It’s the full moon. It has a way of pulling everything up to the surface.’

I’ve heard that before—the idea that the moon’s gravitational pull affects the water within us, much like it does the ocean tides. There are days where emotions well up without clear reason, as if a storm is building inside. I used to resist those feelings, thinking I needed to be composed all the time. But with age, I’ve learned that emotions come in waves. They ebb and flow, whether I like it or not.

Staying by the ocean these days has taught me a lot about the power of waves. On days when the sea is flat, the air feels stale, and there’s nothing to do but sit on the shore and wait. No surfing, no playing. There’s beauty in the quiet, but eventually, the stillness grows tiresome. Then the waves return—sometimes gentle, sometimes wild—and it feels like life resumes. Those ups and downs are what make the ocean alive, and in a way, they keep us alive too.

I’ve seen this play out in other places in my life as well. 

Take the stock market, for example. I got into active investing a few years back, thinking I could ride a smooth upward trend if I played my cards right. I was wrong. Stocks don’t just go up—they drop, they climb again, they correct, they surprise. Movement is necessary. A market that only rises is bound to break, and it’s in the fluctuations that opportunity emerges. If everything went up, there would be no sellers, leaving no opportunity to buy. The ups and downs are necessary, despite sometimes feeling stressful.

Relationships, too, follow a similar rhythm. I’ve experienced connections where everything seemed easy at first—until conflict arose, and I panicked, thinking it meant something was wrong. Over time, I’ve realized that those moments of tension are natural, even necessary. It’s through misunderstandings and miscommunications that deeper conversations happen. Some of the closest connections I have today grew stronger only after going through some tough times. As the connection develops into something richer and more honest, I feel gratitude for the ups and downs that I had previously experienced.

Meditating for over a decade now, I used to crave stability, determined to create a life free from the ups and downs. I remember one meditation session early on, sitting cross-legged, hoping for peace but instead finding a mess. My mind wouldn’t stop racing, and I kept thinking, ‘Shouldn’t I be better at this by now?’ But then, somewhere amidst the chaos, it hit me—this is the practice. Just sitting with it all, without needing to fix or force it. That realization felt like taking a deep breath after holding it in for too long.

I realized that my mind, a reflection often of my world, does go up and down, here and there, and will feel more often than not all over. And the goal is not to quiet my mind or stop my thoughts. Rather it’s to witness my reality as it is, and lovingly accept the ups and downs with a smile.

A steady, unchanging life would feel stagnant. It’s the ups that make us grateful, and the downs that teach us resilience. Just like an ECG monitor that measures a heartbeat, life has to have ups and downs. When the line goes flat, it’s over. But as long as it’s moving, there’s life.

The full moon may pull emotions out of me that I can’t always explain, but I’m learning to stop trying to control the waves. Instead, I’m hoping to ride them. Some days I catch a perfect wave, other days I wipe out spectacularly—but that’s part of my journey. 

The other night, I stood by the ocean under the full moon. The waves lapped gently at the shore, and the moon’s reflection shimmered across the surface like a silver thread. In that moment, I felt it—the rhythm, the ebb and flow, the quiet truth that everything passes. Some waves you ride, others take you down, but they all belong. They’re all part of the same ocean.

And that is how I learned to full moon.

How to Renovate

My mom called me yesterday, complaining about a home renovation project they are knee-deep in. Her frustration was clear—nothing was turning out quite the way she imagined. 

A few days earlier, a new friend I met here in Sydney was venting about the same thing—delays, surprises, and the creeping sense of dread that their home wouldn’t be finished any time soon. 

And last week, I listened to a voice note from a friend in Lisbon who was describing their own home renovation nightmare. 

No matter where I turn, whether it’s in Sydney, Lisbon, or back home in Toronto, everyone has the same story. No matter the country, currency, or culture, home renovations seem to be a universal source of frustration, stress and anxiety. I’ve never heard someone say their renovation went perfectly—on time, under budget, stress-free, with everything turning out exactly as expected. 

It got me thinking, why the consistent surprise about being surprised? It is predictable how unpredictable renovations will be, but yet everyone acts like it is the biggest surprise ever.

I think it comes down to control. 

It’s not just about the budget overruns—many parts of our lives go over budget, and we don’t react as strongly. We might overspend on vacations, go a bit too far with holiday shopping, or indulge in an unexpected splurge on a night out. Yet these instances don’t hit us with the same emotional weight. 

It’s also not purely about the delays. We face delays all the time—whether it’s a flight running late, a traffic jam, or waiting longer than expected for a delivery. We shrug those off more easily. So why is it that when it comes to renovations, our emotions spike?

A home is personal. It’s a place of safety, a reflection of who we are, and where we retreat to recharge. And when something disrupts that space—something as visible as a paint color not being quite right or a bathroom tile slightly off-center—it feels like we’ve lost control over something deeply intimate.

Objectively, the shade of white on the wall being a touch lighter or darker, or a wire being exposed where it shouldn’t be, doesn’t actually matter. In the grand scheme of life—where we’re seeking connection, doing meaningful work, loving those around us, and finding inspiration in the world—these small details of how our homes look or how long they take to complete are so clearly unimportant. 

Yet, we make them matter. A lot. 

We get emotionally attached to them because they represent something more significant: the feeling that we’re losing control over something that feels sacred to us.

There’s an easy, surface-level response to this problem: “plan better.” Allocate more time and money, expect the unexpected, and manage expectations accordingly. But that advice misses the mark because the issue isn’t about planning; it’s about emotions. “Plan better” doesn’t address the deeper emotional need we have for control, especially over something as personal as our homes. It’s a primal instinct to seek safety and security in the spaces we inhabit.

But here’s the thing: control is an illusion. It’s something we convince ourselves we have, and we hold onto it because it makes us feel safe. We like to believe that if we plan well enough, work hard enough, and organize everything perfectly, we can control the outcome. But life doesn’t work that way, and renovations are just one example of this truth playing out.

The solution isn’t to tighten our grip. Instead, it is to look for security somewhere else. Within ourselves.

When I take a step back, pause, and breathe, I realize that my real sense of safety in life doesn’t come from controlling my environment or my circumstances. It comes from trusting myself. It comes from knowing that no matter what happens—whether it’s a delayed renovation, a relationship challenge, or a career setback—I’ll be okay. I often need to remind myself of this when I get caught up in a moment or a situation.

This sense of inner stability is something no external situation can mess with. When we look for safety outside of ourselves, in the perfect shade of white paint or the exact alignment of bathroom tiles, we set ourselves up for disappointment. But when we cultivate safety within—through self-trust, self-compassion, and resilience—we can weather any storm, whether it’s a home renovation gone wrong or something far more significant.

The antidote to the feeling of a loss of control is finding peace within ourselves, knowing that no matter how chaotic things get on the outside, I’ll be just fine on the inside.

This perhaps is the real renovation worth undertaking.

And that is how I learned how to renovate.