Kunal Gupta's Blog, page 7

How to Adventure

It was three years ago this past week that I had moved spontaneously to Portugal, without much thought, without knowing anyone and without a plan. 

I guess my plan was simple: go on an adventure. 

Part of taking an adventure that I love is the adrenaline rush and thrill of not knowing what will happen. Not knowing how I will react and respond to what comes my way. And not having a particular agenda or purpose, other than to be curious and open to see what might unfold. 

So much of life at times can feel meticulously planned, carefully architected and plotted to try and get the best possible outcome. However when reflecting back on my life, the best outcomes have been when I haven’t planned, haven’t researched and haven’t set specific goals. 

Having fewer expectations has been a recipe for feeling pleasantly surprised, and as a result, highly satisfied. And this has been the primary lesson of my three years as an expat in Lisbon.

I had no plan or desire even to make a lot of new friends. At this stage in my life, I felt satisfied and full from the wonderful friendships I enjoy. However little did I know that I’d discover a completely new set of friends, with a similar expat open-minded approach to adventure, and who also identify as global citizens. I really cherish these new friendships I’ve built over the past three years, probably because I had no expectations. 

I had no plan or desire to learn a new language. Within a year, I was conversational in Portuguese, and more interestingly, my dusty French improved and I found motivation to improve my Hindi. Being in a different culture helped me rediscover a passion for languages. 

I had no plan or desire to invest in real estate. However landing in Portugal, at the time I did, felt like the right place at the right time. I quickly learned a new industry, built a professional network and made some solid investments. More importantly, I’ve taken an interest now in real estate in other countries when I had never imagined myself getting into the asset class. 

I had no plan or desire to focus on my physical health. Keeping the forever young and invincible mindset, living previously in cities like New York and Toronto where physical health takes a back seat to financial health, I had never consistently worked out. Or paid attention to my protein intake. And now I spend at least a few hours per day looking after my physical health, in a variety of ways that I find interesting and effective. 

The list goes on. All of the many ways my life has changed during the past three years. 

Portugal hasn’t changed my life. Choosing to go on an adventure is what changed my life. 

Going on an adventure has meant saying yes to the unknown, and going into it fully open, ready to embrace what’s come up on the inside and outside, while staying curious. 

What an adventure looks like for you will be different than what it looks like for me. And what I’ve learned is that it’s less about what the specific adventure is and more about how one approaches it. The same goes for the adventure called life. 

And that is how I learned to adventure. 

How to Swiss Alps

The destination was a Michelin star restaurant that stood quietly alone near the top of the Swiss Alps, but I had no idea that’s where we were going until I got there.

To celebrate a recent birthday, I was away with a few close friends for a weekend in the Alps. Normally a winter spot, it was decided by the others to give it a try during the summer. Fewer crowds, beautiful vistas, lower prices and a quiet and peaceful atmosphere.

It was also decided that the details of the weekend would be kept a surprise from me. And that we’d all be mostly phone-free for it.

That morning, our journey started with a local train near the hotel, which was already at about 1,000 meters above sea level. With everything in German, I had no idea where we actually were and where we were going. And no phone to pull up Google Maps to track the blue dot, that would often give me so much comfort in knowing. I had nothing to do but to admire the gorgeous views from the local commuter train. It was breathtaking.

Now at nearly 1,800 meters, we waited in a short line and bought one-way tickets for a gondola ride. It took us from the train station even higher into the mountains. I was quickly reminded that a fear of heights I thought was part of my past was clearly present for me. I smiled and gracefully took in the entire experience, sights and frights.

As we disembarked the gondola quickly, otherwise we’d end up going back down, I realized we were now at 2,600 meters. The air crisp and clean, the 360 degree views of the Alps standing majestically tall and the valleys shining bright green with tiny villages appearing far in the distance in between, inspired a silent awe as our small group had no words.

Then we started a hike, along a fairly horizontal trail that walked alongside one of the mountain edges. After not too long, we crossed paths with a group of elderly people, smiling and laughing, looking and sounding ever more youthful than us. A little further along, we saw a few women rock climbing the face of the mountain and a few men down below cheering them on. And then saw a couple having a picnic on a patch of grass.

It was a completely other world that existed far into the sky. 

We finally got to the restaurant, about an hour later. It was nestled alone into one of the mountain tops and sat down at our table. There was only one problem: I was no longer hungry.

Having no idea where we were going, and not realizing the peak experience of the day was yet to come at the restaurant, I thoroughly enjoyed the train, the gondola and the hike, and savored every moment. It was all deliciously satisfying for my spirit.

Not knowing where we were going forced me to enjoy the journey, as there was no destination. Had I known there was somewhere to get to, I would not have been as present and curious along the way there.

So often in my day-to-day life, I have blinders on and forget to enjoy the way to wherever I am going. My focus on not only getting a specific outcome, but also as efficiently as I can, drains the journey of any value as it is a means to an end.

As I sat there at the restaurant, with fancy looking food sitting on my plate that I was not that interested in, I felt this calm energy throughout my entire body. The joy of not knowing, of discovering more of the world, and as a result, more of myself, that was made possible thanks to not having a goal.

The weekend away, with its surprises and silent beauty, was a reminder for me to slow down and to let go of the need to control every detail. Life’s most memorable moments often come when I least expect them, so why am I trying so hard to create them? 

The next time I’m rushing towards an arbitrary goal that my mind gets stuck on, I’ll try to remember this moment in the Alps. I’ll take a deep breath and remind myself that sometimes the most productive thing to do is to pause, look at the view, and enjoy it.

And that is how I learned to Swiss Alps.

How to Map

“Over 100 countries”, he said when I had asked him how many places he had visited in his lifetime. He didn’t even appear that old. 

This was last month, while I was in London for a close friend’s wedding. I was strolling the streets near the popular Borough Market, south of the Thames river, on a sunny weekend morning. I was walking alone, without my phone in hand, having left my hotel with the intention to get lost and with the curiosity to see what I might discover. 

A beautiful old school map caught my attention in the window of a tiny little shop. Without thinking, I walked right in and began touching the paper. It was soft, almost felt-like, and pleasant for my fingertips. I then noticed that it was a map of the world, drawn in 1797.

This was a time before air travel. Before satellite systems. Before electricity. Before cars. Before Google Maps. 

I began to marvel for a brief moment at the ingenuity and intelligence previous generations, centuries ago, demonstrated. I can hardly remember my own phone number or figure out how to turn off some annoying feature on my iPhone without first asking chatGPT for step-by-step instructions. And I studied Software Engineering at a good school, and ran a technology business for fifteen years. Yet over two hundred years ago, someone was drawing by hand a map of the entire world, likely by studying hundreds of versions drawn by people before.  

“Where are you from?”

My train of thought was interrupted by what I assumed was the owner of the map store I was silently standing in. 

“Canada, although originally my family is from India,” I told him with a smile. 

He turned and walked over to the other side of the tiny shop, flipping through beautifully designed decorative envelopes and pulled one out enthusiastically. 

He walked back to me and quietly opened the large envelope, took out a folded piece of paper and began to open it slowly. It was a map of India from the early 1800s.

I had never seen one before. This was India under British rule. This was India before partition that created borders with Pakistan and Bangladesh. This wasn’t the India I had grown up learning about and visiting often. I was curious. 

As we started to chat some more, and the many cities and countries I have lived in started to come out, new maps were shown to me. Each one captured my curiosity, showing me something I didn’t know about a place I thought I knew. 

“It’s a different way to look at things,” he remarked, not realizing that I received his casual comment not literally but metaphorically.

So much of my experience of life is based on my perspective of life. And so much of my perspective is shaped by the culture, community and conditioning that I choose. These influences, like the old hand drawn map I was holding in my hand, show me something that I didn’t know. And they are full of biases, and that’s totally fine. 

It’s less about trying to find an unbiased or objective viewpoint, as that may not exist, but rather to understand the biases and subjective nature of everything that I encounter. 

This thought may have been deeply concerning for me even a decade ago, as the culture I had learned in school taught me that there must always be a single right answer to every question. I have since learned that’s not fully true. 

Learning about the map store owner’s passion for maps that had taken him to over one hundred countries in search of the most rare and interesting maps, only to be redesigned by him in his unique style, I can’t help but think of the different lenses in which we view the same thing. 

For example, if I find a cookie disgusting and you find it delicious, which one is it? Is the cookie disgusting or delicious? It depends on who’s asking. There is no single answer. There may be a popular answer, but it is a subjective question that deserves a subjective answer.

I have long appreciated the wisdom ‘pay attention to what you pay attention to’, meaning everything is less as it seems and more as I seem it to be. My intention is to choose my influences and biases, versus trying to eradicate them. All the while being open to discovering something new about something I may perceive to be old, like what a map of India looks like. 

Looking now at a map of New York City from 1859 in my hand, I could spot immediately the street I had lived on and the one where I had an office. But they seemed a lot further from one another in proportion than I remembered from just a few years ago. Drawing a map without the technology and tools we have today was clearly a subjective exercise back then. And I suspect everyone was fine with that. 

I then saw a map of New York City from the early 1900s. Here the proportions started to look more inline as I had experienced them to be. An evolution of still a subjective exercise.

Learning to tolerate different perspectives, like different maps of the same place drawn at different times, requires a deeper understanding and belief in the inherent subjectivity that exists everywhere. It is this understanding that is the root of the tree that allows a society to flourish and grow strong together. 

Everyone is not going to think and believe the same things and waiting or wanting them to is a recipe for frustration. We all have our own subjective perspectives, influenced by the unique circumstances and conditions that we find ourselves in. Be it place, time, or people. They are all unique, and shape us in unique ways. 

The same goes for me as an individual. What I thought, said or did a decade ago will be different than how I am now. And dare I say how I will be in the future. 

After all, the universal truth that I was reminded of looking at different maps of the same place is that everything changes. I may not be in control of how, or when, or even in which ways, but I can accept that everything changes. For me, maps are now a symbol of change. 

And that is how I learned to map. 

How to Heat

“Do you like the heat?”

I shot him an angry look unknowingly, as I was changing into my bathing suit at the beach. He was renting me a standup paddleboard at the beach and it was a blistering hot day already, despite it being only ten in the morning.

“Yes…but not this much,” I responded and the conversation didn’t continue very far. The heat was getting to me, and I was already starting to lose some of my cool.

This now being my third summer in Portugal, I should be used to the drill, but I’m not. Every summer there seems to be one week where the temperature turns particularly unbearable. It’s the kind of relentless, unforgiving sticky heat that turns daily life into a low-key endurance test.

I tried everything I could to stay cool, inside and out.

First, I thought being on the water might do the trick. It didn’t. The bright white paddleboard was reflecting back the Portuguese sun back onto my body, making it feel even hotter.

Next, I thought being in the water must be the solution. A normally frigid Atlantic ocean dip did not feel cold enough that day for me. And seconds after stepping out of the ocean onto the beach, the contrast from cold to heat felt brutal.

Once I got home, I took a long cold shower to wash off the sand and to attempt to cool down. Again, despite the shower tap being turned all the way to the left on cold, the water felt warm.

Then I had the brilliant idea to use my new infrared red light panels. They are about five feet tall and mounted on the wall in one of my guest bedrooms. Putting on my noise canceling headphones and red light goggles, I stood bare in front of them, trying to heat my body on the inside to feel cool on the outside. 

Within seconds I began to sweat more than normal, and after a fifteen minute session, I noticed my body excessively warm for the next hour. That was a failed experiment.

I started to feel hungry. I first tried a cold smoothie with ice and a fresh salad with avocado, cucumber, tomatoes, and other cooling ingredients. That didn’t work.

Then I reversed the experiment and had warm foods. Some leftover tomato soup. A herbal tea. Similar to the red light, I felt worse. 

All the while, the air conditioner in my apartment was cranked up to the max. And at that exact moment, there was a power outage. All of the lights, electronics and appliances were off in the blink of an eye. It’s at that moment I realized I did not have even a fan in my place.

It was at that moment I hit a wall.

I sat down quietly on my couch. With the feeling of defeat energetically throughout my body. I had no choice but to throw in the towel. ‘I give up’, I said silently to myself.

I closed my eyes and took a deep breath. And another. And another.

In an unexpected moment of silence, inside and out, I felt a shift in my energy. I had surrendered. I had stopped resisting. I had ended my crusade to control. I had finally accepted my reality as it was and was no longer trying to change it.

For the first time that day, I felt cool. An innocent smile appeared on my face. I no longer felt like I was going to die from the heat. 

I realized the idea of the heat was more bothersome for me than the heat itself. And then I started to reflect on how many areas of my life I react to the idea of something versus the thing itself. In relationship. In business. In health. 

The mind is such a powerful tool and it has the ability to generate ideas. Beautiful, creative and expansive ideas. And at the same time, fearful, destructive and unpleasant ideas. 

My entire day I had been reacting to the idea of suffering in my mind versus any sensation of suffering in my body. The struggle I had been feeling is what made things worse. There was a peace in letting go, in not trying to bend everything to my perceived liking and desire.

So often in my daily life I get caught up in trying to fix, control or resist what I perceive as uncomfortable or unwanted. It turns out that what is feared is not that bad and that I am a whole lot more resilient and capable than I realize.

‘Rain or shine, I’ll be fine’ is a mantra I wrote to myself in my journal later that day, as a way to remind myself that regardless of what happens in my environment, figurative or literal, I will be fine. That confidence, inner knowing and self belief is the real power of the mind that I’m curious to continue to unlock in my daily life.

There I was, sipping warm tea, sitting on my balcony in the sun, embracing the sweat rolling down my face with a smile, and letting the sun do its thing while I did mine. Sometimes the secret isn’t trying to change the world around me—it’s changing how I see it.

And that is how I learned to heat.

How to Olympics

I was in Paris for the Olympics recently, and the city felt like it had come alive in a way I’d never experienced before. 

There’s always a certain magic to Paris—but this time, it felt different. The city wasn’t just alive; it was buzzing, vibrating with the energy of thousands of athletes, spectators, and dreamers all in one place. 

I spent my days moving between venues, as these Olympics were spread out geographically in the different corners of the city. Each sport was its own universe, with its own energy, and each one left me with a lesson that felt both personal and universal.

Badminton was the first event I attended. 

It is much more than just a game of speed and precision. I watched a match where the players were locked in a fierce rally—powerful smashes followed by lightning-fast returns, the birdie was a blur in motion. And then, in a moment of pure finesse, one player hit a delicate drop shot, the birdie barely clearing the net before falling to the ground like a feather. The crowd gasped, and then burst into applause.

“It’s not just about power. It’s about knowing when to be gentle, when to let things fall into place,” the spectator next to me whispered.

It made me reflect about how often in life I rely on force—pushing harder, working longer hours, trying to control outcomes—when sometimes, what’s really needed is a softer touch. A pause. A moment to let things unfold naturally. That drop shot was a perfect reminder that life isn’t just about how hard I hit, but about knowing when to let go and let the moment carry me.

Swimming was next, and the energy in the arena was electric. 

I watched as one race unfolded in a way that was almost poetic—a swimmer who started strong, building momentum with each stroke, carving through the water like a knife through butter. But then, in the final lap, something shifted. Another swimmer began to catch up, their strokes gaining speed and power, while the leader seemed to fall behind, their rhythm breaking ever so slightly.

The finish was close—too close to call without the help of the replay. As the times flashed on the screen, the arena erupted in cheers. The swimmer who was leading for most of the race had lost by a mere fraction of a second. It was heartbreaking to see.

It made me reflect about how often I can lose momentum in life because I start overthinking, doubting myself, or getting caught up in the fear of failure. Confidence is a delicate thing—it can carry me forward like a wave, but it can also be easily disrupted by a single moment of hesitation. Watching that race, I realized that maintaining momentum isn’t just about riding the highs; it’s about trusting myself even when the finish line is still out of sight.

Athletics brought a different kind of reflection. 

The stadium was the same one used for the opening ceremony. It was massive, with a sea of spectators filling every seat. I watched as runners, jumpers, and throwers gave everything they had, their bodies pushed to the limit, their faces full of determination. And then, during a medal ceremony, a Canadian athlete stood on the podium, gold medal around her neck, the Canadian anthem playing in the background.

I felt a rush of pride that surprised me. Even though I no longer live in Canada, seeing that maple leaf flag rise and hearing the familiar anthem play brought me back home instantly. There coincidentally was a young woman draped in a Canadian flag next to me. “It’s like a piece of home is here with us,” she said, beaming. 

In that moment, I realized that no matter where I go, a part of me is always tied to where I came from. Portugal may be where I mostly live now, but home is home. The Olympics, with all their international spirit, had somehow brought me back to my roots, reminding me to appreciate the values and experiences that had shaped me.

But beyond the medals and the records, what really stayed with me was the way the athletes treated each other. There was one moment after a particularly grueling 400m race where the winner, instead of celebrating, turned back to help a fellow competitor who had collapsed at the finish line. He knelt beside him, offered a hand, and pulled him to his feet. The crowd, which had been roaring just moments before, fell into a respectful silence.

It was a silent gesture that spoke loudly. Competition doesn’t have to mean rivalry. It can be a journey with mutual respect for the effort and dedication that everyone brought. I thought about how beautiful it would be if we had more mutual respect for each other in other domains between competitors, such as politics, business or even while sitting in traffic. We often view others as rivals, people to beat, rather than as fellow travelers on a similar path.

As the days in Paris went by, I found myself not cheering for Canada, but cheering for every athlete who stepped onto the field, the court, or into the pool. It wasn’t about nationality or even about who won the most medals. It was about celebrating their effort to strive for something greater, and admiring how they found meaning in the pursuit of excellence.

The Olympics had inspired me. It wasn’t a sports competition between countries; for me it became a reminder of what it means to be alive—to strive, to compete, to respect each other, and to appreciate the beauty in both victory and defeat.

And that is how I learned to Olympics.

How to Pasta

“Thank you for your request but the restaurant has the day off today”.

I smiled and laughed gently out loud.

After the failed attempt to book a restaurant, I decided to just walk into town to find a spot for a late lunch. To my surprise - nothing was open.

Here I was, in the midst of the Italian summer, during peak tourist season and everything was closed. I was surprised. 

Across Southern Europe, the culture to prioritize the passion for summer over profits comes through loud and clear. Much of the continent shuts down for business in August when everyone takes extended summer holidays.

In most parts of the world, I’m used to a culture where the priority is to maximize profits. Businesses would be open no matter what, and they’d find people to work.

It all works somehow though in Europe, even if it appears less optimal to me given my North American upbringing. 

That evening, we ended up at a local Italian woman’s tiny third floor one bedroom apartment for dinner. 

We would be cooking dinner. 

It was a cooking class, in someone’s home. On the menu was two types of pasta, bruschetta and my favourite, tiramisu. 

As we began cooking, we began chatting and learned more about her story. By the look of her, we wouldn’t have guessed that she had grandchildren.

We were cooking in the same home she was born in. The once family home spread across three floors had been  in her family for generations, and now had been split into no less than six apartments. Her sister lived next door. Her nephew is on the floor beneath. And so on. 

I was struck by the simplicity and warmth of the experience. The aroma of fresh basil, tomatoes, and garlic filled the small kitchen, mingling with laughter and stories of the past. It was a reminder for me that sometimes, the best moments are the simplest ones, grounded in tradition and shared with others.

As we kneaded the dough and stirred the fresh pasta sauce, I couldn't help but think about the slow pace of life here. It's a stark contrast to the hustle and bustle I’m used to. In that small kitchen, I found a profound appreciation for the art of taking one's time. 

Making pasta from scratch takes patience and strength. Our pasta wasn't just a meal though; it felt like a ritual, a celebration of heritage and community.

Our host told us about how she would make pasta with her grandmother, learning the secrets passed down through generations. It wasn't just about cooking for her; it was about connection—connecting with the past, with loved ones, and with oneself.

In North America, where efficiency often trumps all else, this leisurely approach felt almost rebellious. But here, it is a way of life. It made me realize how much I miss out on my rush to get things done. Ironically, I am often in a rush for the fear of missing out. But when rushing, I end up missing. 

When the meal was finally ready, we sat down together at a small table overlooking the charming village below. The food was incredible, but what stood out even more to me was the sense of fulfillment we all felt. 

We had created something beautiful together, with our own hands, and it tasted of more than just tomatoes and garlic. It tasted of history, love, and patience.

That night, as we walked back to our hotel, I felt a deep sense of gratitude. Not just for the delicious food or the wonderful company, but for the reminders I had received. Sometimes, it’s important to slow down, to savor each moment, and to understand that the process is just as important as the result. If not more important. 

In a world that often feels like it's moving fast, there's a quiet joy in embracing a slower pace, in finding meaning in the mundane, and in recognizing that sometimes, the best things in life are the simplest.

And that is how I learned to pasta.

How to French

“Are you done with your phone?”

It was the first thing the waiter at a casual deli said to me as I had sat down for breakfast. It caught me off guard.

My location was at a cliff side touristic town in the South of France, overlooking the beautiful blue sea on a hot sunny day. 

Whereas I had woken up feeling full of energy and excited to explore, connect and relax for the day ahead, my mood had shifted after hearing those six words from a stranger. 

“Are you done with your phone?”

I started to notice my energy drop. My excitement fade. I became more self conscious and felt less comfortable. Perhaps even a little less safe, emotionally. 

Then the person I was with reflected back to me how quickly my energy shifted and checked in with me. 

That helped me snap out of it. Almost instantly.

I began to wonder how such an innocent, harmless, irrelevant question could impact me so easily. As someone who likes to feel in control, that moment made me realize how little control I actually have. I didn’t like it. 

Instead of passing a judgment that the waiter was rude, or drawing on a stereotype about the French, I instead started to become curious about why the waiter acted in a certain way. 

Realizing pretty quickly that I didn’t have enough context or information about the waiter to build a story that would justify in my mind his action, I had to be satisfied with the only thing I could come up with. “There must be a reason that has absolutely nothing to do with me”. 

Maybe he woke up on the wrong side of the bed that morning. Maybe he had some difficult circumstances he was working through in his home life. Maybe he was raised or conditioned to believe that it was normal to act this way. 

The point is that I don’t know exactly why, and don’t need to, but know that there is a reason. And that reason likely has nothing to do with me. 

I had been taking the interaction personally when in fact it wasn’t. 

One of my spiritual teachers, Anthony De Mello, says in his writings, “what others think of you says more about them then it does about you”. 

While I have read this line many times, and understood this intellectually, this experience helped me feel it. 

I am not as important as I think I am. And definitely not as important to other people who are not in my daily life. The problem becomes when I conflate the world with my world. When my perspective of the world becomes so small, so tiny actually, that everything becomes about me and my experience of the world. 

In reflecting on this out loud over breakfast, my energy shifted and I began to feel compassion for the waiter. I went from feeling agitation to feeling compassion, without anything or anyone outside of me having to change one bit. 

Compassion requires me to see something from multiple perspectives. Not only the perspective that is convenient to me.  Not only the perspective that is beneficial to me. Not only the perspective that is aligned with my values and beliefs. 

When I stop at simply passing judgment that “that is good”, “this is bad” or “I don’t like this”, then I am being intellectually lazy. Instead of passing judgment and moving on, if instead I pause for a moment and become curious to understand the why behind the action that I may like or dislike, my initial judgment turns into compassion for the person or circumstance in question. 

Understanding is more important than agreement. 

Conflict occurs, be it in the world, my world or in my mind, trying to get to agreement. However it is unlikely that I will ever agree with everything and everyone I come across. And every time I disagree with something, it is a form of conflict. Be it expressed or repressed, there is still some friction I am experiencing energetically with my environment. And over a lifetime of friction with my environment, the toll adds up. 

However, understanding is something that is in my control. It is on me to choose to be curious and open to understanding this thing or person in my current environment or experience of life that I may not agree with.

With this newfound appreciation that behind every action or choice I witness or experience, there is a reason behind it. I feel an ease and calm, and can glide through life with a bit more grace and a bit less friction. 

And that is how I learned to glide. 

How to Time

“Is your time yours?” has become my opening question when meeting new people.

It makes people pause. It's not an easy question to answer off the cuff. Unlike the normal “how are you?”, “what do you do?”, “where are you vacationing this summer?”, or even “what’s inspiring you these days?” questions that often are asked, asking someone if their time is theirs is a mind bender.

Yet at the same time, very revealing.

Four words that magically cause one to lift themselves out of their own day-to-day busyness and patterns, and force themselves to see their own reality as it is. Instantly.

I’ve seen people’s expressions change immediately, most often faces get filled with confusion. A mild deer-in-the-headlights moment for some, as they’ve just stumbled accidentally across something that’s really important.

I know the feeling as I have experienced it many times. It is a feeling of realizing I have lost my way, without knowing that I was lost to begin with. Furthermore, I thought I was on my way and these four words made me realize I am not.

Somewhere along the way, the relationship with time changed, and it seems not for the better.

I imagine one hundred years ago, those who had greater education, greater economic means, regardless of how it was obtained, by one's own merit, or passed down from others, or even through immoral activities, were the ones who felt that their time was theirs. They would spend it on travel, on leisure, on entertainment, and on loved ones.

Fast forward to a modern society, those who ‘have it all’ also seem to no longer have their time. It is constantly rented out, be it to work commitments, social communities, health routines, or scrolling through feeds.

One of my favorite books in the past few years is called Four Thousand Weeks. The author, Oliver Burkeman, challenged me to rethink my relationship with time. Instead of seeing time as a commodity or resource that I’m trying to abstract the most amount of value from, by doing more, and constantly trying to be productive, I have been inspired by thinking of time as something different. Completely different.

The perspective encouraged me to see time not as something to be controlled or managed, but as something to be experienced. This shift in mindset has been transformative for me. It’s like transitioning from trying to trap water in my hands to simply allowing myself to swim in it.

When I used to think about time, it was always in the context of scarcity. There was never enough of it. Days filled with back-to-back meetings, endless to-do lists, and the nagging guilt of things left undone. I was perpetually chasing after a sense of accomplishment that seemed to evaporate as quickly as it materialized. It was exhausting.

But what if, instead of constantly trying to maximize every minute, I allowed myself to be present in the moment? What if I shifted my focus from doing more to being more?

One practice that has helped me immensely is mindfulness. It's not just another thing for me to do, but a genuine practice that I incorporate into my daily life. Whether it's through meditation, a quiet walk in nature, or simply paying attention to my breath, mindfulness has allowed me to reclaim my time by being fully present in the now.

I also began to prioritize what truly matters to me. It's easy to get caught up in the hustle and bustle, but taking even a minute to step back and ask myself how I want to spend my time has been liberating. I've learned to say no to things and people that don't feel aligned, and yes to those that do.

It’s about quality over quantity. Spending an hour deeply engaged in a meaningful conversation with a friend can be far more fulfilling than a whole day of superficial interactions. I used to host hundred person parties often in Lisbon, and now I am realizing having dinner with one or two people is far more interesting to me. Investing time in activities that nourish my soul has become a priority.

One of the most profound realizations I've had is that time is not something that can be owned or possessed. It's a gift, and how I choose to spend it defines my life. It's not about having control over it, but rather about dancing with it, embracing the ebb and flow of experiences.

The irony is that by letting go of the need to control my time, I’ve actually found a greater sense of freedom and control. Time feels more abundant because I’m no longer trying to squeeze every last drop out of it. It's about finding harmony between doing and being, between ambition and contentment.

In asking others, “Is your time yours?”, I hope to spark a needed moment of introspection. To encourage those around me to pause and reflect on their own relationship with time. Because in the end, how we spend our time is how we live our lives. And I want to live mine fully, deeply, and authentically.

And that is how I learned to time.

How to Lion King

The scene comes maybe two thirds into the story.

Simba, the young cub, is not so young anymore. He has left the kingdom and is living with Timone and Pumba in the jungle, wandering aimlessly in the jungle and enjoying the freedom from the trauma of what happened back in the day when his father, Mufasa, had died.

The unexpected run-in with Nala, his childhood friend who, like him, is no longer a child, causes him to question if he is still on the right path in life. She strongly encourages him to come back to the kingdom, which is falling apart with his uncle Scar now in charge, and take his rightful place as heir to the throne.

His immediate impulse is to reject the idea. He no longer identifies with his original destiny. Yet something deep inside him is torn and not fully at peace. 

Rafiki, who can be best described as a mythical figure there to help guide things along when the are not on track, appears at the exact moment when Simba was ready to give up. Rafiki provokes Simba and Simba responds angrily, but honestly, by saying “I don’t know who I am”.

The truth about how he has been feeling comes out, finally.

Simba is directed by Rafiki to look into a nearby body of water and sees his reflection. Or what he believes to be his reflection at first, and then sees his father. And begins to hear his father speaking to him.

Confused, yet curious, he continues to stare intensely at this visualization and begins to find answers to his question. He sees his father. He sees his mother. He sees all of the animals in the kingdom. He sees the landscapes. He sees the starry sky. He sees it all. And realizes that all of it is part of who he is. All of it has shaped who he is.

And then it becomes clear to him that he must return and take his place as king, and help restore the kingdom for the betterment of all. 

As I sat there, in a London theater watching human actors play the role of animals dressed in elaborate costumes, I quietly took in this momentous scene that is the turning point of the whole story. It triggered a thought in me, or rather a question, about my own identity and purpose.

I had been in London this past week, for the first time this year, after traveling the world and taking a six month sabbatical. The familiarity of the city spoke to me, yet at the same time, didn’t. That’s the beautiful thing about landmarks. As they don’t change, they allow me to see how I have changed.

Like the main character in the musical I was enjoying, I too realized how my identity has been shaped by the many people, places and projects that have occupied my life. My parents. My sister and her family. My friends. My businesses. My teams. My clients. My cities. My homes. My adventures. Even if I do not have all of it at this moment within my grip, I do within my spirit. It doesn’t take more than a split second to recall memories of specific emotions and experiences that I appreciate, that I regret, and that I cherish.

In those moments when I feel provoked to answer the question ‘who am I?’, I turn inwards to remember the people, places and projects that I have journeyed with and through, and start to feel grounded and clear once again in my identity.

As the final scenes unfolded in the musical, I found myself reflecting on Simba’s journey back to the Pride Lands. It’s a journey of reclaiming one’s identity and purpose, confronting deep-seated fears, and embracing responsibility, no matter how uncomfortable. 

I often face similar crossroads in my life. Moments where I must choose between the path of least resistance and the one that demands courage and self-awareness. Simba’s transformation wasn’t just about returning to a place; it was about accepting who he truly was and the role he was destined to play.

This resonates deeply with my own experience. When I decided to take my sabbatical, it was more than just a break from the routine. It was an opportunity to reflect on my own path, to question if I was still aligned with my true self. Traveling through different countries, cultures and communities, I was often faced with the unfamiliar, much like Simba in the jungle. Yet, in every new experience, there was a thread that connected back to my core identity, reminding me of who I am and what is important to me.

Sitting in that theater, I realized that much like Simba, I also have a ‘Scar’ in my life, represented as challenges that question my sense of self-worth and direction. The key has been in recognizing these scars not as deterrents but as catalysts for my own growth. They test my resilience and push me towards self-discovery and a feeling of empowerment. Rafiki’s wisdom in the story echoes the mentors and guides in my own life who help me see what I may be unable to see.

As the final curtain fell and the audience erupted in applause, I felt a profound sense of clarity. And relief.

For me, The Lion King isn’t just a story about a lion reclaiming his throne. It’s an inspirational tale about the journey of finding my place in the world, amidst chaos, doubt and uncertainty. It reminded me that no matter where I go or what I face, my true identity is a culmination of all my experiences, connections, and choices. It’s about embracing my past, living in the present, and being open to the future. 

And that is how I learned how to Lion King.

How to Be Annoyed

Six months ago, I was overwhelmed by a constant sense of annoyance living in Portugal. Every little thing seemed to get under my skin

The traffic was a nightmare. Every trip felt like an obstacle course of gridlocks and erratic drivers, that made no sense whatsoever. Randomness is the only description I can give.

Trying to make a simple bank transfer internationally was a task on its own. Mistake after mistake meant that the funds never could get to the desired destination. And my local bank seemed to block any and all online purchases for no apparent reason.

Online deliveries never arrived on time and I noticed myself becoming more sarcastic, playing a guessing game in my head. What was supposed to be a two-day delivery often turned into a week-long wait. And not so often I would find out weeks later that it was returned because of some innocent issue, without any notification.

Tradesmen were unreliable, often missing appointments or doing subpar work that required to be redone…at least twice. My confidence in others to get stuff done well was hitting close to rock bottom.

The mold and poor construction quality in my rental properties became the final straw. It felt like everything was crumbling around me, both literally and figuratively.

Delays and surprises became part of my daily routine, adding daily to my growing annoyance.

My annoyance had reached an unsustainable level. My mind was constantly agitated, and my emotional state was on edge. I was constantly feeling triggered by the slightest of surprise or inconvenience

Desperate for a break, I boarded a plane on a day’s notice to London. From there, I traveled to Paris, then Toronto, and finally settled in Sydney. I spent most of the first part of this year on a sabbatical by the beach, far from the chaos that had consumed my mind in Portugal.

Last week, I returned to Portugal to begin my next chapter.

It felt as if time had stood still. 

Everything looked the same. The familiar faces at the local grocery store, my favorite cafe, and the building security office greeted me just as they had before. The plants and furniture in my apartment were arranged exactly as I had left them, despite many family and friends having stayed in my place while I had been away.

Yet, something was different. I had changed.

What used to annoy me now seemed trivial. 

The traffic, delayed deliveries, and unreliable tradesmen hadn’t changed. The challenges with banking and credit card issues are still here. But my perspective has shifted. Taking a break and stepping away from what I believe was the source of my annoyance helped give me a new perspective. 

The other day, I went to a small local bakery that I had always avoided because of the long wait times. This time, I decided to give it a try. Standing in line, I watched the baker expertly shape each loaf, his hands moving with a rhythm that came from years of practice. As I finally reached the counter, the warm, fresh bread handed to me felt like a gift. The long wait no longer seemed like an annoyance but a part of the experience, adding value to the delicious bread I was about to enjoy.

Another time, I found myself stuck in traffic on my way to meet a friend. Instead of seething with frustration, I turned on my favorite playlist and let the music wash over me. I rolled down the windows, taking in the warm breeze and the vibrant city life around me. What used to be a source of annoyance had become an unexpected moment of peace and fun.

I also remembered the handyman who had once missed three appointments in a row. This time, when he arrived late again, instead of feeling annoyed, I greeted him with a smile and a cup of coffee. We ended up chatting about his life and I got to practice my Portuguese again. It was a small interaction, but one that connected me with a greater sense of empathy.

Visiting a local market that I used to find chaotic and overwhelming, I now saw it through new eyes. The hustle and bustle, the lively banter between vendors and customers, the colorful array of fresh produce—all of it felt vibrant and full of life. I took the time to engage with the vendors, asking about their products and learning their stories. What was once a stressful environment had transformed into a rich, sensory experience.

I have begun to appreciate the little things I had taken for granted—the warmth of the sun, the friendly smiles of strangers, the views of the waves. Time away had allowed me to reset and reflect. I realized that my frustration wasn’t because of Portugal. It was because of my mindset.

Expectations and frustrations had clouded my experience and perception.

Now, I hope to approach life in Portugal & beyond with more patience and acceptance. I aim to embrace perceived imperfections and find joy in the little moments. What once annoyed me now serves as an opportunity to practice patience and gratitude.

Real change starts from within. The external world doesn’t have to change for me to feel differently. My perspective and mindset is what truly matters.

By changing my perspective, I changed my experience.

And that is how I learned to be annoyed.