It Took Me 10 Years To Figure This Out

You know one of these pieces of ‘timeless wisdom’ like: it’s about the journey, not the destination.

Yes, once upon a time I also yawned at it, rolled my eyes at it and whenever someone utters it, I immediately blocked them on my phone.

But what I didn’t know was that there are two levels of registering so-called ‘conventional wisdom’.

On level 1, you only know about it. You can preach it, yell it on a rooftop and post Instagram quotes about it.

But then on level 2, you feel it in your bones, and I felt it last week.

Last week, I finalised the edits of my book with Bloomsbury Academic, and all I needed was a stamp of approval before it goes to print. At around the same time, my karate sensei told me that I was ready to grade for my next belt after a year of training as a white belt.

Maybe I’ve read too much and started seeing stories in everything, but these two events both felt like the epilogues to different chapters of my life.   

The book was the conclusion to nearly 10 years of teaching online.

The grading was the end of being a white belt.

And both moments scared the shit out of me, because I still felt the same even when I’m this close to getting something I’ve wanted for so long.

Since I was 14, all I wanted to do was be a writer with a published book. ‘Imagine how my life would change!’ I thought.

And since starting karate a year ago, all I wanted was a coloured belt. ‘I can’t wait to join their rank!’ I thought.

But now, what was once an aspiration just turned into a description of my life.

I still get up, make a coffee and write for the first hour of the day.

I still pack my gear, put on my gi and walk onto the mat when I train.

And the same goes for everything I have once lusted after: a first kiss, getting my driver’s license, moving out, making my first YouTube video, reading a poem in front of a crowd, falling in love with my dream girl, topping the class, buying a cool jacket, visiting the old friends in Shanghai, having a drink with my sister from another mother, walking around Oxford in a black coat and eventually, I realised that everything comes back to what we spend our whole lives avoiding: the mundane ins and outs.

The same goes for lifelong learning. We all start from a place of lusting after understanding. ‘If only I could finish that (insert really difficult book).’ But the minute you close the last chapter of that book, life resets to a mundane morning of wandering through the bookshop, hunting for another literary mountain to climb.

François de La Rochefoucauld once wrote:

‘We all have strength enough to bear the misfortune of others.’

In this case, we’re all stupid enough to ignore the fortunes we’ve already gathered. I am incredibly grateful to write for you every morning, but at times, I do lose sight of the larger picture. I get caught lusting for more, without realising that my reality is already someone else’s fantasy.

And this letter right here is a reminder for me, and for some of you, to look around you and ask: am I living the fantasy of my younger self already? Have I already learned something that I once thought was impossible?  

Sometimes, this is the only way for us to realise that perhaps there is no destination to this journey. Achievements and the books we’ve devoured are not summits, but checkpoints for us to regroup and rediscover the pleasure of crawling out of bed into the cold, flicking through a book over a hot cup of coffee, writing for an hour, putting on a gi and re-tying that white belt for the 100^th time. And if we can’t rejoice in the mundane, then what right do we have to expect our goals to satisfy us?

So, when in doubt, look down, put one foot in front of the other, but don’t forget to look at the footprints you’ve already left behind. Who knows, you might be surprised at how far you’ve come.

Until next week

Robin