Brenden Matthews

I, like most people, have a great appreciation for beauty in all its forms. When we see something beautiful, it can trigger an emotional response that transcends mere recognition—be it a sunset painting the sky in impossible colors, a face that catches our eye in a crowd, a landscape that makes us pause mid-stride, or a painting that captures that ineffable quality of light. We’re naturally drawn to beauty, which begs the question: is it beautiful because we are drawn to it, or are we drawn to it because it’s beautiful?

At the yoga studio, many people come and go. Often, you encounter newcomers who treat their first yoga class like a HIIT workout. They rush through transitions, sometimes literally jumping between poses (āsanas). In their minds, yoga seems less like a deliberate flow and more like a race to the finish line. They might substitute five rapid pushups for a single, controlled chaturanga (often missing the pose’s subtleties), and fly through their upward-facing dog without syncing movement to breath.

Every January gym attendance spikes by nearly 150%, yet by mid-February about 90% of those new faces have vanished.1 We crave transformation, but sticking around for the unglamorous middle is where real change happens. Showing up regularly with “good enough” effort often outperforms sporadic bursts of perfectionism. I admire people who are consistent, dependable, and reliable. And I think you’ll find, if you can simply show up consistently, you’re more likely to achieve mastery slowly than someone who tries something a few times, gets frustrated, and gives up.2 But mastery isn’t always the goal, and that’s perfectly fine. Sometimes, being just okay at something and enjoying the process is rewarding in itself.

There’s a TV show called Love on the Spectrum. It’s one of my favourite TV shows–for a number of reasons–but I think the reason I like it so much is that I really want to see everyone on the show succeed. And it feels really good when they do succeed, often bringing tears.

Economics is a strange beast. We treat it like a hard science, expecting precise predictions, but it often feels more like math stirred together with psychology, constantly trying to explain the past rather than foreseeing the future. If economists could reliably predict market crashes or booms, wouldn’t they all be relaxing on private islands by now?