If you had asked me in high school what kind of person I was, the answer would’ve been easy: a night owl. Staying up until 1 AM or 2 AM felt completely natural. There was something comforting about the quiet darkness, the glow of a screen, the freedom to watch movies or shows without interruption. Nights felt like my time.
But somewhere along the way, things changed.
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Most people see me as the quiet one. When I’m in a large group, there are usually people who do most of the talking. In that situation, I usually keep quiet and like to listen. When I’m in a smaller group, or perhaps in a one on one situation, I like to participate in a balanced conversation.
It’s not that I like being quiet, quiet the opposite. Like everyone else I have my opinions and thoughts. It’s just that I really dislike being interrupted I talk, so I try not to do that to others. These days, I find that people love to talk. They talk fast, and move from topic to topic. Sometimes I feel like if I want to contribute, I’d have to interrupt, but I try to avoid that.
I can be talkative if I want, but I find myself not needing to as much. Maybe it’s age, but I find more value in listening now. Then there are those who love to dominate conversations, taking up most of the time. I find myself losing motivation to talk to those folks.
People often misunderstand quiet people. Quiet people are usually seen as shy, even nice, or maybe dull. But quiet doesn’t mean we’re just sitting back. We think before we speak. We listen. And then we choose to talk.
When I think of the word successful, the first person who comes to mind is Steve Jobs — the man who, in my mind, shaped the modern world of smart devices. The iPhone alone changed everything. Even beyond that, he had this magnetic energy — a “reality distortion field,” people called it — that could make the impossible possible. When he presented a product, the world believed in it.
The image that always sticks with me is the black-and-white portrait from his biography — the one with his fist resting casually under his chin. That was probably the first biography I ever finished. Reading it made me realize how rare it is to find someone with such vision, even if it came with flaws.
Jobs’ list of achievements is long: Apple I/II, Mac, iPod, iPhone, iPad, and even Pixar. Most people would be lucky to create one thing that defines a generation; he helped build several. He left behind a legacy that reshaped industries and habits worldwide.
What I admired most about him was his tenacity — that relentless drive to push past limits. At the same time, I know I wouldn’t have liked working for him. According to his colleagues, he was difficult, even harsh. It’s strange to look up to someone whose leadership style I probably couldn’t tolerate. But I think that makes him more fascinating: his flaws were as much a part of his story as his brilliance.
For Jobs, success wasn’t just a product launch or a billion-dollar milestone. It was his ability to keep creating, influencing, and moving the world forward. Death was the only thing that stopped him. To me, that is both inspiring and tragic.
Compared to him, I’m nowhere close. I start many projects and never finish any of them. But maybe success isn’t about being like Steve Jobs. I like to think that being a better husband and father makes me more successful than he was in ways that matter to me.
When he died, I read his biography and felt motivated, less lazy. For a while, that drive changed how I lived. I should probably reread it again, just to recalibrate.
I still admire him, even knowing he wasn’t perfect. His passion, his presence, his ability to make people believe — all of that still moves me. Every once in a while, I rewatch one of his keynotes on YouTube, not for the nostalgia, but as a reminder of the success he had.
I had to think hard before I could remember the last time I did something fun by myself — not errands, not a workout, just something for me. The best I could come up with was shooting hoops or maybe window shopping. It’s funny: for someone who enjoys being alone, I rarely go out alone.
Maybe it’s because doing things solo costs money. When I’m with others, spending feels justified — events, movies, trips — but when it’s just me, I’d rather save the money. It feels selfish somehow, like I should save that money for something “real.”
At home, I’m comfortable alone. I work out, watch sports, read, and stream shows — things that keep my mind busy. But being alone in the world feels different. It’s not just quiet; it’s exposure. I envy people who can eat out or watch a movie solo without caring who notices. They seem confident in their own company.
If I were to start, I’d keep it simple — go see a movie alone. It’s low effort and doesn’t require small talk. Still, I know I’d regret it and think about how I could’ve just watched something at home. But there’s something appealing about the freedom — no coordinating, no compromises, no worrying about anyone else’s preferences. Just all me, doing what I want.
That freedom is what draws me to it. But there’s also a small fear: that people might see me sitting alone and think it’s sad. Maybe that comes from childhood — the instinct to not look “left out.”
Maybe the trick is to focus on the moment — the movie, the meal, the game — and stop caring about others. Comfort probably starts there: when you stop needing your solitude to be hidden.
Doing things solo doesn’t have to mean isolation; it can mean discovery. Maybe there are parts of me I haven’t met yet — interests, capabilities — waiting for me to start.
When I think of balance, I imagine life in perfect harmony. Everything I do has a counterbalance — a way to even things out. If I work hard, I make sure to take time to enjoy life. If I indulge, I do it in moderation. I love food, but I eat moderately and work out to balance it. For me, balance isn’t about cutting out the things I enjoy — it’s about creating equilibrium so nothing outweighs the rest.
Balance, to me, applies to everything — time, energy, and emotion. If I spend time on something, I try to counter it. If I eat junk food, I make up for it with healthy choices. When I spend energy, I make sure to rest. When I face chaos, I seek peace. It’s a constant back-and-forth. Life will always throw me off-center, but being mindful helps me find my way back.
A balanced day probably looks boring. I work out in the morning to spend energy, then eat protein to replenish. I go to work and make sure to take breaks. I eat proper meals to refuel throughout the day, and when the day ends, I sleep to recharge. I try to split my time between work, myself, and my family — and I try to give as much as I receive. Again, boring.
I can tell when I’m out of balance. My body lets me know. I’ll feel off — like I have too much of something or not enough. Maybe I’ve been too busy, or too lazy. Too stressed, or too relaxed. The imbalance reveals itself in small ways — in my mood, my focus, or my energy.
Keeping balance is really about maintaining a routine — and recalibrating when life throws me off. The hardest part IMO is work, because people are unpredictable and stress comes out of nowhere. When that happens, I have to consciously step back and find ways to destress, to pull myself back toward center. Sometimes that means making changes. Chasing balance shouldn’t mean forcing yourself to do things you hate. If something that once felt “balanced” starts feeling draining, that’s a sign it’s time to change the routine — switch jobs, try a new gym, find new motivation.
I’ve learned most of this through experience. No one taught me about balance; I just noticed that when things go out of balance, something always gives — your body, your mindset, your energy. Over time, I’ve realized that moderation is the simplest way to stay balanced. Don’t do too much of anything, and life tends to find its own rhythm again.
When I’m balanced, I feel content — like I’m giving the right amount in every area of life. It helps me show up for others, whether that’s family, friends, or coworkers. Balance makes space for connection. And I don’t think balance is something you ever fully achieve, I think it’s something you continually adjust.
The first time I really felt like a grown-up wasn’t some grand milestone. It wasn’t landing a job, getting married, or becoming a dad. It was the first night I moved into my college dorm—completely free, finally on my own.
I remember setting up my computer, feeling independent and responsible for the first time. Meals? My responsibility. Laundry? My responsibility. Sleep schedule? My problem. And what did I do with all that newfound freedom? I fired up Diablo II. My sorceress’s spell sounds echoed down the dorm hallway—loud enough for everyone to hear. Looking back, I can’t believe I did that. So embarrassing.
That moment was my first glimpse of adulthood: freedom mixed with clueless enthusiasm.
Years later, the “grown-up” moments kept leveling up. Getting my own place after college. Paying rent. Starting my career. Doing taxes, paying bills, keeping food on the table—all the standard side quests of adult life. It’s tiring, but also strangely rewarding. There’s comfort in the rhythm of responsibility.
Now I’m the husband, the father, the guy who makes sure things keep running. My younger self would probably see me and think, “Wow, I became my dad.” And he’d be right. The difference is, I understand now why my dad always looked tired—but also why he kept going.
I still don’t always feel grown up. I go through the motions: work, family, bills, repeat. Sometimes I wonder if anyone truly feels like one, or if we’re all just older kids pretending, learning as we go. Maybe being grown up isn’t about feeling like one—it’s about doing what needs to be done, even when you’d rather be doing something else.
The easy answer would be to win the lottery. If I’m guaranteed not to fail, that means I’d win, right? But that feels like cheating. The premise of this question already breaks reality, so I might as well think beyond money.
If failure wasn’t possible, I’d probably start with something I could do perfectly. Maybe run a company? After all, success there ultimately leads to what the lottery gives you: money. But the funny thing is, once you have money, money stops being the point. So maybe that’s not the best use of my one perfect attempt.
Perfecting a skill feels more satisfying. Because when you perfect something you love, value follows you anyway. Maybe I’d choose writing. Writing is useful everywhere—whether you’re leading a team (need documentation), writing a blog/book, or trying to express something that matters. To write perfectly would mean I could tell any story, explain any idea, or reach anyone in exactly the right way.
Of course, I could also take it to the extreme. Maybe I’d save the world. Why stop small when failure isn’t possible? If I could actually do that—end suffering, fix climate change, cure disease—that would be the obvious choice.
But maybe the deeper point isn’t about what I’d do if I couldn’t fail, but about what disappears when failure does. Fear, embarrassment, wasted time—all the friction that makes us hesitate. Humans cope with failure by glorifying it: “You must fail to succeed.” If failure were gone, maybe we’d finally see what we really want, stripped of all the excuses.
If I couldn’t fail, I’d still choose writing. Because even in a world without failure, the thing I’d want most is to connect—to say something that matters.
If I suddenly came across a million dollars, my first instinct would be to invest it. But since this is about giving it away, I’d probably start with the people who come to mind first—my parents.
When my sister and I were little, our family never seemed to struggle. My parents’ business did well, and money wasn’t something we worried about. But as I grew older, that changed. Their business slowed, and I started hearing the arguments—the yelling, the blaming, the tension that filled the house. It took years to realize that money itself wasn’t the problem; it was the lack of understanding around it.
If I gave my parents money today, I’d probably do it over a phone call. We don’t talk often, but I think they’d appreciate the surprise. I wouldn’t make a big deal out of it—just something between us. Quiet giving feels right. No one else has to know.
Beyond family, I’d look around to see who else truly needs help. Most people want more money, but not everyone needs it. The truth is, money only brings temporary happiness unless something deeper changes. If I really wanted the gift to last, I’d try to make sure it came with guidance—maybe a resource or a conversation about saving, investing, or building a future.
To me, a good use of money isn’t about spending—it’s about letting it work for you. Saving, investing smartly, understanding compound interest—basic ideas, but powerful ones. If even one person learned how to manage money better because of what I gave, I’d feel I gave well.
Because at the end of the day, it’s not about coming across the money—it’s about what you do with it once you have it.
It might be easy to pick out a modern musician for this question, but the first name that popped into my head was Pablo Picasso, so I’ll stick with that.
Funny enough, I actually connect with music the most. Growing up, I’d spend endless hours listening to songs on my computer, my MP3 player, and now on my phone or other devices. But when it comes to art in the traditional sense, Picasso was one of the first names that ever stuck with me.
I first learned about him in 5th grade. His work looked so different — kind of warpy and strange, but also captivating. I remember seeing his paintings in textbooks and learning a bit about his life. There was this story that really stuck with me: Picasso once drew something on a napkin, and when someone asked to buy it, he offered it for a ridiculous amount of money. The person said, “It only took you a few minutes to draw it!” and Picasso replied, “No, it took me my entire life.” The story explains how his ability to create such art even in such a short time came from a lifetime of practice and experience, not from a few minutes of drawing. This resonates with me because that’s how I view honed skills that took years of practice.
If I had to name specific works, I’d pick Guernica and The Weeping Woman. I actually had to look them up again because I’d forgotten the titles, but as soon as I saw them, I recognized them right away. There’s something about his style — distorted, emotional, unconventional — that I find oddly relatable. I think my mind kind of works like that sometimes: a bit warped and different from normal.
If I could talk to him, I’d probably ask about that napkin story, and maybe just about his thought process in general. I’m more interested in the person behind the art than the art itself.
I used to roll my eyes when my dad talked about eating healthy and taking care of my body. Now that I’m older I catch myself doing the same: watching what I eat, exercising, and sleeping well. I can’t believe I’m becoming more like my dad.
I was active as a kid, taking taekwondo like my son now, and in college I started lifting and never stopped. A few years before COVID I got more serious, but it became more real starting the summer of 2023. I had just flow back from Korea when I felt like I was having a heart attack. That was the moment when I decided I had to turn things around.
These days I’m addicted to my routine: wake up early for black coffee, massage and stretch my body, warm shower to wake up and warm up. Then it’s 45 minutes of HIIT class at Basecamp. I love the feeling during my workouts when my lungs burn and my body is pumped; I feel strong, young, alive. If I skip my routine, I feel… off. Sore for the entire day.
After my class, I take my protein mixed with creatine, hit a cold shower as my cryotherapy treatment, and I make sure to get enough sleep at night. Eight hours if possible. Of course, working out every single day (or I try to) like I do isn’t the textbook definition of “healthy”, and I’ve made trade-offs to keep going. I used to be a night owl; now I hit the sack early. I cut back on drinking and junk food. To me, it’s worth it.
Fitness taught me the simplest rule: if you want a long, healthy life, you have to take care of yourself. No cheat codes. Just reps. Level up, again and again.
johnro 