There was a time Tea lived like a perfect clock: woke at 4:30 AM, drank water, made coffee, read until 8 AM then went to work. Afternoon 5K run, evening cooking, early bedtime. Everything in its place.

Then a series of setbacks hit: work stress, personal issues, emotional decline. Tea started staying up late scrolling on her phone, eating carelessly, skipping runs. Worst of all, falling into heavy drinking—some days not waking until 11 AM or noon.

One day looking in the mirror without recognizing herself. And the lesson echoed: "You must save yourself, no one can save you but you."

What Tea Did

1. Rejoined the gym even on cold winter evenings. Restarted the Couch to 5K program.
2. Reduced alcohol gradually – set a long-term goal of zero.
3. Replaced phone with Kindle for earlier sleep, cutting blue light exposure.
4. Sat by the window each morning, just to breathe and watch the street before diving into work.
5. Allowed one "cheat meal" per day, the rest returning to healthy eating.
6. Wrote in a journal, listened to healing podcasts – accepted that problems can't be solved overnight.

A year later, Tea wakes early again (7 AM, then 6 AM, then 5 AM). No longer feeling pressure to be perfect, just knowing she's heading in the right direction.

If you're in a downward slide, don't wait for a miraculous "push." Just change one small habit, then add another. Slow but steady, and remember: "You must save yourself."

Recently I heard a podcast saying: people suffer in relationships because they give trust to those who haven't earned it yet.

Everyone likes hanging out with people who have great jobs, excel academically, are wealthy—hoping to get introductions, learn from them, or simply get invited to fancy restaurants. That's social instinct, nothing wrong with it.

The mistake is expecting too soon.

• They've never introduced you to anyone valuable, you still wait.
• They've never taught you how to study, even guided you wrong, you still believe.
• They've never bought you even a glass of water, you still think they'll be generous.

They're not wrong. But those expectations are what disappoint you.

What did Tea learn?

1. Wait for "actions" before giving points. Count by what they've done, not by the halo they possess.
2. Trust comes with limits. Initially, trust in small, verifiable things.
3. Give but don't "bind yourself". Be friendly, sincere—but let them build trust through their own actions.

When expectations are placed correctly, you can still enjoy beautiful relationships without feeling let down by things you imagined yourself.

Have you ever played The Sims? The game simulates a whole life—school, work, skill-building, family. Maybe it became a hit because it lets us live another version of life.

In the game each Sim only has so much time—roughly 60 years compressed into a real-world week. You have to choose how they spend it. If they want to become musicians, they might spend decades practising while still balancing family and fitness. Ignore those needs and they get sad, perform badly, and miss their goals.

You can create multiple Sims, each living a different life. On easy mode, Sims are agreeable: tell them to work out and they will; feed them normally and they’re happy. Anyone can become “perfect.” On hard mode, Sims are moodier: ask them to practise piano and they lose energy; bump into someone they dislike at a restaurant and the day is ruined.

Raising a Sim on hard mode forces you to pay attention and indulge them a little. But precisely because of that, when they succeed it feels far more satisfying than playing on easy.

Real life works the same way:

• Everyone goes through birth–aging–illness–death. When we’re gone, life continues, so what we can do is contribute something that leaves that continuation a bit better.
• Each person has a finite amount of time. To excel at one thing we sacrifice another. The key is choosing what to invest in and being at peace with that choice.
• Some people are playing life on easy mode, others on hard. Copying someone else’s settings won’t help.

I remind myself: maybe I’m on hard mode, so of course I feel temperamental. In 2025, even when FOMO spikes as I see people learning new things, I want to pause. Learn something new if it makes me happy and helps me grow—not because others have it so I must have it too.

Play your own game. Wishing you a brilliant run in 2025!

I took a walk in the park with a friend today and found myself revisiting old thoughts. She must be special, because every time we meet I start pondering big themes—questions that probably aren’t “my business,” yet I can’t help unpacking them out loud with her.

I know plenty of families back home in the countryside who aren’t financially comfortable. Yet when their kids hit 18 or 20, they stretch themselves to buy a “nice” motorbike. Not a racing bike, but at least an Air Blade or Vision so their daughter looks presentable. Many have to finance the purchase, adding monthly repayments to already tight budgets. It becomes a loop that’s hard to escape, making it even harder to save or build capital.

Take that 50-million-VND bike. Invest the same money in an English course and the child could earn significantly more. Even a hospitality job serving international guests pays differently once you can hold a conversation in their language.

But because of limited information—or warped value systems—people miss what truly matters. We say “art and music are frivolous,” yet without music, spirit, art, or culture, it’s easy to be seduced by money and hollow status, especially cash.

Maybe hardship in the past makes people cling to money now, hunting for as much as possible. I told my friend: sometimes people buy expensive watches not to show off. That’s only part of it. Mostly they’re comforting themselves, creating a sense of safety, compensating for years of scarcity.

The other day I shot photos for a singer friend. On the ride home, the cab driver lamented how tough London is. My friend just said, “Honestly, I find London easy—even delightful.”

She doesn’t say that because someone else is funding her life. She knows what she enjoys. Here she can shop for fresh food, cook healthy meals, run in the park, take the Tube and avoid traffic. She earns enough to live alone and still carve out time to sing, play music, and do what she loves. That, to her, is wonderful.

She told me that ten years ago, when she earned far less, she already felt lucky. The difference was she recognised “enough”: basic comforts plus a vibrant inner life. Isn’t that happiness already?

I keep thinking: if kids in the countryside—or anywhere—discover hobbies that heal them, motivate them, and make them feel alive, they wouldn’t drop 50 million on a bike. They’d save for art supplies, start an aquarium, buy an instrument, or travel to see the world and learn.

They could still ride a regular scooter to school. It doesn’t have to be fancy. When you have other anchors to be proud of, the bike stops being your whole identity.

In the end, no matter how expensive the motorbike is, you can’t bring it along when you study or live overseas. But the knowledge and experiences you invest in will stay with you for life.

Back in 12th grade, I discovered something very interesting. Let me tell you about it.

At that time, I'd been teaching English for about a year.

That year, after the university entrance exams, I'd go take tests in the morning, teach English in the afternoon, then the next morning take tests again, evening teach again. It was intense. At one point, I felt extremely tired, drained, I didn't understand why I was so exhausted.

An Interesting Discovery

Then I accidentally learned something new—I don't remember exactly what, I think it was Math. I met a Math teacher who was quite good, studied Math in the morning, taught English in the evening. Suddenly I felt energized again. Not because Math had anything to do with English, but because my brain had something to "feed on."

That's when I realized: learning something—anything—helps me feel alive again.

Applying This to Working Adults

And this holds true for working adults too.

A friend of mine works at a company. Her work mainly involves giving—using experience and knowledge to support others. But if you only give without any input, you'll eventually be depleted.

Many people say: "Knowledge you give away never decreases." True, but if nothing is replenished, you'll still become empty.

A Simple Solution

The solution is: learn something new. It doesn't need to relate to your work, just give your brain something to process.

• You work in banking? Learn guitar.
• You work in accounting? Learn flower arranging.
• You work in IT? Learn cooking.

Not related at all, but it keeps your mind healthy.

My Habit

I apply this method too. Every morning I learn something. Every week I dedicate time to learning—could be Python coding, could be marketing, could be advertising.

Not to make money from it.

Not for it to directly supplement my work.

But to keep myself from becoming rigid.

Unexpected Results

But then there will come a time when it gets used.

Skills I learned just for fun, thinking they were useless, but then one day they come back to help me in unexpected ways.

Gary Stevenson’s The Trading Game has been lighting up my Kindle and my brain in equal measure. I expected a memoir about fast money; instead I’m getting a primer on macroeconomics, risk psychology, and what it means to stay in the arena long enough to matter.

Trading is macro bets in disguise

At its core, a trader is betting on what central banks will do next: do rates climb, stay frozen, or collapse? Stevenson describes desks that lend dollars long-term and borrow them back overnight—a spread trade that only works if your read on the Monetary Policy Committee is sharper than everyone else’s. It makes sense why traders revere MPC members: they sit even closer to the levers than the people pressing buy and sell.

I still have homework here. I want to understand the mechanics of those lend/borrow loops, the instruments involved, and how profitability actually shows up on a desk’s P&L. That becomes my next deep-dive topic.

Do traders create value?

Reading Stevenson alongside Daniel Priestley has been eye-opening. Priestley is the entrepreneur’s entrepreneur: empower small firms, find a micro-niche, create jobs, keep tax rates attractive so builders stay and invest. Stevenson, meanwhile, is blunt about wealth concentrating at the top and argues for taxing the rich harder. They recently debated on Steven Bartlett’s Diary of a CEO podcast—you couldn’t script a sharper left-versus-right clash.

Yet they share a worry: money chasing unproductive assets instead of fuelling real innovation. Priestley’s answer is incentives; Stevenson’s answer is redistribution. I’m not sure where I land, but holding both lenses makes my own career decisions less ideological and more practical.

Pain threshold: the lesson that sticks

One Stevenson line lives rent-free in my head: “Every trader has a pain threshold. You could have the best trade in the world, but if you hit your pain threshold, it doesn’t matter—you’re out.” Translation: survival is part of the strategy. It isn’t enough to know the destination; you must have the liquidity, the capital, and the emotional bandwidth to stay in the game until you reach it.

That idea maps perfectly to life. You can pursue a purpose-driven role, build a product, or grow a studio—but if you run out of cash or burn out before it works, nobody remembers the noble intent. The goal is to finish the journey, not just start one that sounds impressive.

Applying it to my own moves

I’m currently being courted by a new company. A few years ago I would have accepted any offer out of fear. This time I walked their floor like a visiting consultant, listened, asked operational questions, and realised I’m in a position to choose. Just knowing I’ve got options flips the psychology: I value my current role more because I’m no longer trapped by it.

The same mindset applies to trading experiments I want to try—opening a small account, pricing UK sovereigns versus spot gold, testing whether bullion beats collectibles. I’ll only allocate what I can afford to lose, so the “pain threshold” stays comfortable and I can learn without nuking my savings.

Emotional control is part of the toolkit

Desk stories aren’t the only drama in the book; my own team had a day where tempers flared and responses were sharper than they needed to be. It reminded me that leaders who last are the ones who can hold their composure. I don’t have that superpower yet, so staying calm—especially when I know I’m right—is becoming a practice, not a wish.

What I’m investigating next

• Trader workdays: Stevenson’s crew is on the desk by 6:00 and done by mid afternoon. Is that typical across London?
• The exact products behind “lend long, borrow overnight” trades.
• How far I can push automation (GPT + Selenium) to support any future trading experiments without trusting AI to click through systems unsupervised.

For now, I’m savouring the book, dumping questions into my notebook, and letting the ideas percolate. Survival first, upside second—that’s the rule on the trading floor and, increasingly, in my own career design.

When I got my first full-time UK job, I did what many photography enthusiasts do - I bought a Canon 5D Mark III. It was my new toy, my prize for landing that job. I was excited about the technical specs, the manual settings, the professional feel of it in my hands.

But something was missing.

The Empty Feeling of Solo Photography

I'd take my camera out for walks, wandering around looking for interesting shots. I learned about aperture, shutter speed, ISO - all the technical aspects. I captured landscapes, buildings, street scenes. The photos were technically fine, maybe even good.

But when I came home and looked through them, I felt... empty. There was no connection, no spark. These photos meant nothing to me beyond being exercises in composition and exposure.

The Thursday Night Discovery

On the side, I play accordion. Every Thursday, I go to this pub where there's a jam session. These people became my friends - not just acquaintances, but people I genuinely cared about.

One night, I brought my camera. Not for any grand purpose, just to capture my friends doing what they love. I volunteered to be their photographer - unpaid, unofficial, just someone with a camera who wanted to help.

And that's when everything clicked.

The Joy of Service Through Photography

Taking photos of my friends performing transformed photography for me. Suddenly, every shot had purpose:

• Musicians could use these photos for their profiles
• Bands had content for promoting gigs
• People had memories of nights when they felt truly alive making music

What seemed like a small gesture - a minor inconvenience for me - had real value for them. And their joy became my joy. Their gratitude fueled my passion.

I finally understood: I don't love photography. I love event photography. I love capturing people in their element, serving them through my lens.

The Pattern of Purpose

This wasn't my first time discovering this pattern. Years ago, I fell in love with paddleboarding. But it wasn't enough to just enjoy it myself. I kept thinking: "How can more people experience this? How can this bring joy to others?"

So I started a tourism company focused on paddleboarding experiences. Not because I wanted to become super fit or master the sport, but because I wanted to share that feeling of gliding across the water, that perfect blend of exercise and peace.

The Tool Doesn't Matter - The Service Does

Here's what I've learned: Every tool, every skill, every new technology is only as valuable as its ability to serve others.

Whether it's:

• A camera capturing someone's best moment
• Code solving someone's problem
• ChatGPT helping someone communicate better
• A paddleboard giving someone their first taste of adventure

The tool itself doesn't bring fulfillment. The service does.

My Framework for Finding Purpose

Now, whenever I encounter something new - the latest AI tool, a new programming language, any "shiny object" - I ask myself:

1. Who can this help?
2. What problem does it solve for them?
3. How can I use this to bring joy or value to others?

If I can't answer these questions, I move on. Life's too short to master tools that don't help me serve.

The Small Things Matter

You don't need to start a company or launch a grand project. Sometimes the greatest service comes from the smallest gestures:

• Taking photos at a friend's gig
• Teaching someone a new skill
• Automating a tedious task for a colleague
• Simply being present with your tools when someone needs them

The key is to shift your focus from "What can I do with this?" to "What can I do for others with this?"

That shift changes everything.