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I was recently banned from Rover, a specialized craigslist website for finding pet sitters and dog walkers. They didn’t specify why exactly, though I know the walker claimed my dog bit her. I find this claim suspicious since my dogs have never bitten anyone before, certainly not hard enough to break skin, and her story contained several inconsistencies.

Yesterday, I took a walk to the Brooklyn Bridge, a notorious tourist trap but also a beautiful and marvelous feat of engineering. I wanted to photograph it (a cliché, I know) so I can make a print for someone as a gift. Hours passed in what felt like minutes. This experience, this immersion in creation for its own sake, is what makes me call myself an artist. So when a friend of mine–who reads this blog–made an off-hand comment critical of the fact that I call myself an artist, I wasn’t offended, but it did get me thinking about: who is an artist? What makes someone an artist? Is it enough to just make art? Do you have to show it? Sell it? Call yourself an artist on your LinkedIn profile?

The year is 2025. I’m turning 40 soon, sitting in a cramped 450-square-foot apartment with thin walls, $50,000 in credit card debt, and a credit score of 646. My financial worth: $100 in liquid assets. My net worth: deeply negative. Five years ago, I was worth over $7 million. This isn’t a story about market crashes or economic downturns. This is a story about human fallibility—specifically, mine. If you’re looking for a cautionary tale about greed, overconfidence, and the psychological pitfalls of sudden wealth, welcome. I’ve lived it all so you don’t have to.

I was sitting on the subway the other day and glanced up from my book to notice something that shouldn’t be remarkable, yet somehow was: every single person in my line of sight was staring at their phone. This wasn’t the first time I’d observed this phenomenon, but something about this particular moment struck me differently. It wasn’t just that everyone was looking at their phones—it was the mechanical thumb-scrolling and the complete disconnection from their surroundings.

I’ve been thinking a lot about boredom lately—specifically, how we’ve become so good at avoiding it. We reach for our phones at the slightest hint of downtime, filling every possible moment with scrolling, tapping, and consuming. It’s as if we’ve collectively decided that being alone with our thoughts is some kind of punishment to be avoided at all costs.

I like to write, and sometimes I like to write about writing. This meta-reflection offers valuable insights into the creative process. There’s a touch of irony here—similar to artists who teach because they can’t sustain themselves solely through their art. In my case, I’m neither successful enough to earn a living from my writing nor from teaching it, but I genuinely enjoy both activities nonetheless. This practice of examining one’s craft often deepens understanding, as teaching something frequently strengthens our own grasp of it.

Reflecting on the landscape of my past mistakes, I’ve noticed a consistent pattern: moments when my ego seized the controls and steered me off course. The abstract concept of “staying humble” sounds straightforward until we’re faced with real-world situations that challenge our self-image. Only when something valuable slips away do we fully grasp what humility might have preserved.

Sometimes we do things because we want to, sometimes we do things because we must. You might tackle that tedious spreadsheet at work not because you love Excel, but because it’s your responsibility. Or you might blast that 80s power ballad for the twentieth time simply because it brings you joy. Simple enough, right?

Although I have written about this idea before, I feel like it’s one worth elaborating on. We live in an age of instant gratification, which I think leaves us often feeling underwhelmed. In most cases, this disappointment is due to our expectations being too high. There is, of course, a simple solution to this problem: lower your expectations. On the surface you might think “but why should I lower my standards?”, and I’ll try to make the case for why you should.

Last January, I found myself trudging through slush-filled streets, my fingers numb despite gloves, mentally calculating how many more weeks until spring. A bitter wind whipped between Manhattan’s buildings, creating urban wind tunnels that cut straight through my layers. I don’t love winter. It’s certainly my least favourite season. While I grew up in a relatively cold place with an unpleasant winter, I wouldn’t say I’m better adapted to it than anyone else. I do, however, have an appreciation for the seasons and I try to (begrudgingly) enjoy winter just as much as summer.