One of the quickest ways to destroy a dream is to make it come true. I used to have many dream guitars, and when I finally started earning enough, I went out and bought them. At the time, I believed spending money on tangible things was a worthy investment—I was simply converting cash into objects of value.
But I was wrong. The more things I owned, the less space I had. And clutter in my home mirrored clutter in my mind. For someone in a creative field, that’s dangerous. I think in images: what I see shapes what I think, my thoughts shape how I feel, and those feelings flow into the work I create.
The turning point came during my first trip to Japan with Kate. That journey showed me that experiences and memories are far more valuable than objects. Travel doesn’t take up space in your home; instead, it expands the space in your mind.
I can’t even remember when I bought each guitar, or how I felt the day I first held one. But I vividly remember every trip with Kate and our friends. Those memories inspire me to create better things, help me understand people more deeply, and give me strength on difficult days.
Today, travel has become one of our top priorities. For Kate and me, it’s our way of recharging. Just as we’d never let a phone battery run empty, we recharge our lives regularly—through travel.
Do you think waiting is happiness or suffering?
Personally, I believe having something to look forward to is good for mental health. But the waiting has to be tangible, with a realistic chance of happening. I place value on the small acts of waiting that shape each day.
I wait for the chance to work on a challenging project. I wait for lunch and coffee breaks. I wait for the ease of the evening. I wait to meet someone. I wait for Friday night. I wait for Saturday morning. I wait to spend the weekend with Kate. I wait for an upcoming holiday—and even for the return home that follows it.
To me, having something to look forward to is better than drifting aimlessly. The arrival of what we’ve been waiting for divides life into distinct segments, like verses of a song. It helps me set the rhythm of my life. And it reminds me that happiness and suffering are always temporary.
In the past, new ideas were a source of suffering for me. The moment an idea appeared, I felt the urge to build it immediately. My mind would circle around it endlessly. And of course, new ideas kept coming—without waiting for me to finish the old ones still hanging. On top of that, there was the pain of failing to capture them quickly enough, only to forget them entirely.
My way out of this cycle was to create. I had to make something—sketch, write, compose, prototype—and I had to do it right away. It felt as though ideas equalled suffering, while creation equalled happiness. But life is never that simple. Paradoxically, once I had created too much, I would feel a different kind of suffering—this time from the act of creating itself—and I would begin searching again for the joy of discovering new ideas.
I find it fascinating that the same thing can be both joy and suffering. These days, I’ve learned that the middle state is the most livable. Not joy, not suffering, but stable. Simply watching ideas as they come and go, knowing new ones will always arrive and the chance to create is endless. Appreciating progress as it unfolds in the present. For me, doing things steadily, with a light heart, is a practice worth keeping.
When was the last time you celebrated a win?
For product designers, the most meaningful projects are often long and complex. They demand collaboration across disciplines, where each specialist brings a different perspective—and it’s never simple to get everyone to measure progress with the same ruler.
We may share the same ultimate goals—solving problems for customers, creating value for the business, building something that lasts. But along the way, our milestones differ. Sometimes a designer’s proudest achievement—a clever interaction design—can become a production bottleneck for engineers. Everyone defines victory a little differently.
In an age where only big wins seem to count, I believe in the power of celebrating small wins. Even the tiniest bit of progress—an idea clarified, a draft completed—can feel just as rewarding as a launch. Small wins energise me to show up each day. They spark a beginner’s mindset, keep me humble, and help me notice and appreciate the victories of others too.
Today, I’ll celebrate with Kate over lunch at our favourite restaurant—because finishing this post is a win worth enjoying.
Am I filling empty space—or am I removing what’s unnecessary from it?
I ask myself this question across many parts of life.
In work: am I adding designs that matter, or stripping away what doesn’t belong?
In relationships: am I trying to collect more friends, or choosing the best ones and keeping them close?
In wealth: am I chasing new opportunities, or staying the course for the long game?
Experience has taught me that happiness comes less from adding and more from removing. I’m happiest when there’s space in my work. I’m happiest with a few close, quality friendships. And I invest—not speculate.
But everything that brings us joy can also bring us pain. The dream job can keep you awake at night. The people you love most will one day leave—and that loss becomes suffering. A luxury lifestyle often raises unrealistic expectations.
To me, happiness isn’t about having everything I want. It’s about needing less. The fewer the expectations, the greater the joy. I’m not chasing “more,” but refining toward “enough.”
They say you’re the average of the few people you spend most of your time with. But how do you know if those people are lifting you up or pulling you down? Eleanor Roosevelt put it well: “Great minds discuss ideas; average minds discuss events; small minds discuss people.”
I love being around people of ideas. They bring perspectives that are fresh and often unexpected—sometimes small at first, but always original. They think differently. They create. They challenge norms. They spark excitement and open new ways of seeing the world. They are creators and sharers—and many of them are united by the same pursuit: ideas.
I’ve never met an idea-driven person who was truly stuck. They generate wealth again and again. They build something meaningful even when starting from nothing. I believe the ability to produce ideas comes from the ability to see ideas. And that’s why it matters so much to put yourself in environments surrounded by people of ideas.
How do you know when you’ve truly succeeded? What principles do you use to measure it? Is it financial freedom? Career growth? The impact you create for others? The truth is, each of us defines success differently—and that definition shifts with time and context.
When I was younger, my idea of success was disposable. It had clear boundaries: moving to Sydney, working for a global company, earning a promotion. But every milestone left me asking the same question: “Now what?”
Humans are wired to keep moving forward. What feels like a big success today may feel ordinary tomorrow. Sometimes I think the unhappiest people might be those who achieve everything they set out to—because they’re left with nothing more to chase.
The escape routes vary. Some raise the bar so high they’ll never reach it in one lifetime—like moving humanity to Mars. For me, at this stage of life, I’ve shifted to what I call a recyclable measure of success. One I can use again and again, every single day.
My measure of success is sleep. A successful life, to me, is one where I can sleep peacefully.
To sleep well each night, I need to balance my days with care, nurture my relationships, manage my wealth and health wisely, and guard myself against the ego-driven traps of anger, envy, and unhelpful comparison. All of this creates a lighter heart. And with a light heart, I sleep well.
That, to me, is success.
When you first apply for a role, the team cares about your skills and past experience. They hire the best fit. But once you’re in, no one looks back at your résumé. What matters is what you contribute now. What matters is whether you’re a good teammate. Put simply: what matters is whether they trust you.
You might deliver dazzling work and impressive results in record time. But none of it lasts if the team doesn’t trust you. Most opportunities come from trust—and trust is earned slowly. It takes time, and time demands patience.
Doing great work doesn’t always require patience—most people enjoy the rush of a big challenge. But supporting the team quietly, doing the simple (sometimes boring) things that unblock others—that demands far more patience.
The ability to be a supporter is a skill many talented people overlook. Yet it’s often the very thing that creates the space for their talents to shine when the moment finally comes.
Technology is making us lose the skill of waiting. We can’t watch a movie from start to finish without doing something else. We struggle to read entire books. We want to get fit instantly. We chase constant stimulation to fill every quiet moment—scrolling endlessly through short clips, not even knowing what we’re looking for, just hoping to stumble on something. It’s as if we always need noise to occupy the mind.
But waiting has its own purpose. It makes the arrival of something meaningful. It deepens our appreciation of what we receive. And, most importantly, it gives us the chance to sit with ourselves—to hear that inner voice and learn to live peacefully with it.
Living with your own voice is a skill. It can be learned. It can be developed. The world, however, is always trying to drown it out—blasting music, pushing opinions, flooding us with gossip, praise, and chatter both online and off. None of these matter as much as the voice you hear inside your own head.
And it would be a shame if that voice wasn’t truly yours. That quiet signal—subtle but persistent—is what I call gut feeling. It’s small. It’s fragile. And yet, it may be the most important thing you ever learn to hear.
Before the world went cashless, I noticed something interesting about how I spent money. When I had a large bill—say $100—it stayed in my wallet much longer than smaller bills of the same value. If I carried one $100 note, I would hesitate before using it. But if I had five $20 notes, I would spend them more freely—and end up parting with the same $100 much faster.
Paying $10 with a $100 bill felt like losing $100, even though the real cost was only 10%. Paying $10 with a $20 bill, however, felt easier—less of a loss. That’s when it struck me: humans don’t make decisions purely with reason, but with emotion.
The amount may be the same—$10—but the feeling is very different. And today, even though I pay almost everything by card, the pattern still shows up. Looking back at my transactions, the small, almost invisible expenses—coffee, eating out, transport—often add up to more than the bigger purchases I resisted with such care.
That made me realise: the real turning points in life often come from these $20-note decisions. Small actions we barely notice accumulate. Five $20 bills become $100. Daily habits stack into meaningful change. Progress is rarely about one big leap—it’s about the $20-note decisions we make every day, quietly adding up to something much greater.
I believe people develop IQ and EQ at different paces, depending on the season of their life. From what I’ve observed, designers with high IQ—meaning strong craft, skill, and taste—often develop EQ, the ability to work well with others, more slowly.
I once attended a series of hand-lettering workshops with master craftsmen and craftswomen. Their lines carried incredible creativity, sharpness, and precision—their letters looked as if they’d been printed by a machine. But spending time with them, you could sense their ego. It wasn’t surprising: their mastery was forged in solitude, built on countless hours of practice, with little need for collaboration.
In today’s world of software design, things are different. Designers, engineers, and PMs rely on one another. Collaboration is the medium as much as the code or the pixels. What’s fascinating is how vibe-code might shift this dynamic—making it easier for individuals to create independently, almost like the hand-lettering artists I once met.
Still, I believe IQ has its limits. You can keep sharpening your skills, but eventually the curve flattens. EQ, however, has no ceiling. Becoming someone others want to work with opens endless possibilities. Vibe-code may raise the baseline of IQ for everyone, but those who understand that humans are wired to depend on each other will continue to stand out.
Places with long views of nature, delicious and nourishing food, clean air, and silence are becoming harder to find—and more expensive. I believe that in the near future, these will be the true luxuries, far more valuable than cars, watches, bags, or clothes. Those goods are on their way to being accessible to almost everyone.
When I stand before a giant tree, a mountain, the sun, the moon, or the endless sea, I feel pulled back into nature. I can sit and watch for a very long time, and it always feels worth pausing everything else to take in the moment. In nature I see myself more clearly than in any mirror. I call this state daydreaming.
As a child, daydreaming was free. I grew up surrounded by nature, and drifting into it came naturally. Today, working in tall buildings, I need to invest time, money, and energy to find the kind of landscapes that make me daydream—often travelling far from home. My daydreams are no longer free.
Food tells a similar story. I used to pick mangoes straight from the tree—one at a time. Now I fill my basket at the supermarket, without knowing where they came from or how they were grown. When was the last time you walked through a city without inhaling cigarette smoke? Or wondered why the stranger next to you was scrolling TikTok on loudspeakers instead of headphones? When was the last time you truly heard your own thoughts?
I don’t want nature, nourishing food, clean air, and silence to become exclusive luxuries. I want them to remain free—shared, respected, and protected through simple acts of courtesy.
I can’t always remember what I’ve eaten, or every piece of information I’ve consumed. But I do believe what I take in—food, drink, or content—shapes who I am today. And tomorrow, I’ll change again, depending on what I consume. That’s why, when it comes to consumption, I believe less is more. It’s not just about what we eat or drink, but also what we feed our minds.
If consumption is the yin, then digestion is the yang—and both matter. Just as the body needs time to turn nutrients into strength, the mind needs space to transform information into ideas. Yet today, that time and space are rare. It feels like we’ve lost our tolerance for boredom. Instead, we snack endlessly on stimulation—scrolling short clips like handfuls of potato chips—without even noticing.
So I’ve started to make myself bored on purpose. When waiting for food or commuting, I sit quietly with no phone, no book, nothing. Boredom makes other activities feel richer. After being bored, I return to demanding work with more energy and joy. But if my baseline is constant stimulation, even meaningful work becomes harder to enjoy.
For me, boredom is the digestion phase of creativity. It gives my brain the silence it needs to process everything I’ve taken in. And almost always, new ideas arrive in those moments when I’m doing nothing—when I’m not even trying to find them—when I’m bored.
There’s a common Thai saying: “Where there is effort, there is success.”
But I question this. Does effort always equal success? Does every attempt lead to victory? Perhaps this saying was coined in a time when outcomes were more predictable. For example: if you planted a mango tree (effort), you would eventually harvest mangoes (success). But in today’s world, where AI accelerates change daily, who can honestly say they don’t try? And who can predict that every effort will lead to success?
I believe in effort, but I also see success and failure as temporary states—fluid, not fixed. Take career growth as an example: if you get promoted this year, you might call it success. But if you remain in the same role next year, do you still see yourself as successful? The promotion that once symbolised achievement might later feel like stagnation—or even failure. Humans evolve continuously, and we are the ones who define what success means at each stage of life.
That’s why I believe: “Where there is effort, there is progress.” Some efforts don’t pay off immediately, but the world tends to reward those with an action bias. At the very least, effort guarantees one thing: you did something. And doing is what drives change. Action is the best form of learning—no one ever learned to ride a bike just by reading about it.
So maybe we should stop chasing a handful of “big” successes. Instead, we should seek daily progress—because we never know when today’s success will become tomorrow’s failure.
What happens if we do the same thing every day? Naturally, we’ll get better at it. It becomes part of our life. We do it more easily, almost without thinking. But on the other hand, we might get bored. We might not enjoy it the way we did at first. We might fall into repetition, stop creating new things, or even quit altogether.
I think taking action always comes with an invisible friction—especially when it comes to good habits: creating every day, writing every day, exercising every day. That friction is what separates amateurs from professionals, dabblers from experts.
So what allows us to keep going long enough for something to become a skill, a career, or even an identity? I believe it’s craft. Craft is care and care means noticing the endless small details within an activity. Unlike the “big picture,” which may only have a single view, the details are limitless—if you choose to look for them.
Craft reveals new details, and those details bring joy and challenge. Continuous joy turns into love for the craft. Love for the craft keeps us going—long enough to become skilled, to see the big picture in new ways, and to let what we do become part of who we are.
Do you enjoy things that feel advanced—tools like Loveable, V0, or Figma Make—cutting-edge, fast, instant—where you don’t have to spend time practising to master the craft? In an era where AI can design for you with just a few prompts, who still cares about kerning, rhythm, whitespace, or even how to construct a clean Figma layout, right?
I see it differently. To me, advanced = mastering the basics. Not everything has a shortcut, not even with AI. Garbage in, garbage out. I once joined an AI workshop where everyone was excited about the outputs, but very few cared about the design details. Most of the results looked similar—and, to me, flat. But the few people with a strong design foundation? Their AI results looked stunning.
Sure, anyone can write a prompt and generate something. But not everyone can translate what’s in their head into something coherent without training—without mastering the basics. People with strong foundations in craft, creativity, and design inevitably use AI better than most. It’s not just about speed. In fact, AI makes craft more important than ever. Without it, we risk flooding the world with work that’s fast, but mediocre—and easily forgotten.
Have you ever noticed how you breathe when you’re in a flow state—the state where ideas come one after another with ease? Do you breathe the same way from the moment you enter flow until the moment you leave it? And how does your breathing affect your body, your mind, and your thoughts?
I think of the body, mind, and thoughts as a team, with the breath acting as the rhythm keeper. I’ve observed that when I’m in flow, my breathing becomes deeper and steadier, sometimes with brief pauses when I’m doing lighter tasks (like writing UX copy while designing UI). I think those pauses are my body’s way of warning me: I’m multitasking now. And my brain doesn’t like it. If I’m not careful, I might slip out of flow.
The most interesting part is this: whenever I enter flow, I find myself thinking less—sometimes not thinking at all about what I’m doing. It’s as if the work creates itself through me. I don’t feel like the creator. I don’t even know where some of the ideas or skills come from. I just sense them, and then act. At times, it’s hard to explain what design principles I’m even following—because the work feels almost channeled.
Artists, singers, designers—we all know this feeling, and it’s hard to train directly. But breathing? That we can train. I believe that if we can breathe the way we do in flow more often throughout the day, then when flow comes, we’ll stay in it longer. The body, mind, and thoughts can work together as a true team, guided by the rhythm of breath.
In the end, success or failure are just temporary states. What remains with us until the very end might simply be: inhale, exhale, repeat. And perhaps that’s enough—to create, and to be happy.
I believe every success is always a group effort, even when it looks like you achieved it alone. Take my own journey as an example: I spent countless hours practising, building a portfolio, designing a website, writing résumés, preparing for interviews, failing, trying again—until I finally joined my dream company. On the surface, it looks like I fought those battles by myself. It looks like I alone made it happen.
But that’s not true. How could I have had the time and energy to push forward without Kate supporting me outside of work—listening when things got tough? Even colleagues, whether kind or difficult, played a role in my success. They taught me lessons that I could never have learned on my own. They pushed me to change things I wouldn’t have dared to change otherwise. My portfolio, my résumé, even the way I spoke in interviews—these were all dots that others helped me plot along the way. And I’m grateful for all of them.
That’s why I believe action is personal, but success is collective. I’m glad that in every success—and even in every failure—I’ve had someone to share it with. I’m glad that what I’ve learned can be passed on to help someone else succeed faster, or go further than me. I believe there’s enough for everyone—if we learn to make the cake bigger, instead of fighting for the biggest slice.
There’s one thing that can instantly bring certain memories back to me. It can relax me, sharpen my focus, or make me feel uneasy. It isn’t food or drink, but it deeply influences taste. It reflects both the place itself and the living conditions of the people there. That thing is scent—an invisible, untouchable, yet undeniable presence.
Some scents trigger feelings tied to specific events, no matter how much time has passed—even when I can’t recall the images, the feeling remains vivid. The right room spray helps me relax before sleep. The smell of coffee in the morning sharpens my concentration for reading. Certain food aromas make my mouth water. And on the other hand, when I have a cold and lose my sense of smell, I notice how the taste of food and drink changes completely.
Have you noticed how suburbs with more affluent communities often carry a pleasant fragrance in the air? It might be from flowers, incense, candles, or simply clean air. I believe that once our basic needs are met, we begin to seek beauty through our senses—through art, fine wine, music, and even scent.
It would be such a shame if beautiful cities were filled with unpleasant smells, because those scents could become the lasting memories for first-time visitors. I believe we all play a role in shaping the sensory quality of our environment. In that sense, we are all designers of the societies we live in.
Today I’m heading home. This was my first time in San Francisco—and in the United States. I spent about two weeks here, so what I’m sharing is only a personal record of impressions from this first visit, something to keep as a memory.
I’ve seen both the beautiful and the unsettling sides of San Francisco. I tasted food ranging from Michelin-star restaurants to small local cafés. I walked through streets filled with flowers and morning fog—but also through the smell of urine and marijuana. I heard soft silence and classy jazz in the background—but also frightening shouts and people blasting loud, tuneless music from portable speakers. I rode in a Waymo self-driving car and also in a cable car that still requires two drivers.
For me, San Francisco has its own charm. The old-fashioned houses blend curiously with modernity. I saw cable cars and Teslas side by side, classical art and contemporary art in the same city. But it would be a shame if the sound of fog and the warmth of the sun were drowned out by loudspeakers, or if every corner were filled with the smell of cannabis. Freedom is a wonderful thing, but it should come with basic courtesy—because that’s what allows the “spaces” we share to become “memories” we share together.
I’m glad I had the chance to see San Francisco and the U.S. This trip gave me fresh perspectives—shapes, flavours, scents, and sounds. It gave me and Kate memories we’ll carry forward. I made new friends, reconnected with old ones from work on a more personal level, and together we created experiences I’m thankful for.
Travel can feel exhausting if you approach it with the mindset of checking off every landmark in a limited time, eating at every famous restaurant, following every review, taking pictures of everything, leaving early and coming back late—trying to squeeze value from every single minute. Unless it’s a work trip, I think this is a scarcity mindset.
Travel has taught me that mistakes and imperfections are inevitable, but there are always new opportunities. You can always return to a place another time. You don’t need to take the same photos as everyone else. If you’re tired, you can rest. You can set the rhythm of your own journey without anyone dictating where to go or when. To me, this is a wealth mindset.
I believe that if we carry this wealth mindset, it reflects across every part of life. Take work, for example: you begin to see clearly what you really want from your career. You’re less distracted by others’ successes, and instead you celebrate them—because you know you have your own rhythm, your own opportunities, and your own timing. You don’t need to tie your self-worth to external validation.
This is what travel has given me: a sense of freedom.
I like being at home. I believe home is one of the most important spaces for creating work, and one of the best investments I’ve ever made. Home gives me and Kate privacy, emotional stability, and rhythm in life. Most importantly, it gives me a strong morning routine. I’m grateful that the world has reached a point where many of us can work from anywhere—and of course, my choice is home.
Right now, I’m writing this from a hotel in San Francisco, with Kate here in the room. Whenever we travel, our private space disappears because we’re together all the time, and I have to compromise my morning routine. I’ve noticed clearly that the amount I read correlates directly with the quality of my writing. My ability to focus also decreases when I don’t practise consistently. And naturally, I run less while travelling, since I save my energy for walking.
Still, I’m happy seeing Kate enjoy each day of travel. I feel that our journeys together are plotting new dots that will someday connect with others. We’re creating good memories together. And I know I’m learning something—though I don’t yet know what it is. I’m excited to bring these new experiences back home and turn them into creative work.
When I find myself in a difficult situation, I used to lose mindfulness and focus too much on the negatives, which only amplified the problem and blinded me from seeing possibilities. That makes an already bad situation worse, multiplying it with negative thoughts. And the more I focus on what’s wrong, the more new problems I see—until everything spirals downward.
Optimism is a skill. And like any skill, it can be learned. For me, anything that can be learned is fun. Practising optimism helps me catch negative thoughts faster, and it turns into a game: challenging myself to find something good in every bad situation. This simple shift has changed my life in many ways.
I’ve noticed my personal art has shifted from black-and-white to vibrant colours. My hobbies have influenced my product design too—I often hear that the interfaces I create feel clean and friendly. I’ve made more friends, moved into a community surrounded by talented people, and grown in income, lifestyle, and relationships.
All of this stems from one small habit: looking for the good in every situation.
During the Industrial Revolution, humanity created countless “labour-saving machines,” and the world advanced rapidly. We could produce goods faster, more precisely, and more reliably, while relying less on human labour. Quality of life improved for everyone.
But with machines came new challenges: reduced employment opportunities, the pressure to learn new skills, and health issues from using our bodies less. Sometimes I think people from before the Industrial Revolution would laugh at us—going to the gym just to exercise our underused bodies.
I’m fascinated by the direction of today’s innovations: vibe-code, AI, self-driving cars. Many of these technologies seem to reduce how much we depend on one another. If machines are giving us “thinking capital”—making us less reliant on other people’s opinions—do we still need EQ? Or are we moving into a world where only the best IQ wins? Where everyone plays the same game, and everyone is a creator rather than a PM, designer, or engineer?
I don’t believe that’s the case. IQ has limits, but EQ does not. One day, cutting-edge design will be something anyone can create. But the ability to endure over time, to work with others, and to unlock the potential of those around us—that can grow endlessly. In the end, no one really cares how talented you are. What they care about is whether you make them more talented.
What humanity needs now isn’t just labour-saving machines or thinking machines. We need “heart-saving machines.”
Skill can be the enemy of courage. And courage is the essential doorway to new learning. I’ve noticed that when someone is consistently praised for being highly skilled in a particular area, they often begin to play it safe—protecting their reputation for excellence in the eyes of others. To me, that’s a shame. Because every one of us has the potential to keep growing, if only we remain brave enough.
I value the effort to improve far more than maintaining the same standard. I dislike the phrase “don’t reinvent the wheel.” I don’t believe the wheels on the first horse-drawn cart and the wheels on an F1 car were made with the same methods. Of course, craftsmanship requires an incredible amount of repetition—but repetition without seeking new approaches is no different from standing still.
I don’t think “being the best” really exists. Any record set today can be broken tomorrow. So why not let the one breaking it be you? What matters most isn’t who’s the best or who ranks the highest. The most formidable person is the one who enjoys what they do—because they’ll keep getting better at it without limit.
I believe that a good question—especially in a group setting—should benefit the responder, the listeners, and the asker. It should push the responder to think more deeply, give the audience a shared understanding, and offer the asker something they can use to grow further.
I used to misunderstand what makes a good question. I thought good questions had to sound smart—technical, complex, full of jargon. Without realising it, many times I wasn’t actually asking a question at all. I was just trying to steal the spotlight from the speaker. I asked questions that already contained answers. I asked because I felt insecure with silence. And that meant I didn’t actually learn anything new. But here’s the truth: if you’re not learning, how can you ever really become smarter?
Now I think a good question begins with good listening. Listening to what the speaker is really trying to say (reading between the lines). Listening to the overall atmosphere of the room (reading the room). Listening to myself to understand what I genuinely want to learn.
A simple technique I use to check myself is this: Is this a question everyone can understand? More often than not, simple questions are far more powerful than ones that only sound clever. Even if the question has no ready answer, if it invites everyone to think together and enjoy the process, then it creates both energy and memorable moments. Don’t you agree?
I think one thing talented people have in common is simplicity. They know what truly matters. They communicate with precision, they know when to stay silent, they can read between the lines. Their words are concise and to the point. They choose the strongest parts of a story, and they know how to adapt their message to the listener.
Communication, to me, is a lot like prototyping in product design. Great designers choose the best, most useful parts of their work to share—so that stakeholders can align quickly and the product can move toward the best outcomes.
In an era where everyone’s attention is being stolen—by social media, AI, group chats, you name it—I think attention itself has become a scarce and valuable resource. The people who respect and honour the attention they receive from others belong to a rare group. They are what I call “the truly talented.”
I think many people start their careers in small companies, where one person has to wear many hats just to keep the business alive and growing. I was one of them. I began my career as a creative in an advertising agency, then gradually learned product design in a small startup where I had to do everything—from branding to product design—often starting and finishing projects entirely on my own.
Doing everything alone has both advantages and disadvantages. The advantage is that it gave me a wide perspective, and it taught me how to create and deliver with limited resources. The disadvantage is that it left me unprepared for working in larger teams, where multiple designers might work on the same product and stakeholders become more complex.
Have you ever wondered why managers don’t often promote people simply for being the best makers? Hard skills are relatively easy to train—especially for people who’ve already learned to deliver end-to-end on their own. But hard skills eventually plateau; your craft can be excellent, but the difference it makes will diminish over time.
Empathy, humility, and the ability to work well with others, however, can grow endlessly. What I’ve learned is that the force that fuels both hard skills and happiness is simply being a good person. Goodness attracts the right work and the right people. And when that happens, you can use your hard skills at the right moment to create impact—while growing together with everyone around you.
Every time I go for a run, I fight against two things: the strength of my body and the strength of my mind. My body has almost never been the real problem. Of course, when I first started running, I had less physical strength than I do now. But it’s the strength of the mind that challenges me every single time—from the very first step until the moment I finish.
It’s not just about whether I run or don’t run. The real battle is with the thoughts that appear while I’m running. My mind gets bombarded with scattered, sometimes even negative thoughts. I suspect that when I run and breathe heavily, my body misinterprets it as anger, which in turn triggers those thoughts. Spending an hour running alone with myself has helped me understand my body and my mind more deeply—but it also brings something new to learn every single day.
What I’ve discovered is that both physical and mental muscles can grow, though not at the same pace. For me, the body has grown faster than the mind. But now, I can often run with a lighter heart, staying present with the act of running itself. And when my mind feels light, I’m surprised by how much further I can go. I’ve realised that I can bring this same state of mind into other areas of life as well. The body and the mind are endlessly fascinating.
On 8 September (9 September in Sydney), my first day in San Francisco, the thing that stunned me most was the contrast between the cable car—which requires two drivers to operate (I wasn’t even sure if it could turn)—and the driverless cars now available for hire like Uber. At first, I thought these cars were just test vehicles feeding data, but no—they’re already running as a commercial service. Incredible. Earlier this year, when I was in China, I thought I had seen how far ahead things were. But San Francisco left me worried about how far behind Australia might fall.
I’m fascinated by big shifts that impact ordinary things people interact with every day. I imagine that in the past, cable cars must have felt revolutionary for their time. They could carry many people, travel longer distances, and didn’t need to stop for rest like horse-drawn carriages. That must have felt wonderfully convenient.
It’s no different from how I felt today seeing self-driving cars. Humanity keeps building tools to reduce labour, and now we’ve begun to build tools to reduce mental labour—AI. I’m excited to see where the world will go from here.
But one thing hasn’t changed: human nature. We still find happiness in the same things—comfort, acceptance, freedom. And we still suffer from the same things—hardship, rejection, confinement. I think the technology that will truly create a breakthrough is the one designed to address these unchanging aspects of human nature.
Sometimes the hardest thing to do is nothing at all. There are moments when I add layers of detail even though the original was already good. Times when I say things I know I shouldn’t. Or when I take on responsibilities that belong to others. I see these as small defeats to my own ego.
In difficult situations, I’ve learned that doing nothing requires awareness, mindfulness, and great courage—to wait, to let my actions grow and stand on their own until they’re recognised by others. Sometimes silence is both the best answer and the best question.
Whether it’s silence, stillness, or waiting without suffering—this space is essential. Yet in today’s world, it feels like this space is shrinking. So many products teach us to avoid silence, avoid stillness, avoid waiting. But I believe in an old-fashioned teaching I once heard: Do your best, and then let go of the outcome. Work fully, but don’t cling too tightly.
I don’t see the path to success as a “line”—I see it as a series of “dots.” By this I mean both the “path” and “success” itself are nothing more than dots strung together. The number of dots varies for each person. Even for the same success, I might need more dots at one stage of life than at another. Two people may achieve the same outcome, but with completely different numbers of dots.
Take public speaking, for example. Success on a big stage, which might only come once in a while, is built from countless small dots—daily small talk, standups, or conversations with people around me. The same goes for design work. Each finished piece comes from accumulating dots of trial and error, day after day. The more dots we collect, the more freedom and variety we have to draw our own lines.
The beauty of dots is that we can create them anytime we want. I believe we can make something—anything—whenever we choose. Plotting these dots is never wasted effort; it’s an investment that compounds like interest. If today you don’t yet know how to draw your own line, I’d suggest simply starting with a dot. After all, success itself is just another dot on your line. So enjoy the process of dot, dot, dot.
As someone who works in a creative field, there are many times when I don’t know where to begin—or I start without knowing where the work will end up. We might call this state a creative block. It’s both frightening and thrilling at the same time. Imagine taking 50% of a client’s payment without knowing whether you can actually deliver. That fear and uncertainty is exactly why many people avoid choosing a career in creativity and design.
As a designer, though, I feel excited whenever I’m facing something new. I believe humans are wired with an instinct to explore uncharted territory—both in the physical world and in our inner landscapes. Uncertainty is what makes both the journey and the destination meaningful and memorable. It’s what forces us to help one another, sparking connections and relationships. It gives us purpose and a reason to wake up each day.
Today I want to share how I personally face uncertainty. Every time I don’t know where to start, I ask myself: “What’s the smallest thing I can do right now?” Then I do it immediately—even if it’s just for a few minutes. That small action creates momentum, which grows into bigger progress.
Don’t know how to design the whole app? Just sketch one button. Don’t know what to write? Write that you don’t know what to write. The principle is simple: when facing creative block, move your hands for at least five minutes. Draw, write, or play the guitar. The more I use my hands, the more my brain begins to generate ideas. Sometimes I think our hands are like a second brain.
When I studied computer science, there was a basic logic structure called if–then–else. It’s brilliant for programming, but I’ve come to see it as a poor logic for real life. I don’t like the word if. I don’t want conditions to box in the possibilities of my life.
People often ask me: if you had two choices, which path would you take? My answer is simple: I’d take both.
If strips away my power. For example: If I get promoted, then I’ll be able to make change. If I follow society’s rules, then I’ll be accepted. This if logic makes my outcomes dependent on others before I can achieve what I want. But why should I need to rely on others to unlock my own potential?
What if we replaced if with what if? What if opens doors, expands creativity, and puts power back into our own hands. What if I create change right now without waiting for a promotion? What if I accept myself as I am without waiting for society’s approval? What if…
These days, it feels like a real challenge to watch Netflix on a full screen without also checking my phone. I think we’re all being trained to lose the ability to do just one thing at a time—or to wait for something. TikTok, Shorts, Reels—they’re all quick clips, but when you add up the time spent, it often exceeds the time it would take to watch a full film or read a good book.
In an era where everything “must be fast,” I worry about it. Knowledge must be fast (AI)—but what about the learning curve and the study of sources? Entertainment must be fast—but what about shared activities and genuine connection with people around us? Growth must be fast—but what about the foundations of our craft? Everywhere, people are chasing shortcuts, and we’re becoming unable to wait. And shortcuts, in the long run, can erode quality. I believe patience and space are now among the most precious resources.
What I need right now is space. Space between the things that trigger me and the response I choose. Space that allows the people I care about to enter fully into the moment with me, where I give them my complete attention—no rush, no phone, no work. Just me and what’s in front of me.
I believe that in a world constantly speeding up, it’s okay to slow down. As the F1 movie said: Slow is smooth, smooth is fast.
The tool we use most often—and the most dangerous if misused—is our thoughts. It almost doesn’t matter what others truly think of us; what matters more is what we think others think of us. And in the same way, it matters more how we think of others than what they are in reality. Our thoughts shape our world.
That’s why it’s so important to step outside of our own thoughts—to see the world as it actually is. For example, I used to believe that in a 1:1 with my manager (or with a direct report), spending time talking about my incredible past work would make the other person feel pleased. But that was only my thought. In reality, the other person may have wanted to discuss something else that mattered more to them. And because 1:1 time is usually short, they never got the chance.
This can leave the other person with a bad impression—not remembering your great achievements, but simply the feeling of not connecting. The worst part is that we may still believe they admire us for our past work, and so next time we fall into the same trap—talking only about ourselves. In short, we get tricked by our own thoughts.
That’s why it’s crucial to step outside of your thoughts, to see reality as it is—not the world constructed by your mind.
I see each day as divided into three phases: morning, afternoon, and evening.
The morning is for preparation—preparing my body, my mind, and my emotions. I spend this time with myself: meditating, reading, journaling, and running. These activities give me focus for the day, knowledge to apply to my responsibilities, space to reflect on strengths and areas for improvement, and resilience to create with energy.
The afternoon is the arena itself. This is when I put all of my preparation into action, applying myself fully to the responsibilities I carry. I use focus to stay present with the work in front of me and with the people who need me. I draw on knowledge to build new insights as the day unfolds. I translate abstract thoughts into tangible outcomes. I keep my energy flowing until evening—resetting at lunchtime to sustain the afternoon.
The evening is for preparing to rest. In the past, I tried to use my evenings to create more opportunities for myself—working after work. But forcing productivity at night destroyed both rest and work quality. Going forward, I’ll experiment with letting go. Evenings will be for play and relaxation, with the ultimate goal of quality sleep. I’ll measure success by when I go to bed and whether my average monthly sleep quality is above 80% on my smartwatch.
I’ve learned that most of the time when I face problems, I don’t always address the root cause. I’m very good at what I’d call “proactive laziness”: I’ll do absolutely everything—except the one thing that actually solves the problem. For example, if I have an issue with person A, I’ll talk to everyone I can… except A.
When you avoid the real issue, problems drag on, and your mind becomes consumed by them. And when your mind is held captive, so are your thoughts. That’s no way to live. I’ve realised that facing problems directly is crucial—not only because it resolves the issue, but because it frees your heart.
A light and free heart has changed my life. I’ve become more willing to face hard conversations with anyone, because I now value my peace of mind above everything else. I put on my oxygen mask first, then I can help others. I’ve also stopped complaining—because if you can complain about something, you already know what needs to be fixed. So why not keep that power to change in your own hands?
It’s time to become the true leader of your own life. Be brave enough to face, to think, and to change.
I believe that the hours after work are crucial for changing my life. The key skill I still need to develop is learning how to rest in a way that supports building something meaningful after my day job. At the moment, I often feel drained after work and fall back into more passive activities, like watching Netflix or drinking wine.
The challenge is threefold:
Hypothesis:
then I believe that after 90 days of doing this, my life will take a significant leap forward. I’ll know this hypothesis is true when new opportunities start appearing in my life by June 2026.
I’m happy with what I’m doing right now. I’m part of a good community, working alongside many talented people where respect flows both ways. I carry responsibilities, and my role contributes to the success of others—just as their roles contribute to mine. I’m grateful for a strong team that will continue to grow together.
I feel proud that my abilities bring real value to the team, and that together we’re creating products that reach people all around the world in meaningful ways. I’m part of this drive forward, and it reminds me that my presence matters. Because of that meaning, I want to keep improving every day.
I’m also grateful for the people around me who support and challenge me. I feel excited about learning, about discovering new ideas and approaches to serve my team better, and about steadily growing in my role. Most of all, I’m thankful to have Kate, my wife, by my side—to share in the good moments and successes along this journey.
After facing many things in life—whether with colleagues, home repairs, or my own desire for growth—I’ve come to feel that everything is manageable, as long as I stay patient, humble, and keep moving forward with a light heart. When I approach life this way, progress naturally unfolds.
These small steps of progression accumulate into something much larger. Before I realise it, I’ve already achieved many of the things I wanted. Even if some goals remain unfinished, I trust they will be accomplished as long as I keep going. The key is a light heart and steady action.
In short, doing something calmly and consistently creates progression. Small progressions eventually lead to big ones. If what you’re doing “consistently” is good, you’ll become great—in your own rhythm and time.
A life lived fully is joyful—it means engaging wholeheartedly in both work and play. I want to keep moving forward this way, without slipping back into worrying about others or living a dull life. When I work, I give my best, no matter the task. With creative thinking, I can turn almost anything into something interesting.
Excellence and goodness, to me, mean not getting tangled up in what I can’t control—especially people. Today, I carried out my responsibilities in a way that no one could fault. Criticism will always come, but I welcome it; if it’s valid, why wouldn’t I use it to grow? Life feels incredibly fun when approached this way.
Now I run with a lighter mind. I used to think running made me angry because the heavy breathing stirred up negative thoughts about others, especially at work. But that’s no longer me. I’ve shifted my focus inward—toward my own responsibilities and creative energy. That shift frees me, and I feel excited to see what I’ll create today.
© 8888 Kocha · Sydney-Based Designer
I acknowledge the traditional owners of Australia, on whose land I live and work. I pay my respect to their people—past, present and emerging.
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