Hey there,

I haven't sent out an email like this in a very long time (you'll understand why by the end of this piece), but it feels great to be back. I hope the feeling is mutual.

That aside, if you're new to this newsletter and wondering who I am and what I write about, feel free to check out the stuff on my website or my blog on Medium.

Let's jump straight in.

The movie line that cured my overexertion

I recently had a sluggish night, which was actually the result of a disappointing week, which was actually the result of an exhausting year. In short, I felt a little burnt out — not just from writing, working, and studying but also from socializing, exercising, and, well, doing too many things. Trying too hard.

So I did what I usually do to numb my emotions: I flipped through YouTube shorts. Roughly thirty minutes of absentminded scrolling later, I stumbled upon a movie clip depicting a highly competitive hospitality environment: people screaming in kitchens, slamming pans onto the stove, launching plates across the room.

I dug the vibe, so I did some detective work to find the movie and ended my "sluggish" night by watching Burnt.

It would turn out to be one of the most enlightening experiences I had all year.

***

Some context is necessary to understand the scene that ended my apathetic slumber.

Burnt is about the wildly ambitious, perfectionist chef Adam Jones (Bradley Cooper) who has won two Michelin Stars but then, for mysterious reasons, crashed and burnt out harder than oil on a hot stove. Somehow, he recovers, though, and wants to ascent to the heaven of cookery. That is, he wants to win his third Michelin Star.

As you can imagine, all kinds of challenges ensue. For the most part, these challenges arise because Adam wants to do everything perfectly. His assumption about life is basic yet far-reaching: If you work flawlessly, you'll be rewarded; if you make a mistake, you're worthless.

When Adam prepares his team for the day the Michelin Inspectors will come to test his newly established restaurant, he announces with a precision-like gesture:

"Everything from now on must be perfect. Not good. Not excellent. Perfect."

And so, he does everything in his power to achieve this perfection. He assembles the perfect kitchen, the perfect team, perfect ingredients, perfect recipes, perfect everything.

One day, the Michelin Inspectors arrive. Adam immediately drills the staff to do everything exactly like he told them to. ("Fingerprints off, yeah?!") Reluctantly, Adam hands out the plates to be served to the Michelin Inspectors.

But moments later, the plates return.

The dishes were too spicy.

Adam is devastated. He tried to do everything perfectly and yet, in spite of (or rather, because of) his meticulousness, he failed. And since cooking is Adam's identity, he didn't just fail as a chef but also as a person.

As luck would have it, though, Adam gets a second chance. Turns out, the "Michelin Inspectors" weren't actually Michelin Inspectors but some random software developers from Birmingham.

Weeks pass until, at last, the real Michelin Inspectors arrive. By then, a lot has changed. Adam has gone to therapy, fallen in love, and run through the usual redemption story spiel.

The scene that follows is one I'll never forget.

***

When the waiter announces that the Michelin Inspectors have arrived (this time for real), Adam is taken aback. An awkward silence haunts the kitchen. Adam looks at the staff, glances at his sous-chef, pauses, reflects, and looks back at the waiter.

Then, he finally says, "We do what we do."

"We do what?!" the waiter says, visibly appalled.

"We do. What we do," Adam says again. "And we do it together."

This time, Adam doesn't even try to double-check each component of the dishes. He trusts that the usual way of preparing their dishes must be good enough to convince even the pickiest Michelin Inspector. Quickly but carefully, he hands out the plates like he would on any other day. We do what we do.

Adam goes on to win his third Michelin Star. But more importantly, he finds serenity in his outrageous expectations, his burnout, his team, and himself.

***

In the days after watching Burnt, I started thinking about the ways I operate when I really want something. Like, when I really want a person to like me, when I really want a certain job, when I really want to create a good piece of writing.

Take, for instance, how I used to go on a date. In the hours leading up to it, I would make sure everything about me was as perfect as it could be. I would take a shower until I felt very clean, apply deodorant, pluck the tiny hair between my eyebrows, brush my teeth, and re-apply deodorant. ("Not excellent. Perfect.")

Then, I would go on the date like one big mess. I would be so nervous that I could barely get a word out. Heck, I would feel like a con artist. During nearly every moment of the date, I would be terrified that I would lose my facade, my mask, my masquerade of perfectionism.

Too spicy.

***

A few weeks ago, I started returning to a somewhat regular swimming practice. The ideal slot for me is after a long day of work, when the sun sets, and when the swimming lanes are devoid of people.

The first few times I stepped into the pool, I probably looked like a hyperactive Golden Retriever: legs kicking, arms floundering, breath puffing. After twenty minutes or so, I would slouch over the poolside. One time, I even hurt my left hip because I had been kicking my legs too hard. I had overexerted myself.

Too spicy.

But then, one day, something changed. I was resting at one of those water jets at the edge of the pool when I saw something miraculous, almost sublime. I observed a person who swam so elegantly that she could have been one with the water. Her arms cut into the surface like silk and she moved as if a rope was pulling her to the other side. And yet, all of her movements seemed surprisingly slow. Mindful. Precise.

A few days later, I watched a video that was fittingly titled "Why Am I Exhausted After Swimming 50m?!"

In it, the coach — a nonchalant guy — explains:

In the days that followed, I observed how my effort/endurance ratio changed. What seemed most striking to me was that one of the ways to swim better and longer was the will to surrender to the water. Be it front crawl, breaststroke, or butterfly; there's always a "gliding phase," which is the phase after a stroke or kick, the phase where you simply let yourself carry through the water.

Slowly, it began to occur to me that I tend to shortcircuit this gliding phase because I always want to kick more, stroke harder, do more. But all these efforts are doomed to be in vain if I'm not ready to let myself glide.

Are we still talking about swimming?

***

This is the first time in half a year that I can write something and not hate myself while doing it. There are obviously many reasons for this. But one large puzzle piece has been to avoid overexerting myself, trying too hard, and instead, letting myself glide, allowing myself to do what I do.

Of course, I desperately tried to write all kinds of stuff in the past six months. But there were always these sneaky imperatives looming over me:

"This next piece needs to be really good — no, perfect."

"Nobody wants to hear what you have to say unless it's flawless."

"Each paragraph, each sentence, each word, needs to be immaculate."

I would go on to write for fifteen minutes or so, trying really hard to squeeze some words out, until I would finally give up, exerted and exhausted.

Too spicy.

But what happens when I loosen my clenched fist? When I don't try to get everything right but simply say what I need to say — as if I were to explain it to a good friend?

Or what happens when I go on a date, a job interview, or any other oh-so-important event and simply do what I always do?

The larger question this poses is, "Why would you show up as a different version of yourself when the other person actually wants to see you as who you are?"

"We do what we do" — it has almost become a mantra that I recite whenever I overexert myself and overthink everything. It might not earn me a Michelin Star, but it has helped me regain my sanity, joy, and energy, which is enough.

More than enough.

Until next time,

Stephan

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