I’d applied to be Mark Manson’s Content and Research Assistant. I was telling him I’d made it to the second round. One step closer to the job of my life.

The job everyone, except him, was convinced I’d get.

Dad didn’t believe in me then. And five promotions later, he still told me most weeks to work harder or Mark would fire me.

I’m glad he’s dead.

The man who never believed

It’s not malice.

Dad never meant to put me down. He didn’t believe in me because he didn’t believe in himself.

He couldn’t see great things for me because he didn’t see great things. Life to him was duty and toil. There was no place for wonder, for magic, for dreams come true.

His life was bleak. Long days at the clinic six days a week. Making money, spending it, denying anything at home was wrong.

It’s not his fault he didn’t believe. He inhabited a different world. And however much I want to blame him for my lack of self-worth, I know I can’t.

He didn’t know any better. He couldn’t have saved me from his mind even if he tried.

Let me

I once asked Dad point-blank if he was proud. This was maybe a year after the diagnosis, when I knew I’d lose him but not when. I thought, rather than wait for words that might never come, I’d ask for them straight.

I thought I’d proved myself. Genuinely thought he’d say: Yes, daughter, I’m proud of you.

He didn’t.

Now he’s gone, but not his fear: Work harder or Mark will fire you.

I hear it most days. It drives me to madness, to exhaustion, to doing so much because I’m frightened of what might happen if I didn’t.

This is Dad’s legacy.

But it’s no way to live.

I’ve just been promoted, for the seventh time, to a height beyond imagining.

And I refuse to be frightened. I refuse to live Dad’s life.

Mine is going to be full of colour, of joy, of promise.

He may not believe, but I do.

Val asks:

Do you believe?

In yourself, in your dreams, in the people you love. Please hit “reply” or leave a comment—I read every response and I’d love to hear from you. If you enjoyed my writing, please hit that heart and share it. It’s the best way to support my work—and let me know you believe.

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Until next Friday… Stay thoughtful,

Val
✨ Managing Editor for Mark Manson ✨

They weren’t our band. But they were one of the bands we both loved. And each time my partner put on an album, this past year, I’d burst into tears.

So I instituted an ABBA ban on our household. Plus Eagles, Bee Gees, Carpenters—all the bands I love because Dad did.

It felt the appropriate amount of grief to exhibit for the death of a father.

Biologically bound

My mother is unwell. And my therapist dedicated a recent session, online because I was convalescing from a motorbike accident, to helping me understand the guilt I feel for not rushing to her side.

And the words I landed on were: biologically bound.

I am bound to worry, to guilt because this woman birthed me. Biologically we are bound, and so I must care that she suffers.

But then my therapist asked, why? And that blew my brain open.

Why?

Why is blood relation a reason to care? If a relative turns up at your doorstep, destitute, must you bail them out no matter the kind of person they are, how they treated you in the past? If a sibling belittles your every success, must you celebrate theirs? If you grew up in abuse, must you give back what your carers never gave?

Suddenly, “biologically bound” seems a ridiculous reason to do—or feel—anything.

Right after that therapy session, I walked over to our music station, put on ABBA’s Greatest Hits, and sang along for the first time in a year to Dancing Queen.

I was free.

Family isn’t your burden

Biologically bound is evolution’s tool to ensure our species’ survival.

That doesn’t make it a good reason to care for our mother, our father, our sons, our daughters.

I see this everywhere. Friends racked with guilt for not doing more for aging parents. Strangers on the internet distressed by siblings who won’t help themselves, yet who they feel obligated to support to their own financial detriment—so distressed they’re asking other strangers on the internet for advice, for any reason to stop.

I am not biologically bound to my ailing mother, my dead father. My aunts and uncles and cousins I’ve never met.

They are not my burden.

They are people I choose to care about.

I care for my mother, not because of a caesarian 37 years ago, but because for 17 years she made my breakfast, drove me to school, cheered me on at every competition—waited hours and days and years for me to do whatever it is I needed to do before I could come back to her.

The actions she took, the sacrifices she made, uncomplainingly, over decades, are why I choose to care. That I call her Mum has nothing to do with it.

My love for her is born of her actions—and mine. A bond of words and deeds freely bestowed, not a bondage of blood.

I care that she is sick because I choose to. Because I want to.

Family isn’t your burden. They are people you get to choose to love. If you want to.

Val asks:

We don’t get to choose our family. But we get to decide our actions. Which is why I’m flying to Thailand in a month to spend a week with Mum. What about you?

Do you choose to care?

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Until next Friday… Stay thoughtful,

Val

My motorbike driver drifted into another coming up from behind. Contact, then in slow motion we lost balance. I came off the bike, then my driver, then her bike on top. A quiet domino of flesh and metal.

The man we’d drifted into was the first to recover, and speak: This wasn’t my fault, then to me: Are you OK? To my driver: Use your *ing mirror.

I staggered to my feet. I felt pain in my right knee, the one I landed on. But nothing seemed broken. I’m OK, I think, I said to the guy.

My driver and her bike were still on the ground. Her contemplating a bloody toe. Her instrument too heavy for either of us to lift.

Then someone else, another foreigner, stopped. He set her bike right. Not my fault, mate, the injured party protested. The other guy looked at him, asked me if I’m OK, then left.

It’s not your fault

I understand the other driver’s reaction. It’s not his fault we fell over. But I still wish, in that moment, his humanity had prevailed.

My driver and I were both injured. We needed help that he could offer. Yet the whole time he had both hands up, backing away as if to distance himself from all accusations of wrongdoing.

He could have helped my driver right her bike. He could have given me a ride to the clinic around the corner. Instead, he drove away once I’d repeated enough times, still in shock myself, that I was OK.

Then I looked down, clocked how bloody my knee was, and—pumped by adrenaline—walked myself to said clinic. After first refusing the continuation of the ride home my driver was offering, and returning her spare helmet.

At the clinic, I was soothed, examined, cleaned, x-rayed. “Superficial abrasion with superficial embedded road debris.” I would be fine. My health insurance paid the $200 bill. All I had to do was sign my name twice.

The next morning, I tipped my driver the maximum amount the ride-hailing app would allow. It was her fault. She drove recklessly—they all do. But she was hurt, and she might not have $3.8 to spare.

Why not be kind?

I wish, in our moment of need, the other driver had understood help wasn’t an admission of guilt. Simply an act of kindness, one human to another.

You could say—and the thought did cross my mind—me tipping my driver was rewarding her reckless behaviour. Teach her the wrong lesson.

But I refuse to live in that world of incentives. A world where I don’t help lest she engineers more accidents to defraud more passengers. I choose to live in a world where we are always kind to one another, no matter who is right—or wrong.

I saw she was injured. She would have earned less than $0.5 from our aborted ride. A $3.8 tip is not insignificant.

My kindness might be a mistake. I could be wrong in trusting her to draw the right conclusion. But I don’t care. She can take away whatever lesson she wants. She’s an adult.

And she’s human. As I am. And to another human, I always want to be kind.

That’s the world I choose to live in. Maybe it’s the world you choose too.

Here’s your question:

What would you have done?

If my driver had drifted into your bike, would you have helped in any way you could? Please hit “reply” or leave a comment—I read every response and I’d love to hear from you. If my story resonated, please share it with your friends. It’s the best way to support my work.

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Until next time… Stay thoughtful,

Val

P.S. Val Asks now goes on a summer break. This is partly planned, and partly pain—I am in too much of it. My psychiatrist scolded me yesterday for treating this accident as an inconvenience. And I will listen.

P.P.S. My takeaway from my first road accident: This was my last ride-hailing bike ride. Entrusting my life to careless Vietnamese drivers was one of my favourite activities (find out why below). But I choose not to lose half the skin on my knee ever again, at least not from this. It’s not worth it.

P.P.P.S. I won’t subject you to my horror-movie knee, but here’s me self-soothing with my favourite book and someone else’s cat.

I smiled, not kindly.

I just started learning and I’m *so* excited to get to know the city!

Well, good for you.

I don’t speak Vietnamese

Do you speak Vietnamese? is a question I get often as a foreigner in Ho Chi Minh City. After: you’re NOT Vietnamese? (No.) Where are you from? (Thailand.) How long have you been here? (Five years.)

Invariably, the asker is surprised that I don’t speak the language. They’re itching to know how I can live here for so long without it, though they don’t ask. Usually the conversation pivots to their Vietnamese learning and how it’s difficult but oh so worth it.

I don’t disagree. I know that speaking Vietnamese would unlock a level of intimacy with the city, its people, and its way of life currently barred to me, with my mastery of only the rudimentary—turn left, turn right, stop here, how much this costs if they speak slowly and I’m not tired.

But I don’t want it.

I am happy to mime and use Google Image Search to get what I want in restaurants and pharmacies. To smile when our cleaner says something to me that’s not “hello,” “how are you?” and “older sister is fine.” To befriend only English-speaking Vietnamese. One of whom just walked through the café door for our morning laptop session.

I don’t doubt that life could look very different, that I could circumvent myriad inconveniences and—as the girl by the locker enthused—get to know the city, delight taxi drivers, befriend our cleaner. But I love the life I already have.

Yet most Vietnamese-speaking, Vietnamese-studying foreigners I meet dispute my satisfaction, convinced I’m missing out.

To each their own?

This aggravates me. Insisting one cannot live a good life without speaking the local language.

I don’t act surprised when someone tells me they don’t do Pole dancing, or write, or meditate—or any of the things I enjoy. And if I did, the other person would find me weird for assuming they’d share my preferences.

Yet almost everyone is surprised, and shows it, when I tell them I don’t speak Vietnamese and do not intend to learn. Vietnamese speaking appears to be a prerequisite, not a preference.

Why?

Language learning is just one of many activities we can commit our very limited time to. Why is it socially acceptable to miss out on Pole dancing, but not on learning Vietnamese?

Sure, speaking the language removes friction. But I don’t think that’s why.

I think language learning gets special treatment because, whether we know it or not, we deem it disrespectful to not speak the language of the place we live in. Learning Vietnamese isn’t a mere activity, it’s the least we can do for the country that shelters us.

This is why we cringe when we see a foreigner yell at a Vietnamese server who doesn’t understand their English. Why we take the side of the server and condemn the foreigner giving us visitors a bad name.

But not learning the language doesn’t make me that foreigner. I don’t get frustrated when locals don’t understand my broken Vietnamese, when I can’t tell our cleaner “younger sister has tummy ache.” I don’t blame them for my incompetence.

Speaking the language isn’t required to respect the place I live in, to abide by its laws, to contribute to its community. To believe otherwise is to think ourselves more important than we actually are.

No one is missing out on me not speaking Vietnamese. Our cleaner doesn’t care that I can’t carry a conversation. She’s here to do her job, not chit-chat, and I’m sure she’d rather I keep the apartment clean than regale her with fluent Vietnamese.

I choose not to speak Vietnamese. I choose the life behind the barrier; to ask my Vietnamese friend, just now, to find out for me if the café sells flat white because it’s not listed on the board. (They do.)

I choose this life. And it’s not your prerogative to say I’m missing out.

Here’s your question:

This one’s for fellow English speakers living in a non-English-speaking country:

Did you learn the local language, and why?

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Until next Friday… Stay thoughtful,

Val

This newsletter tells the second half of that story. (You can read the first half here, but it’s not required to follow delight in what I’m about to tell you.)

A city I can’t refuse

Paris.

Paris is why I didn’t go to Oxford to read PPE, one of the most prestigious degrees at one of the world’s top universities.

Before I left Thailand at 17 to further my education courtesy of Thai taxpayers by way of the King’s Scholarship, I did some research. I looked up universities, scoped out undergraduate degrees, and ESPS caught my eye.

ESPS—European Social and Political Studies—was a four-year course UCL offered for language lovers (tick) who couldn’t make up their mind what else to study (also tick). You start off with a European language (French), and sample an eclectic variety of social science/humanities subjects in your first year, before choosing your non-language specialty in the second (Economics).

The third year, you spend abroad. And that’s where Paris came in.

For a lot of my childhood, for reasons I do not recall, I fantasised about studying at Sciences Po Paris. Not because I wanted to head governments, as many of their alumni did. I just thought it’d be cool. I was a child.

If I went to Oxford, I’d be giving up my UCL year abroad, my shot at Sciences Po. I didn’t even know, back in 2009, if I’d be accepted—Sciences Po was one of the most competitive exchange placements for French students, alongside the Sorbonne. UCL wasn’t Oxford, but it still ranked 4th globally that year. I had to have better grades than most of my extremely talented, extremely motivated coursemates in my first two years to attend Sciences Po in my third. I wasn’t confident.

But the allure of Paris was unyielding. I rejected Oxford and moved to London.

The worst—and best—years of my life

What followed was three years of misery (not, I hasten to add, through any fault of UCL or my coursemates)—and the best year of my life.

To this day I maintain I did university wrong. And if I could, I’d go back and do it over. Go to the parties, make the friends, quit pining over my lost first love who was studying at neighbouring LSE (Paris was, perhaps, not my primary reason for coming to London).

But I did get the grades. And I made it to Sciences Po, Paris, where I had the best year of my life.

Paris was a year of firsts. The first boyfriend who was actually good for me (whose heart I crushed a year later because I was stupid). My first job. My first stolen (and returned) passport. My first German Christmas (courtesy of the boyfriend)—the first time I ever felt loved by a family.

And to top it all off:

I’ve since had many other firsts, lived many other dreams—I still don’t believe the life I have today. But I suspect nothing will ever displace from the top spot my year in Paris as a 22-years-young romantic.

What do you think?

Truth be told, I probably rejected Oxford because I wanted to follow my ex to London. But that doesn’t make as respectable a story. I also relished being contrarian—I mean, who rejects Oxford? But that would paint me as the silly teenager I was.

My years at UCL remain the darkest of my life. And I’d suffer it all again for those twelve months in Paris.

When was the best year of your life?

And why? Please hit “reply” or leave a comment—I read every response and I’d love to hear from you. If you enjoyed my writing, please hit that heart and share it. It’s the best way to support my work.

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Until next Friday… Stay thoughtful,

Val

If you’ve been following, you might think I’m mad at you, and I am.

But I miss you more than I’m mad.

I miss sneaking glances as you whittled on your bed, waiting for you to swallow your medications, one after the other, painstakingly, unwillingly.

I miss our morning coffees and daily lunches, me driving, you beside me, your cane resting by the car door that I removed before letting you out so you didn’t trip over it.

I miss our long conversations, our long silences, you pouring your heart out to the only person you thought understood, and I did.

I miss being able to hug you just before I left, being able to be held by you. Tight. You whispering: I wish you happiness.

I miss accompanying you on hospital visits, wheeling your chair, asking if you were comfortable, if you wanted the back adjusted.

I miss calling you from Seoul to ask if the brush you wanted had a pointy or flat tip, the brush you never painted with because by the time I returned, sitting hurt too much.

I miss our weekly calls when you said to work harder or Mark would fire me and I laughed, incredulous but believing every word.

I miss flying home twice a year and you always there, at the airport, the first face I saw in a sea of strangers.

I miss that time you had a spine operation that none of us understood, making an extra trip home so I could sit with you for a week by your hospital bed, keeping Mum company, showing you love.

I miss spotting you by the bookstore in the mall every time you drove to town to pick me up, after the dinners with friends I stopped having when I realised I was out of time.

I miss you reading my writing, never praising but also never complaining when what I wrote wasn’t flattering.

I miss our last trip to the beach, you reading on the balcony in the intolerable heat, me not understanding.

But, I think, I do now.

You see, I’ve just returned from the beach, and as I sneaked onto the balcony that first morning, I remembered—and cried:

I am you, creeping out onto the balcony at first light
Quiet so I don’t wake my man sleeping
A book, a bad coffee. But also this notebook to write.

I remember our last holiday. Five stars. Beach
That I booked and you paid for
You reading on our balcony, me thinking it’s too hot.

When did I become you? Dying to feel—
The morning sun, the sea breeze, the birds
A cacophony of sounds, the quiet of a world still sleeping.

Did you want so badly to escape?
Onto that balcony, into your garden, away from—
A wife you didn’t recognise, a daughter you were afraid to raise.

Was nature your drug?
Why you had me pull all those weeds, trim all those shrubs
Years of sticky labour I didn’t understand nor appreciate.

When did I become you?
Sneaking onto our balcony at first light
Writing in the quiet of a world still sleeping.

Dad, I miss you.

Will you come back? Please?

What do you think?

Today I’m leaving you with, not a question, but this poem that had me hastily wiping tears when my Pole instructor arrived at the studio I’d filled with Megan’s grief:

Things That Don't Suck

The Goal Is Not to Miss You Less

Recently, a friend told me she thought she was doing grief wrong. Said hers has intensified the longer it’s been since Andrea died. Not softened…

Read more

3 months ago · 1510 likes · 233 comments · megan falley and Andrea Gibson

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Until next Friday… Stay thoughtful,

Val

When I came to—strapped to a metal bed in that strange, severe room—I was grateful. Your father bought you this, the female nurse said, thrusting into my free hands a styrofoam box that smelt like love.

I devoured its contents. I hadn’t eaten since the two blue men turned up at our house that morning in what might have been an ambulance. As I ate, I cried. Dad doesn’t want me to go hungry.

My first tranquilised thought, once I realised I’d been committed, was of you. Of how difficult a decision this must have been, to institutionalise your only daughter. How much guilt you must be feeling. How worried sick you probably were.

Then the routine of the locked ward swallowed me. 5AM wake-up. Cold wash from a tub. Morning medication and food. 10-minute “exercise” on the balcony to a song I’ll never forget. Treats we paid for by writing our name in a notebook. Prescribed group activity—I made a pencil case, among other things. More food. Maybe another wash. Afternoon visitation. Food. Evening medication. Sweet breads before our hard, metal bed. Then it’s 5AM the next day.

In between these daily activities was time. So much time. Time to force ourselves to enjoy the daily soap operas on the television we weren’t allowed to operate. Time to start conversations we knew were leading nowhere, for all we wanted was to be strangers. Time to escape into the Shopaholic books that Mum brought every day for me to read, alongside a tupperware of peeled orange slices, during the few hours of the day that flew by.

Why did you never come?

Many years later, when I was older but not wiser, you told me the decision wrecked you, that you were terrified you’d ruined me for life.

And I said, over our morning coffee at Starbucks, it was the best thing you could have done. The best thing that ever happened. Nothing to be sorry for.

It wasn’t a lie, but now I know it isn’t true.

That locked ward wasn’t the best thing you could have done. Not the best thing that ever happened. Something I may never forgive you for.

Why did you lock me up? There, of all places?

When your only daughter lost her mind, why was your first resort this under-funded, under-staffed, universally ridiculed prison for the mentally disturbed? You were a dentist with a successful practice. Why didn’t you spend some of that money? Lock me up somewhere with doctors who turned up more than once every three weeks, with patients who didn’t claw at each other, with a soft bed and a pillow and a blanket that was thicker than paper?

Why didn’t you?

Was it because, a lifetime ago, you’d seen someone dear to you committed in this place, this place you knew because everyone did, and they were returned to you, apparently unharmed? Did you think upgrading to the “special” women’s ward tempered the nurses’ contempt? Were you so daunted by the task of evaluating your options—I know you had suggestions—that you defaulted to the familiar one?

You were in your fifties. A functioning adult. Could you not have done better? Was I not worth more?

Why did you lock me up there, and then—a decade later—look me in the eye and tell me I was weak? After all that, after the life I’ve built for myself, turning the worst month and a half of my existence into a thing I’m proud of, not ashamed. How could you?

I’m glad I lost you before I knew better. Glad I never told you I suffered. For this decision you botched. For the month and a half of not knowing if I’ll ever be free. For getting to find out what it feels like to have your own father lock you up and never once visit.

For discovering you were the weak one.

Dad, you didn’t ruin me. You taught me I always have to fight for myself, because no one else will.

Love,
Your daughter

What do you think?

Could you forgive a parent who’s responsible for the worst thing that ever happened to you?

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Until next Friday… Stay thoughtful, and free—

Val

This newsletter tells half of that story, and unpacks why I don’t talk about it—even though I’m usually dying to.

The offer you can’t refuse

In 2009 I was a Thai government scholarship student in my final year of A-Levels (the UK’s equivalent of high school). My college was in Oxford (the town), and it was a rite of passage for Thai scholars there to apply to the university for their undergraduate degree.

I was 19 years old. My idea of a life well-lived was success at every endeavour, so of course I applied. I didn’t know what to study, so my hubris chose the most difficult degree I could have applied for: Philosophy, Politics, and Economics.

I don’t remember which first-year A-Levels results I submitted, but I had to sit a special test, the TSA Oxford, for my application. I scored 94.8 on critical thinking. Which was the highest anyone got that year.

Be it my first-year results, my TSA score, or the fact I applied to an easy college—19-year-old me had enough sense not to choose a top course and a top college—whatever it was, an envelope arrived from Oxford that was too heavy for a rejection letter. I knew it contained the offer even before I opened it.

As was customary in those days (now that’s a phrase that makes you feel old), the offer was “conditional.” I’d be offered a place to read PPE at Oxford if I met the stipulated condition: AAA in my final A-Levels results. If I didn’t score those three A’s, I would lose my spot.

Heavy envelopes continued to arrive. By the end I’d received conditional offers from all five universities I’d applied for. I now had to choose two: a first choice, then a back-up with less stringent conditions in case I screw up my finals—and reject the rest.

I accepted UCL (AAA) as my first choice, Warwick (AAB) as my back-up—and rejected Oxford.

But can’t I talk about this?

Why I chose UCL over Oxford is a whole other post. (Spoiler alert: it wasn’t because I was wise beyond my years.) Today I want to unpack why hardly anyone who entered my life post-Oxford glory knows about it. Why my proudest academic achievement remains a secret I reluctantly keep.

Because I didn’t actually go, there is no mention of Oxford on my CV or social media. There is no way for someone to discover this information unless I bring it up.

Oh hey, by the way, I got an offer to read PPE at Oxford! Yeah, that Oxford.
Oh, you went to Oxford? I almost went too!
Did you know I rejected an offer from Oxford so I could go to UCL? Yeah, mental!

You see why I never bring it up.

But I should be able to.

As a society, we judge people—harshly—for boasting. Self-absorbed, proud, immodest. Not rubbing other people’s face in our success is a code we collectively adhere to.

But where is the line that separates sharing a part of us we’re genuinely proud of, and talking needlessly about our achievements? Does that line even exist?

Each time I make a new friend, I’m dying to tell them my Oxford story. Because it’s cool and yes, I want to impress. But also because my decision to reject that offer was a pivotal moment in my life. I am incredibly proud of it—and of getting the offer in the first place.

These are parts of me I wish known by people I care about. Yet I don’t ever feel I can bring it up because of society’s censure for “boasting.”

Which the dictionary, by the way, defines as “speaking too proudly or happily about what you have done or what you own.” A bad word.

But what’s wrong with speaking proudly or happily about what we’ve done, what we own? Why does anyone but me get to decide how much is the appropriate level of pride and happiness to exhibit, and how much is too much?

If I’ve secured an offer to study at one of the world’s most prestigious universities, shouldn’t I be at liberty to speak about it whenever, wherever? Why do I have to wait for someone to ask the question no one will ever ask: Where did you almost go to study?

If someone has toiled for decades to buy the house of their dreams, shouldn’t they be at liberty to talk about it as much as they want? About every finish, every fireplace, every room they still can’t find the right furniture for—without their friends ever rolling their eyes: Not the house again.

When did sharing something dear to us become a thing to be judged for?

Why can’t we agree to let everyone speak, proudly and happily, about all the things they wish us to know, and instead of finding them boastful—just be happy for them?

What do you think?

If I—out of the blue—told you I got into Oxford, would you think I was boasting?

Or would you just be happy for me? Tell me the first thought that crossed your mind. Please hit “reply” or leave a comment—I read every response and I’d love to hear from you. If you want, share this post with someone who you suspect is holding back a part of themselves you’d love to congratulate.

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Until next Friday… Stay thoughtful,

Val

P.S. Here’s the rest of the story 👇

Imagine carrying this for four decades, I thought. Finally being able to say it. To acknowledge that the thing you gave your life to, you never wanted in the first place.

It took courage. And I’m not going to waste it.

Forced motherhood

I always knew Dad wanted kids. He came from a big family. He had four brothers he loved dearly, and he wanted the same for me. The way he told the story, he and Mum had agreed on three kids, then after having me she changed her mind.

Her fickleness deprived him of the children he was promised, the siblings who would have made my life complete.

This was his version.

I never heard Mum’s.

What I did hear, every morning at 5AM, the first seventeen years of my life, was her asking me if I was up, if I was really up, as I rolled in bed pretending to be awake. Then, after school, her hurrying me to leave so we wouldn’t get stuck in rush hour. And then, if I’d fallen asleep during the long drive home, her waking me. We’re home.

My entire childhood, Mum was there. She drove me to school and piano lessons. She cheered me on at competitions. She enrolled me for English classes, bought me exercise books and made sure I did them. When I applied for the scholarship that would pay for my foreign education, she delivered me to tutoring sessions, waited for me in front of exam halls.

I took Mum’s constant presence for granted. Dad’s scarcity, however, made him precious. I saw his six-day week at the clinic as testament to his virtue as the dutiful provider. I cherished our Sundays together. Movie marathons, pizza feasts, Monopoly nights.

Mum was never invited. I don’t remember why.

What I do remember was Mum breaking down in tears, years later, when I confronted her about her harsh treatment of Dad. Why do you never have a kind word for him? Why can’t he do anything right?

I don’t have money, she wailed. The first time I ever saw her cry.

I didn’t understand at the time. One thing seemed to have nothing to do with the other. Dad and I chalked it up to Mum being Mum. Difficult, unreasonable, unkind.

I understand now. As the years passed and I had my first, second, third job, Mum let slip more and more of her truth. I never got to study abroad. I want your life. Marrying and having you was the biggest mistake I ever made.

Mum’s mistake

My therapist asks how it makes me feel, to hear this unvarnished truth. And honestly, it doesn’t bother me.

Knowing I’m a mistake doesn’t change a thing about my life today. I am happy. I am healthy. I am loved. Knowing I’m a mistake doesn’t change any of the things Mum has given up for me. It doesn’t change who we are with each other, our relationship. She’ll never say she loves me, I’ll never say I love her, but we’ll love each other all the same.

Knowing I’m a mistake only reveals the extent of Mum’s misery, the unwanted burden she carried for decades.

And she can’t be the only one.

Motherhood is a decision with irreversible consequences. I would never let myself be talked into it, but I don’t know if it’s reasonable to expect every woman who doesn’t want a child to be able to refuse this preordained role.

When saying no could mean losing the person you love, disappointing your family, alienating your entire social circle if you’re unlucky.

Mum made one bad decision and lost the rest of her life. How many more are suffering in silence?

I don’t blame myself for Mum’s misery. But I wish, and I say this with no rancour, she’d never had me.

If she’d never had me, she might have continued to work, made her own money, felt the independence and freedom I enjoy every day. I cannot imagine what it’s like for her, to see me living the life she wanted for herself.

I can’t erase me from her past, her present, her future. I will always be there, a constant reminder of what might have been.

But I can borrow her courage to speak her truth, pour it into a newsletter, and hope it gives someone somewhere the strength to refuse the motherhood they’ll live to regret.

What do you think?

This is the newsletter I’ve been skirting around. This is me finally saying what I want to say. And now it’s your turn—for the women among us:

Would you refuse motherhood if you didn’t want it?

Would you feel you have a choice? Please hit “reply” or leave a comment—I read every response and I’d love to hear from you. If my writing resonates, consider sharing it with someone who needs to hear it. It’s the best way to support my work.

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Until next Friday… Stay thoughtful,

Val

I haven’t been honest with you.

For five years, through these missives I have made you hold my grief, my fear, my anger. You have literally kept me sane.

And you deserve the truth.

When I started writing this newsletter, I was lazy. Instead of sifting through all the words I’ve ever known for the ones that spoke my mind, I opted for ready platitudes and humour. A slapdash approximation of what I wanted to say.

But then, as was inevitable when you do something for long enough, I realised I wasn’t as good a writer as I thought. I now wanted to improve, and that meant not settling. I would spend days, and nights, trawling my mind for the words that accurately expressed my thoughts and feelings.

I couldn’t find them.

I had the will, and discipline, to be honest. But not the vocabulary.

In this stage I was stuck for years, a stranger to my inner world, my writing ever better yet never surfacing anything of note. Whole chapters of my life summarised in neat sentences that didn’t actually say what happened.

Then I started therapy.

You know how that goes.

Suddenly all I had were words. Words for all the thoughts and feelings that for decades had been suppressed so I could be a happy, functioning human. Words that were constantly resounding in my head but felt too inflammatory to speak.

So I started censoring myself. And this is where I’ve truly failed you. Not because I was lazy or incompetent as before, but because I’m intentionally holding back. Revealing just enough to make a point. A curated journey of my inner world.

I told myself this was for a good cause. I didn’t want to hurt people I cared about. The redactions well-meaning white lies.

But this reason is also dishonest. I’m not holding back because I care about these people. I’m holding back because I care about myself and what others—my family, my friends, my colleagues, my readers—what you think of me.

Years ago, I first heard the phrase “Every writer is waiting for someone to die.” At the time I thought it an exaggeration. But now I find it to be true.

The story of my life may be mine to tell, but it’s impossible to tell it fully, honestly without implicating others in the telling.

If I weren’t a writer, I might choose silence. Carry these secrets to my grave.

But I am a writer. This is the choice I make. I started Val Thinks so I could have the space—my space—to become the writer I want to be.

And the writer I want to be isn’t one who dances around the truth because she’s afraid of the fallout.

So this is my confession. And a promise:

No more hiding. From today, I am going to say exactly what I want to say.

See you next Friday… I’m terrified what you’ll think, but I’ll send it anyway,

Val

He’d been gone six months. I wanted to remember him the best way I knew how—in words.

So I bought a notebook, collated anecdotes, dedicated it to “fathers who love their daughters.”

But the more stories of Dad I surfaced, the less flattering they became. Pretty soon I ran out of nice things to say that felt true.

So I stopped.

The thing I did not do

A year before he died, I wrote Dad’s eulogy. I never got to read it, because I didn’t attend his funeral.

His death wasn’t sudden—it was four years coming—but still it took us by surprise. One day he was home, the next at the hospital, that night he died.

I was in London with my partner. We were a week away from a beach holiday in Vietnam—my first time off work in a year. The timing couldn’t be worse.

But still, I could have gone. I could have called everything off and flown home.

I decided not to.

It didn’t feel like a decision at first. When I went to bed that night, Dad had just died. When I woke up, the funeral was set to begin, all the guests invited. No one had asked: When can you fly home?

I was shocked. I’d never dreamt of not attending Dad’s funeral. But then, as one family member after another neglected to ask if I’d be there, shock turned to relief.

I realised I didn’t want to go. Dad was gone. What difference would attending his funeral make?

So I stayed in London, went on my beach vacation, then three weeks later returned home to scatter his ashes.

I don’t regret it.

Death doesn’t right wrongs

It feels wrong to be angry at a dead man. But I am.

I am angry at all the things Dad did and did not do. However hard I try, I can’t summon enough gratitude to quell my many resentments.

How he wanted a child enough to rope his wife into motherhood, but not enough to share her burden of raising me.
How he escaped into work rather than address the unhappy home life that coloured my childhood.
How he, decades later, turned me against the mother who did raise me with confidences only I could understand.

My most salient memories of Dad are all of him injuring me in some way. Telling me I don’t need friends. Driving in such a hurry to get to his badminton game that I feared for my life. Having Mum fly alone to London to bring me home when I was debilitated by depression, a decision I didn’t question at the time but—was work really more important? Shipping me off to the most basic psychiatric ward, essentially a prison for the mentally disturbed, when I became manic a year later—and not once visiting.

These are not great injuries. These are the actions of a man who tried his best but still couldn’t be the father I wished for—

The father who knew how to tell me he loved me; who was able to say “yes” when I asked if he was proud of all that I’d achieved; who didn’t still say I was weak—you’re weak, a drama queen—even after I’d overcome several depressions, mania, and the locked ward he sent me to; who wouldn’t in a heartbeat trade 36-year-old Val for the little girl who loved nothing better than Sundays with Dad.

The father who would teach me to be a functioning adult. To regulate my emotions and relate to others. To insure my health, invest my money, protect my peace.

Not the father who died at 65 because he believed all doctors money grabbers, and as a result never got the health check that would have revealed his very curable cancer years before a severe back pain compelled him to a hospital visit that culminated in his terminal diagnosis.

We’re not supposed to speak ill of the dead. But it’s beginning to feel dishonest to never speak my truth. So here it is: I am angry at his failure to parent, his failure to love, his failure to live.

I know no one is perfect. Dad wasn’t a bad man. And he tried his best to not be a bad father. But in this moment of anger, I want more.

So that memoir of a father’s love will remain unwritten until the day I can remember his—and truthfully say his best was enough.

What do you think?

There is no grand conclusion here, just an angry daughter grieving a father she lost too soon.

What to do when we’re angry with the dead?

Is there a way to excise that anger when no confrontations can be had? Please hit “reply” or leave a comment—I read every response and I’d love to hear from you. If you want, share this post with someone who just might understand.

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Until next time… Stay thoughtful,

Val

P.S. There will be no newsletter next Friday. We’re coming up on Val Thinks’ fifth anniversary and I’m working on something special. See you in two weeks.

Not in a neat, transcendent way. There was no conical-hat-wearing sage imparting timeless wisdom, opening my eyes to a better way of being. Instead, there was this child with a blunt axe hacking away unsupervised—and my neuroses happened to be in its path.

Let’s pick our way through the debris:

When you turn up at a café twenty minutes after its advertised opening time and the staff looks at you reproachfully and goes: You’re too early Val. You smile, order your coffee (that won’t be ready until after the machine has warmed up), and start working.

When ride-hailing drivers accept your request before they finish their meal then ask you to “wait for me a few minutes,” you either wait or get a new driver who’s not otherwise occupied.

When your lawyer repeatedly makes mistakes, small and large, but always drives across town to bring you documents to sign—only for you Val—and clearly thinks he’s doing a good job by being proactive but not in a good way. You learn to ignore his trigger-happy messages and triple-confirm the ones that matter.

When your ride-hailing motorbike driver turns into oncoming traffic and starts driving on the wrong side of the road because he can’t be bothered to wait ten seconds, you tighten your flimsy helmet and focus on manifesting a break in traffic so he can cross to the non-lethal side.

When your accountant replies to 10% of your emails and never sends promised updates, yet has kept your company running undisrupted for five years. You learn to trust implicitly and leave the man to do his job, his way.

When every time you turn up for your Pole Dancing class, you are at the mercy of the silent but kind-faced security guard who has to operate the lift for you because you’re really not legally allowed to be there, and then of course building policy changes and your Pole studio (metaphorically) collapses in the space of a week. You reach out to the girls you’ve been Poling with and organise classes at a new studio, but not before thanking your previous studio owner for introducing you to the sport you now love—and refunding your class package in full. You did the right thing for your students. I’m proud of your decision.

When the person responsible for renewing your office lease never does her job until prompted, and after prompting will still disappear for days leaving you wondering if your contract will ever arrive, you change your office location and instead of telling her you’re not renewing because she’s unreliable and incompetent (which she is but it’s not your job to say), you thank her for her past support (and she hearts it).

When nothing ever happens the way it should, and more often than not people don’t do the thing they’re supposed to, you learn to accept that everyone has their own way of being that isn’t your way of being—that in fact you’re being unreasonable when you’ve expected others to operate at your standard, i.e. zero mistakes, for three and a half decades.

Five years in Vietnam have taught me that we’re all doing our best in our own way. Some admittedly better than others. But I’m only frustrating myself by demanding more than others are accustomed to give.

Plus, it never hurts to remember the human behind the act—and be kind.

What do you think?

You could say Vietnam has hammered me into submission. You could also say it’s changed me for the better. It’s a matter of perspective.

How has your city changed you?

Has it saved you from yourself? What do you love/not love? Please hit “reply” or leave a comment—I read every response and I’d love to hear from you. If you want, share this post with someone who’s none too pleased with their city—maybe they’ll be inspired to take a different perspective.

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Until next Friday… Stay thoughtful,

Val

But I couldn’t say why.

We’d doubled our newsletter output. I’d become a people manager. Taking on marketing responsibilities. I speculated these reasons, but none felt right.

That whole month I scrabbled to find the culprit. And when I did, it was so obvious I couldn’t believe I hadn’t always known.

Less was not more

Last November, I made a decision I thought would save me. My partner was about to have a shoulder operation. I’d been promoted. A trip home was looming.

I’d always preached not putting more on your plate without taking something off. Thinking I was being sensible, I took my own advice and dropped my newsletter schedule down to every other week.

With this reduced frequency, by the time my partner’s operation wheeled around, I had so many newsletters scheduled I no longer had to find time to write on top of work and caregiving.

This was my downfall.

Without my newsletter, work became my sole focus. I wasn’t doing more hours—which is why the increased responsibilities never felt like the reason why—but when I wasn’t working, I was always thinking about work.

It’s obvious in retrospect. For a whole month, the only time I felt good was when I was working. The rest of the time I was miserable because I was thinking about all the work I wasn’t doing while hanging the laundry, going to therapy, learning a pole trick.

There was no respite. Without writing to distract me, work swallowed me whole.

No wonder I burnt out.

More of what matters

My return to weekly newsletters saved me.

My trip home was wrapping up, my partner’s shoulder much improved, my work responsibilities reduced—the time was right. Plus, I felt guilty I wasn’t fulfilling my promise to readers of a “weekly” newsletter that makes you stop and think.

Though I was apprehensive. I was already burnt out—could I do more?

It turns out I could.

As I began carving hours out of my week to write, I suddenly had a worthy subject to reclaim my mind from work. I began having newsletter ideas. Uninterrupted hours where I was creating for myself. For the first time this year, I felt inspired.

So I added even more to my plate.

For months I’d been putting off the physiotherapy I’d been prescribed for my injured knee. I’d need to go twice a week—three precious hours including travel—for five weeks. I committed to it.

And I wasn’t done.

To regain mastery over my mind, I resumed meditation—a beloved habit I’d fallen out of. Fifteen minutes a day, four days a week. With a scented candle if I’m in the mood.

It took months, but finally I figured it out.

Once I’d identified what mattered—my writing, my health, my peace—and made time for it, my burnout all but vanished.

These days, I feel fulfilled when I’m working. And when I’m not working, I’m enjoying whatever it is I’m doing. Right now, writing this, everything feels right. Life is exactly as it should be. No worries. No regrets.

More of what matters was the answer all along.

What do you think?

What’s the “more” that matters to you?

What’s the one thing that would derail you if you stopped? Mine, I now know, is writing to you. Please hit “reply” or leave a comment—I read every response and I’d love to hear from you. If you want, share this post with someone who’s burning out and doesn’t know why.

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Until next Friday… Stay thoughtful,

Val

I saw my Pole teacher’s message while waiting for a health check in Thailand, and burst into tears.

Someone misses me.
I am missed.

Of all her Pole students, I must be the one with the most glacial progress, yet she misses me anyways.

I can’t understand it.

My worst enemy

I wouldn’t wish my mind on my worst enemy.

I am a classic example of what happens to a child whose only occupation was raking up accomplishments. Full marks at school, flawless piano performances, perfect ballet moves. All my extracurricular activities—quizzes, public speaking, even singing—were endured for excellence, not enjoyed. Apart from reading, everything I did for the first seventeen years of my life I did for accolades.

The isolation didn’t help. My parents and grandparents were my world. Dad once said in anger “You don’t need friends—you have us,” a statement seared so deep in my young mind it took two decades to erase.

Add to that a mother lacking the emotional support she needed to stay above water, never mind shower me with love, and I was primed for trouble.

When I had my first depressions, I didn’t understand why. I was a vaunted scholar living the dream in London. I was a cheerful person. I had a happy childhood.

It took a severe manic episode and subsequent incarceration in a psych ward to shake me up enough to accept something was seriously wrong. Misguided values, I decided. My life had crumbled because I cared too much about grades and being the perfect student.

So I refocused my efforts on relationships. I made fast friends everywhere I worked. I prioritised time with my partner. I organised coffees with strangers.

But having a loving partner and a solid group of friends didn’t quiet my vicious mind: You’re not working enough, you’re not doing enough, you’re not enough.

A refrain all the more potent for Dad’s trademark “Work harder or Mark will fire you,” which he levered every time I said I’d had an easy week.

Fifty therapy sessions parsing all this out later, I finally had to admit my problem lies deeper than values:

I believe, in my soul, that beyond my work, my writing, my latest pole trick—there is nothing to see, to appreciate, to love.

That if I stopped accomplishing, I would stop existing.

A question I can’t answer

It’s tiring. No matter how much I do, it’s never enough.

Every detail I miss at work, every newsletter I rush, every Pole trick I don’t execute—every little failure erodes my worth, amplifies the voice of my nemesis mind: I’m not working enough, I’m not doing enough, I’m not enough.

Despite overwhelming evidence to the contrary—my partner telling me every day he loves me, my friends regularly making time for me—I still don’t see myself as worthy of interest or care without my accomplishments.

When I saw my Pole teacher’s message—you need to come back to me this instant—I couldn’t comprehend it. How can she want me back when I can’t even climb the pole?

I don’t have the answer.

But if I did, would I strive less, rest more, finally believe myself worthy of love?

What do you think?

Who are you without your accomplishments?

How much of my dilemma resonates? Please hit “reply” or leave a comment—I read every response and I’d love to hear from you. If you want, share this post with someone you see for who they are, not what they’ve achieved.

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Until next Friday… Stay thoughtful,

Val

Sometimes I tell the truth, sometimes I lie.

I don’t have a problem with my bipolar disorder. But I never know when “I’m bipolar” would condemn me to differential treatment, cost me a job.

And so I lie.

I wish I didn’t have to.

Guilty as judged

I could blame the media for painting bipolar sufferers as erratic and dangerous. But that would be giving us humans too little credit.

For we all possess a capacity for thought. For discerning truth from lies. For deciding what to believe.

If we live in a world where it’s not safe for me to reveal my bipolarism, it’s on us.

The media will always exaggerate, sensationalise, simplify. But the media can’t dictate what we think—we get to choose.

We get to choose if we assume the worst of someone whose only trait we know is “bipolar.” We get to choose if we judge someone guilty even before getting to know them.

We always get to choose.

A world safe for me… and you

I get it. We’re wired to fear the unknown. It’s a survival strategy.

But I’d like to think our unique capacity for conscious thought is worth more than this, this automatic dismissal of a person based on a condition we don’t understand:

When I tell the truth and the other person pauses a little too long, then asks if I’m “being treated.” Are you on medication? Seeing someone?

The other day when a doctor said at the end of my health check, but you look so cheerful!

Every encounter with judgement reminds me I’m different, less than. And it brings me to tears.

Can we not do a better job? Default to curiosity, not judgement, when faced with things we don’t understand?

When I applied for my job with Mark, I revealed my bipolar disorder—my entire mental health history in fact—from the outset. Because I trusted him not to immediately disqualify me for it.

I hope, one day, I can do the same with everyone else.

And if you know what I’m talking about, I wish it for you too.

What do you think?

What is your “bipolar”?

Let’s share all the ways in which we’re uniquely us, without fear. Please hit “reply” or leave a comment—I read every response and I’d love to hear from you. If you enjoyed this, share it with someone who dreams of a world safe for them.

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Until next Friday… Stay thoughtful,

Val

I once took one of those sideway lifts at a London Tube station, and as it transported me creakily, diagonally, painfully slowly towards the raised platform, my palms became slick with sweat. And then it stopped just before it reached the top and almost took my heart with it.

A decade ago, a surprise cable car closure stranded me atop Rio’s Sugarloaf Mountain. I literally climbed back down on my butt, both hands clutching a friend for safety, terrified the whole way.

Yet, for a year I’ve been climbing the pole twice a week. And absolutely loving it.

My Pole story

Everyone asks how I got into Pole Dancing, and I always say accidentally.

A few years ago, I made a friend in Ho Chi Minh City who said she wanted to try Pole and would I come with her. We never went but I mentioned the idea to my partner and he agreed it would be a cool sport to try—the seed had been planted.

Then last April, a Pole studio with rave reviews had a massive discount that got shared on social media. I thought: why not and went for my first class.

That first class, the studio owner taught me three beginner moves. All three felt impossible at first, but by the end of the hour, with repetition and a touch of delusion, I could do them all.

And so I kept going back. Because every class I get to do the impossible.

Here’s the great transferable skill of Pole, and why it’s the latest love of my life: each time I practice, I learn that impossible isn’t permanent. That with grit and guidance, the impossible can be tamed, sometimes even mastered.

And being scared of heights just makes each conquest that much sweeter.

Every time I climb the pole, I’m terrified. I do it anyway.

Why I can’t have nice things

I loved every second of Pole. The physicality of it, the camaraderie, the fact it was the one activity I didn’t feel the need to be good at. Unlike everything else—work, writing, cooking, friend-making—where I expect, from myself, only excellence.

But then, after ten months, I still couldn’t do two climbs. After countless attempts, this impossible doesn’t feel any more possible. And as I witnessed one classmate after another master two climbs in a handful of classes, my lack of progress came to feel like a failure.

This soured my relationship with Pole. I became frustrated. I began to wonder if, secretly, my teacher was frustrated too. Why can’t Val do this? She’s been practicing for ten months!

I fixated on this one thing I couldn’t do. Each time someone complimented a video of me executing a different move, I said but I still can’t do two climbs. Every victory paled before this one failure.

Because I’ve been doing Pole for so long, I recategorised it in my mind from “thing I can be bad at” to “thing I must excel at.” And this sucked all the joy out of something I once loved—passionately.

I can’t have nice things; my perfectionism gets in the way.

I write this from Bangkok where I’ve signed up for three private classes during a weeklong visit, determined to climb this pole if it’s the last thing I do.

But even if I don’t, I’ll just have to remind myself that Pole is a sport I’m doing for fun. That I’ve already achieved so much despite my fears. That the only person demanding more, for no good reason at all, is myself.

What do you think?

What is your Pole?

What is that one activity you love passionately, that changed you for the better? Please hit “reply” or leave a comment—I read every response and I’d love to hear from you. If you want, share this post with someone who’s been curious about Pole—maybe it’s time they finally try.

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Until next Friday… Stay thoughtful,

Val

This was an asset early in life. I aced every exam because I was always ready, a string of successes that culminated in a coveted scholarship that paid for seven years of study at top institutions abroad—the beginning of the rest of my life.

But then I graduated, and being prepared became a liability.

Oblivious, I continued to strive for it. But instead of the grades and glory of my childhood, all I got for my preparedness was constant, low-grade anxiety.

So I’m giving up. And you should too.

First, a story

Yesterday Mum and I went to the Land Office to transfer Dad’s deeds to my name. She’d called and asked what documents we needed to bring. I’d called and asked the same.

We went prepared. Or so we thought.

As soon as we arrived, we were told the transfer of Dad’s second plot in a different province would take a month to process, not the one day we expected. I was leaving in a week.

Then, as we proceeded to transfer Dad’s first plot of land, the one with our house on it, we discovered the house dimensions were not indicated on the deed, nor anywhere in the system, which meant the deed couldn’t be transferred.

As Mum and I scrambled to message everyone we thought might know, the Land Officer nudged: You should go to the municipal office to get the correct information.

So I called up the municipal office—gotta be prepared, you see—and asked them what documents I needed to bring so they could certify our house size.

They gave me the list, I checked we had everything, then Mum and I rushed off to the municipal office. Only to be told, when I presented all the documents, that we’d come to the wrong municipal office.

So off Mum and I went again to the third government office of the day, where we finally obtained the correct paperwork before returning to the Land Office to complete the deed transfer, three hours later than expected, with Dad’s second plot still in his name.

Oh, and then, when we were leaving the parking lot, I drove us into a parked car.

An impossible goal

You know the moral of the story.

We think preparedness is a state we can reach, that if we put in enough preparation, we can be ready for anything.

But we’re wrong. Because there is no end state of “prepared” where nothing will go wrong. Something will always happen that you didn’t predict. Something will always happen that you couldn’t prevent.

And we know this. We know we can’t prepare for everything, yet being prepared is hailed as a virtue and so we strive for it—and suffer. We try to gather all the information, put in place all the precautions—all the while expecting something to go wrong.

We think we’re anxious because we haven’t done enough, but we’re actually anxious because we’re striving for an impossible goal.

What if we see preparedness, not as a state but as a spectrum? And instead of reaching for that elusive end state, focus instead on failing within a reasonable range?

Instead of trying to be prepared for that job interview, that big project, that first date, what if you just aim to be reasonable—and go for it? Would that not relieve the pressure, the anxiety, the burden we carry?

Yesterday at the Land Office was a farce. But I’ve been in so many other situations where I put so much into preparation and things still happened that I was completely unprepared for. When my first employee said she wanted to leave after a month. When I burnt out from caring for my post-op partner within a day. When I’d prepared for Dad’s death for four and a half years and missed his funeral anyway.

There is so much in life that we can never prepare for. So why torture yourself with the impossible?

Why not just do it and see?

What do you think?

Whenever I’m paralysed by preparation, I remind myself of Nike’s wisdom. I credit this bias towards action with all the good things in my life.

Is preparedness giving you grief? Would you ever just do it?

Please hit “reply” or leave a comment—I read every response and I’d love to hear from you. If you want, share this post with someone who’s been preparing for something for so long.

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Until next Friday… Stay thoughtful,

Val

From that delightful interview came a friendship I treasure, and because I love both Sagar’s writing and his mind, I asked him to write something for you.

What he produced might just change the way you view your entire life—

Why is it that we miss moments only when it’s gone? Is it this deep-rooted psychological wiring that we love living in nostalgia?

I caught myself saying, “Remember when things were simpler?” This was strange because that “simpler” version of my life was the one I actively tried to escape.

I moved cities because I felt stuck.
I changed routines because I felt restless.
I told myself I needed more space, more clarity, more time.

And yet, months later, I found myself romanticizing the very phase I couldn’t wait to leave.

That’s when I noticed a pattern.

Your Three Relationships

We complain about not having time for what matters, but dismiss clarity when it’s offered. We feel vaguely unhappy, so we book a vacation, only to realise the same restless mind followed us to the beach.

At some point, I had to admit that something was wrong. It was me. Or at least something about the way I relate to my life.

Okay fine… I am weird. But I’m pretty sure I’m not alone.

Actively trying to better my life, by fixing my daily habits, finding a new purpose (disguised as side-hustle or hobbies), all while moving to a new country, raised a lot of realisations.

Somewhere in the middle of all that, I also noticed my behaviour change. I was more irritable in conversations. Quieter around people I cared about. Second-guessing every decision.

No matter where I went, that unease traveled with me.

It took a while, but I realised this wasn’t about habits or routines. What finally shifted things wasn’t a breakthrough moment, but a change in how I asked the question.

Instead of asking, “What should I fix?” I asked, “What am I disconnected from?”

That single shift reorganised everything. It revealed a pattern I had been missing: everything I was struggling with pointed back to three fractured relationships:

• With myself,

• With my purpose and

• With the people around me

Relationship With Yourself

As someone who dove head-first into the world of self-development, a very common problem I noticed right away is the dire need to do everything under the sun. But one major side effect of this desire is that I am constantly on the “never enough” land. That’s why, my to-do list never seemed to shrink.

Even if it did, I would add more items on it and call the day a “fail” because… well… the list isn’t marked off completely.

Staying on this land for years forced me to change my perspective on this problem. Constantly focusing on the unmarked to-do list made me feel I didn’t accomplish everything. Instead of this, I decided to write a DONE list.

A DONE list is something that is written at the end of the day which accounts for all the accomplished tasks… unlike a To-Do list that is written in the morning.

The first day I wrote it, I realised something strange. My brain felt lighter.

Seeing all the work I had actually completed… the calls, the emails, the small wins… made me feel enough.

That was the moment I understood the relationship with myself is not built on perfection or a completed list. It’s built on noticing and appreciating the reality of your own effort.

Beyond The Speech

Finding the right balance between Productivity and Mental Health

By Sagar Soni

Relationship With Your Purpose

A DONE list is great, but it also has a trap to be careful of.

This list doesn’t move the needle much if it’s filled with mundane tasks.

Calls made. Emails sent. Chores complete.

At first, it felt nice to see progress. But that doesn’t make a satisfying DONE list now, does it? After a while, I started feeling restless again.

That’s when I realised that not all completed work carries the same weight.

So what needs to be on it then?

The problem was not effort anymore. It was Focus. The problem with today’s world is that we are inundated with people’s “success,” whether it’s real or curated. Without realising, I am comparing people’s highlight reels to my behind-the-scenes. I could very well have a new plan, but I tend to be distracted with other people’s goals.

All of a sudden, I want to have a big podcast, but also have 5,000 Substack subscribers, but also run a full marathon and have 6-pack abs.

All at the same time.

None of this is inherently bad, but none of this matters if my main goal is to be a speaker.

So… what the f*ck happened?

I started confusing inspiration with direction. I had ambition, but I was lacking a filter. That’s why I introduced a FOCUS filter.

It’s a simple question! When I am adding anything to my list, I must ask,

Does this move me closer to my purpose? Or am I aiming in the wrong direction?

If it doesn’t pass the filter, it doesn’t make it to the list. The FOCUS filter didn’t make my days easier. It made them clearer. Suddenly, a shorter DONE list felt more satisfying than a long one. Because the work on it was aligned, not just completed.

Relationship With Your People

If you’re on a journey toward a “new” version of yourself, you have to accept one thing: Growth has seasons. And some seasons require sacrifice.

When I jumped into this world of self-development and productivity, that became my entire lens. If it doesn’t fit my routines, schedules and goals, it takes a back seat. I understood that goals usually require sacrifices.

But I took it too far.

If my goal was waking up at 5 a.m., I needed to sleep early.
Sleeping early meant skipping nights out.
Skipping nights out slowly became skipping people.

Before saying yes to plans, every interaction started running through a filter:

Can this wait? Is this urgent? Is this worth breaking my focus?

I wasn’t avoiding people. I was managing them. I was measuring them against my output.

I only realised this after moving away from my hometown and all my loved ones.

On paper, things were working. My DONE lists were full. My purpose felt clear.

And yet, something felt empty.

No amount of progress could replace the feeling of being around the right people. That’s what forced me to introduce the final rule. I call it:

The TODAY rule.

Every call, every dinner, every friendship… goes through this filter.

If it matters, it deserves time—TODAY. Not next week, not when you are less busy, not after you finish everything else… Today.

And yes, for me, that means never missing a phone call from a friend or family member. Sometimes it even means hitting pause on my 5 a.m. gym session for a board game the prior night.

Today matters more than any optimization, any task, any project waiting for you tomorrow. I understand that some days, I might have to prioritise my purpose over my people. That’s totally fine. But then a new question needs to be answered.

A full life isn’t built by optimizing time. It’s built by choosing who gets it.

Beyond The Speech

Finding the right balance between Productivity and Mental Health

By Sagar Soni

What do you think?

With this journey, I came to a realization. Maybe the unease was never about doing more or “fixing myself.” I spent years designing the life I want (and still am designing to a certain extent). But now I understand that the ambient discontent I feel was just a signal… A signal that I was disconnected.

What I actually needed was to rebuild my relationships within it.

Because no habit, no goal, no version of “future me” can compensate for being disconnected in the present.

Which brings us to Val’s questions:

How are your three relationships? Are you connected to yourself, your purpose, your people?

Please hit “reply” or leave a comment—we read every response and we’d love to hear from you. If you want, share this post with someone who could use a relationship audit.

Until next Friday, stay thoughtful, and for more from Sagar:

Find Beyond The Speech on YouTube, Spotify, and Apple Podcasts.

I couldn’t get back to sleep, so I started working.

The retreat

I’m on a writing retreat. A two-night getaway just outside Ho Chi Minh City. Me, my notebook, my laptop. The small bit of work I was too pressed to find cover for.

I’d booked this trip weeks ago, expecting to go mad from always-on caregiving for my out-of-commission partner, endless dishes and laundry, a full-time job on top (what about my writing?!) if I didn’t have this to look forward to. And I was right.

But I also knew, even when I booked it, this retreat wouldn’t fix me. Two nights by the river couldn’t undo two months of stress. And it hasn’t.

I’m writing this on my last morning. After two sleeps jeopardised by boats motoring past as night deepened. My eyes throb with too much coffee and too little rest. I’m worried I’m not making sense.

Not that this retreat is a write-off. Determined to honour the “writing” part, I’ve been typing, and scribbling, away. I’ve written one newsletter, edited two, and now this. I’ve also journaled, written a bad poem.

But I don’t feel inspired or rejuvenated or any of the life-affirming feels writing usually bestows. I don’t even feel particularly creative, despite spending more hours creating these past two days than I have in months.

But I digress.

The way out

Stress isolates.

The more stressed you are, the more your to-do’s seem insurmountable, the less time you feel you have. If you’re worried about all the things you have to get done today, tomorrow, this week, you’re not going to be inclined to reach out to a friend (who’s probably as stressed, if not more)—

When in fact, commiserating over coffee might be just the thing you both need.

Later, I tell myself, when I’m less stressed, I’ll reach out.

But, and here’s the thing I’m beginning to realise, “less stressed” isn’t a state I can reach on my own. I can get there only with the help of other people.

I can book myself as many two-hour massages as I care to splurge on and give myself the mental space to function, but that space won’t break me out. Only other people can:

• Telling my manager I’m overwhelmed and asking to delay an urgent task by a week. (Not only did she understand, we ended up delegating the task to my assistant who executed it beautifully… and on-time.)

• Asking our sponsor if I can get the ad copy to them a few days late since I’m out of office. (They didn’t care.)

• Messaging my friend to share the Big Worry that has kept me up these two nights: going to the bank tomorrow to open accounts not knowing if my documents, which my accountant had prepared when I told him I was worried, had arrived at my local branch; if the teller would speak English; if I would be asked questions I don’t know the answer to; if it would really be as simple as sign and stamp and show the originals as my accountant had reassured. (My friend replied, all caps, “Banks are not real. Go Val,” which made me feel both ridiculous and better.)

Stress kills the desire to engage. Weighed down by worries, we forget the village we can lean on. We forget we’re social creatures. We forget no one is meant to do this alone.

And so I look forward to arriving home tonight, giving my recuperating partner a careful side hug, and asking him about his week. Maybe attempt a Quick Crossword and get jointly exasperated over arcane words the crossword master, who we suspect hail from the 19th century, expects us to know.

What do you think?

What does stress do to you? How do you break free?

Please hit “reply” or leave a comment—I read every response and I’d love to hear from you. Even better: share this post with a friend you want to break out of stress.

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Until next Friday… Stay thoughtful,

Val

Maybe I just don’t see it yet, the reason around the corner, but I cannot imagine ever willingly walking away.

Not for better money. Not for more security. Not for recognition nor fame.

For someone who changed jobs every 18 months out of boredom, it’s beyond irregular that, five and a half years later, I’m still excited every day to log in.

I hope I get to forever.

Not just a job

This job, I knew even before I got it, isn’t just a job.

This is going to sound pretentious as f*ck, but I don’t see this as just being an assistant or helping me—it’s joining a movement to promote a self-help based on resilience, humility, rationality and tolerance. So, on the surface, it’s an entry-level position that pretty much every Phase 2 candidate is absurdly over-qualified for, but really, I’m looking at someone to grow with the business and to help build out this team for years to come.

Therefore, if you see this position as more of a short-term, “this will be fun/useful for a while,” thing, then it probably isn’t the right fit. But if you want to be part of a growing brand that is hoping to reshape the self-help industry, then hell yeah, hop aboard!

Reading Mark’s email admitting me into Phase 2 of my application to be his Content and Research Assistant, I couldn’t believe how lucky I was. When I got the offer three weeks later, I broke down in tears.

My first two years weren’t without difficulties. Tasks I wasn’t equipped for and a role that changed so often most of the time I didn’t know what it was. But I never lost sight of our mission to reshape the self-help industry, and that made all the moments I didn’t love it worthwhile.

Then, in December 2022, I became Mark’s Newsletter Manager. And if there was any doubt before, my new role extinguished it like a garden hose on a scented candle.

When Mark entrusted me with his email list, he gave me access to hundreds of thousands, now over a million lives. Lives I get to change, every single week, through Mark’s words that I compile into these neat emails. Two things to think about, two questions to ask yourself, one exercise for the week.

More than that, I get to scour our inbox for reader stories to feature every week. Stories of actual humans doing ordinary things that, by their relatability, might spur hundreds, maybe thousands, to action and thereby become extraordinary.

Where else would I get the chance to do this, week in week out, and be paid for the privilege?

“The rest of your life”

I am not naive. I know ours is a money-making, money-chugging business and I am as expendable as everyone else who ever worked for a salary.

But I believe in my value, our mission, and most of all Mark.

I believe it when he said, in that Phase 2 email, he’s “looking at someone to grow with the business and to help build out this team for years to come.”

I believe it when he replied, after receiving a string of queries I sent him before starting, “You’ll have the rest of your life to ask as many questions as you want.”

I believe it when last year he gave me a raise I didn’t deserve because Dad was dying and I wasn’t coping, a raise he said “reflected my potential” and his desire to work with me “long term.”

I believe it when he asked if I was happy and I said yes and he said his team’s happiness is all he wants, but don’t tell anyone because it’s too soppy for the “not-giving-a-f*ck” guy.

I believe this job is an opportunity that comes around once in a lifetime. The kind I’ll never forgive myself if I waste it.

What do you think?

I don’t usually write about work because I want you to read me for me, not for the fact I work for a #1 New York Times bestselling author. But I was in a mood today, and here we are:

Is your job just a job, or is it for life?

I’d love to hear your story, if you want to share it with me. Please hit “reply” or leave a comment—I read every response. If you want, share this post with someone who loves their job to see what resonates.

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Finally, I’m happy to announce: We’re back to a weekly schedule as of today!

Until next Friday… stay thoughtful,

Val

P.S. Mark doesn’t hire often, but when we do, we announce it in our free newsletter. Or: bookmark our Jobs page. Maybe one day we’ll get to work together.