Category: Lessons Learned

What Chess Taught Me About Blind Spots

There is a moment in chess that feels almost embarrassing.

You’re focused. Deeply focused. You’ve been calculating lines, thinking ahead, maybe even feeling proud of your position… and then it happens.

You lose a piece.

And the thought comes immediately: Nooooo. How did I not see that???

Many times this was not because your opponent made a brilliant move, but because you simply didn’t see it.

I’ve had that moment more times than I’d like to admit. But recently, I realized something: this doesn’t only happen on the chessboard. It happens in life.

When I play chess, my attention tends to narrow. I focus on what I want to do—my strategy, my plan, my next move. But while I’m focused on that, I stop seeing everything else. Other pieces. Other threats. Other possibilities.

And then I get surprised.

Not because the information wasn’t there, but because I didn’t see it.

So I started asking myself a different question: What am I not seeing?

Something interesting began to happen after I started playing chess. That question didn’t stay on the board. It started appearing in my thoughts at random moments during the day—especially when I was making decisions. In conversations, at work, even in small everyday choices, I would suddenly pause and think: What am I not seeing? Almost as if chess had trained a new layer of awareness in my mind.

Life works in a similar way. We move forward with intention. We set goals, we make plans, we act with purpose. And yet, we still miss things. Signals from other people. Risks in our decisions. Opportunities outside our current focus. Patterns we repeat without noticing.

Just like in chess, the issue is not intelligence. It’s awareness.

We don’t see everything. We see what we are looking for.

That realization reminded me of Aristotle, who believed that understanding reality requires looking at it from multiple perspectives. But as humans, we naturally simplify. We narrow our field of vision to what feels most relevant in the moment.

In modern terms, we call this selective attention, tunnel vision or even cognitive bias. But on a more personal level, it simply feels like being certain… and still being wrong.

Chess, in that sense, becomes a practice in humility. It is not only about thinking ahead, but about learning to see the whole board. Stronger players develop a habit of pausing before they move. They ask themselves what changed, what is being threatened, which pieces are now vulnerable.

They train themselves to look beyond their intention.

This idea has started to change the way I make decisions in my own life. Now, when I feel certain, I try to pause. I ask myself what I might be missing, what assumptions I’m making, what could go wrong that I’m ignoring. I try to imagine what an outside perspective would notice that I cannot see from where I stand.

Sometimes, nothing changes. But sometimes, everything does.

It is not about overthinking or doubting every step. It is about expanding awareness, even slightly, to include what is outside of our immediate focus.

Chess humbled me in a way I didn’t expect. It showed me that even when I feel focused, capable, and in control, I can still miss what is right in front of me.

And maybe the goal is not to see everything. That would be impossible.

Maybe the goal is simply to stay curious enough to keep asking:

What am I not seeing?

When Life Feels Upside Down: Lessons in Real Well-Being

When life is steady, well-being feels like a checklist: sleep enough, move your body, eat well, take your supplements.

But when everything turns upside down—when you’re grieving, overwhelmed, stretched thin—that’s when the real lessons come through.

The last few months have been some of the hardest I’ve had in a long time. I lost my grandmother. Then, a few months later, I lost my father.

I’ve been balancing multiple projects at work, in the middle of a PhD, and somehow trying to show up as a leader, a student, a sister, a daughter, a friend… all while still taking care of myself.

Here’s what I’ve learned (and am still learning) about well-being—not the Instagram version, but the quiet, raw, deeply personal kind:

1. Grief Doesn’t Ask for Permission

Grief doesn’t wait for the weekend. It shows up in between meetings and to-do lists.

In my case, both phone calls came on Mondays—one just as I was starting my workday, the other at night, while I was in the middle of a PhD class.

Even though I knew those calls could arrive at any moment, when they finally came, they still shocked me.

Nothing could have prepared me to receive them.

Grief is deeply personal; each of us experiences it in a different way.

I’ve learned to let it in, even if just for a moment—a deep breath, a memory, a tear.

I don’t push it away. I try not to judge it.

2. Self-Care Becomes Survival

Self-care has become as simple as drinking water and eating.

Sitting in silence for five minutes. Taking a few days off from work and classes. Going out for a walk.

These tiny acts have become my anchors—small reminders that I’m still here.

3. People Are the Pillars

During these months, I’ve leaned on people more than ever. Friends, family, professors, other PhD students, and coworkers have been there in many different ways.

Sometimes a simple “I’m sorry to hear that” went a long way.

Well-being isn’t a solo mission—it’s collective.

We heal in community, even if the gestures are small.

4. Permission to Pause

One powerful thing I gave myself: permission to do less.

To postpone a task. To take longer walks. To cry during a break.

To spend more time with my family and truly be present.

Sometimes I feel like I spend most of my life thinking and doing.

Now, I’m learning to take time to feel and just be.

Productivity can wait. Healing can’t.

5. It’s Okay Not to Feel “Okay”

I’ve stopped pretending everything is fine.

And strangely, that honesty made me feel more grounded.

There’s peace in truth.

And there’s strength in vulnerability.

Closing Thoughts

These months have reminded me that well-being isn’t about perfection—it’s about compassion.

It’s about creating space for all parts of life: the joy, the sorrow, the chaos, the calm.

And learning, little by little, that I can carry both.

The Strength Formula: Redefining Success from the Inside Out

What if success wasn’t about speed, hustle, or constant achievement?

What if, instead, success was a quiet, deliberate unfolding — a path walked with clarity, depth, and strength?

Over time, and through deep reflection, I’ve come to realize that success is not a singular event. It’s not a promotion, a number on a scale, or a round of applause. It’s the result of a process — an inner architecture built through daily choices, mindset, and values.

I call it: The Strength Formula.

Success = Self Awareness + Prioritization + Focus + Consistency + Patience + Slow + Curiosity + Flexibility + Courage ⇒ Strength

Each component plays a vital role — and together, they don’t just lead to success.

They become the very definition of it.

🔹 Self-Awareness

Everything begins here. Without knowing yourself — your values, limits, needs — it’s easy to chase someone else’s version of success. Self-awareness is the compass.

🔹 Prioritization

You can’t do it all, and you shouldn’t try. Prioritization is how you honor your energy, time, and vision. It’s not about saying “no” to everything — it’s about saying a resounding “yes” to what matters.

🔹 Focus

The art of being fully present. Focus turns scattered effort into meaningful progress. It’s what helps you go deep instead of wide — and deep is where growth lives.

🔹 Consistency

Not glamorous, but essential. Consistency turns sparks into fire. When you show up — especially when you don’t feel like it — you’re quietly becoming unstoppable.

🔹 Slow (Deliberate Action)

This one matters deeply to me. I separated slow from patience because slow still implies action — but it’s deliberate, thoughtful, intentional. In a world that rewards urgency, slow is a rebellion. It says: “I’m here for the long run.”

🔹 Patience (Stillness in Time)

Patience, on the other hand, is stillness. It’s the quiet strength of waiting, trusting, allowing things to unfold. It’s resting when needed. It’s knowing that some progress is invisible until it blooms.

🔹 Curiosity

Curiosity turns obstacles into questions. It keeps the journey playful. It’s the opposite of ego — curiosity is humble, open, and always willing to learn.

🔹 Flexibility

Because life will never go exactly as planned. Flexibility is how you adjust without losing your core. It’s strength in motion — like bamboo in the wind.

🔹 Courage

The glue. Courage is needed to start, to keep going, to speak up, to rest, to pivot. Without it, none of the above take root. It’s the quiet power to choose growth, even when it’s uncomfortable.

💪 Why Strength?

Because success without strength is fragile.

And strength — true, rooted, resilient strength — comes from living these values day by day. Mental strength, emotional strength, physical strength… they’re all connected.

This isn’t a formula for achieving more. It’s a formula for becoming more.

📝 Reflection

If this formula resonates with you, try asking yourself:

  • Where in this formula am I already strong?
  • Which part needs more attention right now?
  • What would happen if I lived this formula, one day at a time?

You don’t have to do it all perfectly. Just consistently. Just slowly. With curiosity, flexibility, and courage.

That’s how strength is built. That’s how success begins.

The Power of Closing Cycles: Why Endings Deserve Attention

We often celebrate beginnings—a new job, a new year, a new relationship—but we rarely give endings the attention they deserve. And yet, over the past few years, I’ve learned that how we end things can be just as important as how we start them.

I’ve become intentional about closing cycles. Not just the big ones like moving cities or leaving a job, but the small, everyday ones too—like how I end my workday, how I wrap up a conversation, or how I say goodbye after a visit to see family. Each closure is an opportunity to reflect, to honor what was, and to make space for what’s next.

Why Closing Cycles Matters

Leaving things unfinished—or worse, pretending they didn’t happen—creates mental clutter. It lingers. It takes up space in our minds and hearts, making it harder to move forward with clarity and intention. I’ve felt it in my own life: the emotional weight of half-closed chapters, the open tabs in my brain.

But when I consciously bring things to a close, something shifts. There’s peace. There’s resolution. There’s a subtle but powerful sense of integrity in saying, “This mattered. It happened. It’s complete.”

The Practice of Closure

For me, closing cycles isn’t dramatic—it’s mindful.

Sometimes it looks like writing a few lines in my journal at the end of the day, acknowledging the good and the not-so-good. Sometimes it’s sending a thank-you message after finishing a project. Other times, it’s more symbolic: taking a solo walk to process a difficult goodbye.

These simple acts help me integrate the experience, rather than rush past it.

Closing the Big Cycles

While small daily closures have their place, sometimes we need to revisit the big chapters of our lives to fully close them. Over the past year, I did something that felt deeply necessary: I returned to a few cities where I once lived—places that shaped me, challenged me, and held pieces of who I used to be.

When I first left those places, life was a whirlwind. Busy, busy, busy. Packing, deadlines, logistics. I didn’t give myself the space to say goodbye—to really walk those streets one last time, take in the views, or sit with the emotions of leaving.

Going back, this time with no rush, allowed me to close those chapters with presence. I wandered familiar neighborhoods with new eyes. I visited my favorite restaurants, took long walks, and let the memories surface. It was quiet, emotional, and healing. Those visits weren’t about nostalgia—they were about honoring who I was back then and letting go of what no longer belonged to me.

Sometimes closure isn’t just emotional; it’s physical. It’s returning, witnessing, and releasing.

Endings Are Not Failures

One of the biggest mindset shifts I’ve had is understanding that endings aren’t always sad. And they definitely aren’t failures. Letting go of a habit, a routine, or even a dream that no longer fits is an act of courage, not weakness. It’s a way of saying, “I respect myself enough to not stay stuck.”

I’ve also learned that some cycles need to close before we feel ready. And that’s okay. There’s wisdom in moving on even without a perfect sense of closure. Sometimes we find the meaning later.

What I’ve Gained

By honoring closures, I’ve gained clarity. Emotional space. Confidence. And more than anything, a sense of flow—of being able to transition from one season to the next without dragging old stories behind me.

It’s still a work in progress. But now, I no longer rush to the next thing without asking myself, “Have I closed this well?”

What cycles are still open in your life?

Maybe it’s time to give them the goodbye they deserve.

Reflections on Friendship, Inspired by Aristotle

Friendship is one of the most enriching experiences in life. Over the years, I’ve come to understand that not all friendships are the same — some are fleeting, others are situational, and a rare few are deeply transformative. Reflecting on what friendship means to me, I couldn’t help but think of Aristotle’s timeless wisdom.

In his Nicomachean Ethics, Aristotle describes three kinds of friendships: those of utility, those of pleasure, and those of the good. Friendships of utility are based on mutual benefit; two people come together because they find each other useful. Friendships of pleasure are built around shared activities and enjoyment — the friend you laugh with, celebrate with, and have fun with. But the highest form of friendship, according to Aristotle, is the friendship of the good — a bond formed between people who admire each other’s character, virtues, and goodness.

I first studied Aristotle and the Nicomachean Ethics during my first semester of the PhD. It was a time of intense learning and personal growth, and his reflections on friendship resonated deeply with me. These ideas have stayed with me ever since, quietly shaping the way I see and nurture the relationships in my life.

Looking back, I see friendships that fit each of these categories. Some thrived during a certain phase and faded naturally. Others brought joy and spontaneity but lacked a deeper foundation. And then, there are those rare friendships that feel like a quiet miracle: built on admiration, support, and a shared pursuit of a good life.

Friendship Across Life’s Chapters

Some of my most treasured friendships are with people I have known since I was a baby. These lifelong connections carry a special kind of depth and familiarity. We have witnessed each other’s growth, setbacks, and transformations, creating a bond that feels almost like family — woven through shared experiences and an enduring sense of trust.

Many of my friendships have also been formed through school, in each phase of my life, from early education all the way through my PhD journey. These friendships have been a constant source of encouragement and discovery, growing alongside me through the different seasons of life. One of the most meaningful friendships from this journey began during my master’s degree, when I met someone who would become one of my closest friends. What I enjoy most about our conversations is that they always revolve around ideas and our diverse interests. Every discussion feels like an exploration — of philosophy, art, travel, and dreams — and it constantly reminds me how enriching it is to have friends who inspire curiosity and growth.

Other friendships have emerged through work. Over the years, I’ve had the privilege of collaborating with people who later became mentors — and in some cases, close friends. These relationships grew from shared challenges and achievements, often grounded in mutual respect, trust, and a common vision. The support and wisdom of these friends have shaped not only my career but also my personal growth.

I also have a friend whom I only see once a year, yet our bond feels as strong as ever. Every time we meet, we go out for dinner at a nice restaurant and talk for hours. Our conversations are open and honest, and we share our dreams, our challenges, and the ups and downs of life — from health to relationships to work. That depth and sincerity create a kind of connection that feels timeless. This reminds me that frequency isn’t always what defines closeness — openness and vulnerability often matter more than how often we see each other.

Some of the most meaningful relationships in my life have come from unexpected places. I met some very close friends through our shared love for The Tim Ferriss Show podcast, a common interest that sparked deep, enriching conversations and a genuine connection. These friendships bring happiness, meaning, and psychological richness — perfectly embodying the three dimensions described by Shigehiro Oishi. They have expanded my horizons, supported my growth, and made life more vibrant and fulfilling.

What Deep Friendship Requires

In today’s fast-moving world, where conversations often skim the surface and interactions feel rushed, cultivating deep friendships takes time, patience, and intention. It requires listening not just to words but also to the silences in between. It asks for vulnerability, generosity, and a willingness to grow alongside someone.

Shigehiro Oishi, in his book Life in Three Dimensions, beautifully writes, “In sum, you can evaluate pretty much anything in terms of happiness, meaning, and psychological richness. Academic courses can be happy, meaningful, or psychologically rich courses. Some friends are fun to be with. Other friends are useful and helpful. Other friends help you expand your horizons.” This perspective complements Aristotle’s view: some friendships bring joy, others offer support, and a few challenge and expand who we are. Recognizing these different dimensions allows us to appreciate each friendship for what it brings to our lives.

True friendship, as Aristotle reminds us, is not transactional or shallow. It is a meeting of souls who wish good for one another, not for personal gain, but because they recognize goodness itself. It strengthens us, sharpens our virtues, and enriches our journey through life.

I’m grateful for the friends who have walked with me at different stages, and especially for those few who have become companions of the soul. In a world full of noise, they remind me that friendship remains one of the purest melodies we can share.