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Two years ago, I decided to teach myself computer programming. It seemed like an obvious path for me, a fitting convergence of my personal and career interests. So I bought a $40 book, spent $250 on online courses, and listened to hours and hours of a popular programming podcast. Plus, I had the time — five or six hours after work each day — to do with as I pleased. Sure, I was tired after hour-long commutes to and from my day job, but I didn’t have children, or a sick relative, or any other commitments that life assigns without consent. All I had to do was study.

Which is why, naturally, it didn’t happen. I spent more time wanting to study and regretting not studying than actually doing the thing. The problem, it seemed to me, was laziness. Perhaps I wasn’t working hard enough, I thought. Or maybe I was too comfortable. Whatever it was, I was to blame, and so I persisted, struggling to work harder and work better, to no avail. Whenever I reflected on my progress (or, more accurately, my lack of it), I felt guilty and ashamed and frustrated, resolving to do better next time, next time, next time, until I simply got used to the inertia and became as unmoved by my lack of progress as I was unmotivated to make any.

And then, I fell in love.

My friend Vicki owns and runs a successful restaurant in Chicago. During my first-ever trip to Chicago last October, she told me about one of her former cooks who, although he is good at what he does, couldn’t seem to take it to the next level. No matter how hard he tried, everything he cooked was good, but not great, despite wanting so badly to be great.

“After this guy left, one of my other cooks made a comment that really stuck with me,” Vicki said. “He said that the guy’s problem is that he lusts to love cooking, but doesn’t love it.”

I thought of programming, something I lusted to love, and how I didn’t end up learning how to program because, for whatever reason, I didn’t love the process of learning it. What I did love, enough to hold on to this goal for two years without making any progress toward it, was the lifestyle I imagined it could provide — physical, financial, and artistic independence.

I don’t think you necessarily have to love everything about something to be compelled to stick with it. (There is, after all, a reason why people stay in shitty relationships.) You just need to find something to love about your goal that will make you do the damn thing. If I loved formal education environments, I could’ve taken a programming class. If I loved video games, I could’ve found one about programming, or tried to make a game as my first programming project, or turned my self-education into a game. Or imagine if I fell in love with a girl who programs.

Maybe I could’ve been a great programmer, or a decent one that managed to pull off some great work. Or maybe, no matter how hard I worked, I was inevitably going to discover that I’m terrible at it or just don’t enjoy it. Who knows? But one thing’s for sure: you can’t make yourself fall in love. It’s discovered, not created. It’s involuntary, something you’re compelled to do.

Last year, I fell in love with two things: the stock market and fantasy football. On trading days and game days (which, on occasion, are every day of the week), I wake up just in time to check the market or to watch Fantasy Football Now on ESPN. I wake up immediately, without setting an alarm and sometimes without getting enough sleep at night, and this blows my mind because I’m a deep sleeper who, prior to this, couldn’t wake up until I got at least six hours of sleep. And yet now I do, because I love these things that much. I spend hours a day studying and researching and planning, and I don’t have to choose to do anything. I just do it. And that’s how it should be.

There’s an element of luck to all this. You’re lucky every time you encounter things or people, goals or activities, that you fall in love with. But you’re luckiest when what you fall in love with is actually worthy of it.

Steve Jobs, in his 2005 Stanford Commencement address, said it best:

[T]he only way to do great work is to love what you do. If you haven’t found it yet, keep looking. Don’t settle. As with all matters of the heart, you’ll know when you find it. And, like any great relationship, it just gets better and better as the years roll on. So keep looking until you find it. Don’t settle.

You’ll know it when you find it. Don’t settle.

On thinking:

Multitasking, in short, is not only not thinking, it impairs your ability to think. Thinking means concentrating on one thing long enough to develop an idea about it. Not learning other people’s ideas, or memorizing a body of information, however much those may sometimes be useful. Developing your own ideas. In short, thinking for yourself. You simply cannot do that in bursts of 20 seconds at a time, constantly interrupted by Facebook messages or Twitter tweets, or fiddling with your iPod, or watching something on YouTube. I find for myself that my first thought is never my best thought.

My first thought is always someone else’s; it’s always what I’ve already heard about the subject, always the conventional wisdom. It’s only by concentrating, sticking to the question, being patient, letting all the parts of my mind come into play, that I arrive at an original idea. By giving my brain a chance to make associations, draw connections, take me by surprise. And often even that idea doesn’t turn out to be very good. I need time to think about it, too, to make mistakes and recognize them, to make false starts and correct them, to outlast my impulses, to defeat my desire to declare the job done and move on to the next thing.

On the value of books:

So why is reading books any better than reading tweets or wall posts? Well, sometimes it isn’t. Sometimes, you need to put down your book, if only to think about what you’re reading, what you think about what you’re reading. But a book has two advantages over a tweet. First, the person who wrote it thought about it a lot more carefully. The book is the result of his solitude, his attempt to think for himself.

Second, most books are old. This is not a disadvantage: this is precisely what makes them valuable. They stand against the conventional wisdom of today simply because they’re not from today. Even if they merely reflect the conventional wisdom of their own day, they say something different from what you hear all the time. But the great books, the ones you find on a syllabus, the ones people have continued to read, don’t reflect the conventional wisdom of their day. They say things that have the permanent power to disrupt our habits of thought. They were revolutionary in their own time, and they are still revolutionary today.

Again, it’s worth reading in its entirety.

Susan Piver in the new edition of Emerson’s Self-Reliance:

Truth is handsomer than the affectation of love. Your goodness must have some edge to it, else it is none. Tibetan meditation master Chogyam Trungpa coined the phrase “idiot compassion,” to explain that thing we do when we react to others from the Playbook of Nice rather than from an authentic arising of goodness, because our heart is simply open. An open heart is never certain, it is in open dialog with this world and thus can respond with sweetness when sweetness is due, or wrath or silence or dismissal or an endless embrace. Because it is genuine, it is sharp. You are on the razor’s edge, meaning right here, right now, playing for keeps, not for appearances.

I’ll take an honest person over a “nice” person every time.

I arrived on a Friday, so when Jesse got off work, he accompanied me around town, acting as a voluntary tour guide and impressing me with his knowledge of a city he didn’t even grow up in. The only fact I know about Glendale, California—my hometown since 1995—is that it’s supposedly the second-largest population of Armenians outside of Armenia, and I’m not even confident enough to put money on that.

At some point the conversation drifted toward relationships. This probably does not surprise you, dear reader, because that seems to be all I write about, but I find that relationship talk is a good way to size people up. You find out a lot about a person’s maturity, like how they handle their emotions, what they do to get what they want, and whether they cry at night. So we began talking about relationships and Jesse mentioned that he’d been single for over a year.

“Do you miss being in a relationship?” I asked.

“What do you mean?”

“Like, do you ever feel lonely, or miss the company, or consider getting back with your ex?”

“No, I don’t,” he said. “I don’t wish to subscribe to the thought that I need someone to complete me. It implies that I was born incomplete and destined to live my life searching for that person to finish me. No person is born in two halves and so no person should feel lesser for not having someone to reflect and reciprocate them daily.”

Over a hundred eighty days have passed since this conversation, and yet his response has stayed with me, outlasting thousands of memories created in that time. I mean, sure, I knew what he said in theory, but I’d never met someone who believed it and lived it and said it with such conviction. It became something I aspired to, though I always fell short. Until recently.

Some parents pressure their kids about their careers. Others pressure their kids to get married. Mine gently encouraged me to move back home. But I didn’t want to. I’d been living in Downtown L.A. with friends for two years and enjoyed my self-reliance, my social life, and my curved shower rod.

Plus, I was afraid of regressing. You see, my parents spoiled me and my brother growing up. There were very few things we couldn’t do or have because, like all well-meaning parents, they wanted us to be happy. But having a spoiled, comfortable life is a risk: chances are you’ll become a lazy slob, an entitled brat, or some hybrid slobbrat, and I could put money on that. So when I finally moved out, I had a lot to prove, especially to myself.

Living on my own, I experienced my first true hardship when I had trouble finding a job for months, using my savings to pay rent. Finally, when my savings ran out and I was at the brink of desperation, I landed a sweet, sweet job through a friend. Grateful for a steady income, I immediately learned how to manage my finances, paying off $2,500 in credit card debt, raising my credit score just shy of 800, and saving up a healthy five digits—all in a year and a half. I also learned that I actually enjoy washing dishes and I finally, finally learned how to do my own laundry.

As 2010 was coming to an end, so was my lease, and my mom once again suggested I move back home. Except this time I agreed. There were a couple of reasons for the change of heart, which I won’t get into here, but all in all it just felt right. But still the worry remained at the back of my mind that all my progress could come undone the moment I felt comfortable at home again.

The weekend I moved back, my mom asked me what I eat for breakfast.

“Two hard-boiled eggs,” I told her.

“That’s it?”

“That’s it. Nothing else.”

And the next morning I awoke to find three hard-boiled eggs, already peeled. And again the next morning. And the next morning. And every morning since.

And that’s just breakfast.

So what does my spoiled upbringing have to do with relationships? Or Valentine’s Day? Or anything else for that matter?

Well, it was the weekend before Valentine’s Day, and after a long day of cleaning and unpacking, I lay in bed feeling accomplished and let my thoughts wander. I began thinking about a couple girls I’ve been interested in: Would I be happier with this person or that person…or some other person I haven’t even met yet? Should I date one of my exes again, even though there are some serious concerns, just because I’m that attracted to her? How would my life be different if I was in a relationship?

That last question got me thinking: how would my life be different if I was in a relationship?

I remembered what my life was like in past relationships—how distracted I was, how little time I spent on myself—and I realized that yes, things would be different, definitely better in some ways, but what would I be giving up for it? I thought about my life as it is right now and, in a moment of sudden clarity, it dawned on me: I’m already happy.

I’m happy that I have the time and energy to invest in myself—to train, to read, to teach myself programming, to learn the Beatles anthology on the piano. I’m happy that I have quality, trustworthy friends who enrich me and reciprocate my love. I’m happy that I like and respect my coworkers, that every one of them is friendly and honest and good. I’m happy that I got a brand new 27″ iMac for work. I’m happy that I’m going to Japan for the first time next month. I’m happy that my nutrition and genetic tests came back positive. I’m happy that I’m saving so much money living at home. I’m happy that my longer commute allows me to listen to shows I love. I’m happy that I finally learned how to make two machines wash and dry my clothes.

And yes, I’m happy that my parents spoil me.

Because spoiling me is how they show their love for me. And I’m so, so thankful that they love me this much. When I eventually move out, my relationship with them will never be like this again. And one day, when they pass away, I’m going to look back at these moments as the time I spent with them when I was most like myself. When that day comes, when I’m grasping for memories I can no longer make with the people who never stopped loving me unconditionally, I want to be able to remember because I was paying attention. I wasn’t sitting at breakfast eating my pre-peeled hard-boiled eggs, distracted by thoughts of some girl and the hope that she might love me as much as my parents already do.

Every so often, a person emerges from the shadows of anonymity — a friend introduces you to her friend, or the person beside you strikes up a conversation, or some other happenstance. If the conversation is mostly impersonal, you perform the expected niceties and small talk that allow you to get from point A to point B as pleasantly as possible. Sometimes the conversation manages to get personal, but even then, you usually don’t feel pressured to make much of an effort. You’re not invested in the outcome so you’re not self-conscious. And if the conversation is interrupted or ends awkwardly, you don’t mind. After a brief moment of familiarity, the person becomes a stranger once again.

But once in a while, something peculiar happens. From this huge pool of unknown strangers and temporary connections, you meet someone who, for whatever reason, you want to have a better relationship with. Maybe you’re attracted to the person and your interest is piqued; maybe it’s your future mother-in-law and you want her approval; maybe it’s a coworker you respect and you’d like reciprocation; maybe your boyfriend, girlfriend, fiance, husband or wife has been unfair recently. Whatever the case, you care what that person thinks about you and how they act toward you. You’re invested in the outcome, so you feel compelled to make an effort; you may even be self-conscious. If a friend asked you why you care about this person, you might not be able to explain why. Or you might be too embarrassed by your reasons to admit them. But even if you try to explain, your friend probably wouldn’t understand anyway, because your reasons are so personal, and because in actuality you don’t really know why. It’s such an irrational, subconscious thing.

So what if the person just isn’t giving you the time of day? What if they aren’t reciprocating your effort or your interest? What do you do when, for reasons out of your control, it seems impossible for you not to care about your relationship with someone? Well, your initial response to this disappointing realization will be as irrational and subconscious as your feelings for the person. Depending on your disposition, you start by feeling either inadequate or indignant. But when those feelings pass, you’re still left with the burning question of what to do next. What’s worked for me, in relationships both romantic and platonic, is a simple idea that was difficult to learn:

Meet in the middle.

If you make an effort and put your best foot forward — if you go to “the middle” — then you’ve done your part, and that’s all you should expect from yourself. If the other person doesn’t make an effort, well, what can you do? Whether you know why isn’t as important as knowing that you tried. Now it’s their turn, and all you can do is wait, patiently, at the middle. But this isn’t a stop-your-world kind of waiting. You’re not sitting there thinking about the person, hoping they make the right choice, investing yourself emotionally in their decision. Your life goes on.

Look, so much of what happens in life is out of your control. If you focus on those things, you’ll surely be overwhelmed by life’s infinite possibilities. Instead, focus only on what you do have control over — your actions and your attitude — and life will be a lot less stressful.

Just to be clear, here’s what I’m not saying: I’m not saying you should always wait for the other person to make the first move. (Take chances. Break the ice.) I’m not saying you should always expect something in return. (Give more than you get. You can scale back later.) I’m not saying that the solution to everything is compromise. (“The middle” is about making effort, not making solutions.) And I’m not saying you should give up on people easily. (No one’s perfect. Everyone makes mistakes.)

I am saying to be reasonable and pay attention. And I am saying to be selective about the people you invest time and energy into.

It’s tempting to go past the middle, overcompensating for another person’s lack of effort with too much effort on your part, especially when you want so much for the relationship to work. If you catch yourself doing this, STOP. RIGHT. AWAY. Chances are, the other person isn’t thinking about your relationship the way you are. Or they just don’t care as much as you. Neither is wrong in the moral sense; they’re just wrong for you. Don’t waste any more of your time and energy or else you’ll miss out on someone who is worth all that. Someone who, without having to try, cares. And because they care, tries anyway.

In a way, while waiting at the middle for the other person to get there, they become a stranger again — one of the billions of people in the world whom you don’t yet care to know. Who knows: maybe, like strangers sometimes do, they’ll surprise you. And if they don’t, well, you’ll be too busy living your life to notice.

It’s a wonder that long-term relationships ever work. But we all know they can, and if it happens, it can be wonderful. But, like all great things, it takes a lot of effort to make it look easy. And it takes willingness. Both people have to see their relationship as a project they’re collaborating on, facing problems and solving them together, as a team. It’s about quality, not quantity. That’s why I’m not impressed by people who’ve been together for a long time. It’s easy to stay in a relationship; it’s unimaginably hard to make it mutually fulfilling. So get it while you can and good luck at it.

I don’t know about you, but I experienced a lot of disappointment this past year. I usually handle disappointment well, so I did just that — except for two surprisingly devastating instances. In one, I was sitting in front of my computer at work when it happened. It felt exactly the way it’s portrayed in movies: your vision tunnels and your heart races and your chest tightens; soon your breathing subconsciously tries to calm you down and does the opposite — it becomes slow, heavy, concentrated. The second time felt like the first, except this time I dropped to my hands and knees in the middle of my bedroom, exhausted, hopeless, staring into my carpet for answers to a question I was tired of asking.

When you’ve been severely disappointed, you want to make sure it doesn’t happen again. It’s natural for your defense mechanisms to kick in; self-preservation, after all, is hard-wired into you. So what are your options? A friend of mine once offered me his solution: have low expectations because you’re less likely to get disappointed. It makes sense and strikes an emotional chord, but I tried and couldn’t do it that way. I’m too much of an optimist. I can’t suppress excitement which, it seems to me, is an important stage in the enjoyment of things.

Instead, I balanced my unbridled enthusiasm with occasional reminders that I may be disappointed. In other words, I kept my expectations in check. It seemed like the sensible, moderate approach, and I’ve used it for almost a decade. But I think I’ve found a better way…

Let’s examine the power of expectations for a minute. I think we’d all agree that expectations are powerful. They have the ability to make good things seem bad, and vice versa. But I don’t think we realize exactly how powerful they are:

The human brain, research suggests, isn’t built for objectivity. The brain doesn’t passively take in perceptions. Rather, brain regions involved in developing expectations can systematically alter the activity of areas involved in sensation. The cortex is “cooking the books,” adjusting its own inputs depending on what it expects. … People assume that they perceive reality as it is, that our senses accurately record the outside world. Yet the science suggests that, in important ways, people experience reality not as it is, but as they expect it to be. (Jonah Lehrer)

So what’s my new approach? Don’t have expectations. Sound extreme? That’s because it’s unnatural. As a species, we’ve spent millions of years conditioning ourselves to predict our surroundings, paying careful attention to discrepancies to survive in the wild. Well, it’s not as useful in our day-to-day lives.

A farmer had only one horse. One day, his horse ran away. All the neighbors came by saying, “I’m so sorry. This is such bad news. You must be so upset.” The man just said, “We’ll see.”

A few days later, his horse came back with twenty wild horses. The man and his son corraled all 21 horses. All the neighbors came by saying, “Congratulations! This is such good news. You must be so happy!” The man just said, “We’ll see.”

One of the wild horses kicked the man’s only son, breaking both his legs. All the neighbors came by saying, “I’m so sorry. This is such bad news. You must be so upset.” The man just said, “We’ll see.”

The country went to war, and every able-bodied young man was drafted to fight. The war was terrible and killed every young man, but the farmer’s son was spared, since his broken legs prevented him from being drafted. All the neighbors came by saying, “Congratulations! This is such good news. You must be so happy!” The man just said, “We’ll see.”

It’s fine to want and hope for something, but when you start to expect it, you’re not paying attention to what’s actually happening. Take it or leave it, but I only write about what works for me.

The other day, something I’ve been wanting to happen was about to happen. I was getting excited. But instead of building up in my mind how I wanted things to play out, I looked forward to how things would actually happen. We’ll see, I thought.

 I was still excited, but I was excited about reality. So when it didn’t end up happening, I wasn’t disappointed. I just smiled and thought, “So that’s how it happened.” But I knew that wasn’t the end of the story. We’ll see, I thought.

And then, later that day, it happened. I was excited again and my mind wandered, imagining the significance of it, trying to predict what would happen next … until I caught myself.

We’ll see.

It’s become much more common to hear people announce their disapproval of New Year’s resolutions, but now we have the science to back it up. A WSJ article, entitled “The Science Behind Failed Resolutions,” has this to say:

“Given [our brain's] limitations, New Year’s resolutions are exactly the wrong way to change our behavior. It makes no sense to try to quit smoking and lose weight at the same time, or to clean the apartment and give up wine in the same month. Instead, we should respect the feebleness of self-control, and spread our resolutions out over the entire year. … Bad habits are hard to break—and they’re impossible to break if we try to break them all at once.”

The article is chock-full of insights about how our brain works:

• The prefrontal cortex (the brain area largely responsible for willpower) can only exert itself for so long before it gives out, like a muscle when we ask it to hold too much. But our prefrontal cortex is surprisingly weak; all it takes is a few extra bits of information to overwhelm it.
• However, just like a muscle, it can be strengthened with exercise. Practicing mental discipline in one area (like improving your posture) makes it easier to have self-control in other areas.
• Research has found that people who are better at delaying gratification don’t necessarily have more restraint. Instead, they seem to be better at finding ways to get tempting thoughts out of their minds.

Bottom line: Don’t attempt multiple resolutions at once; spread them out over an entire year (e.g. one per month). And next time temptation starts coming on, gritting your teeth isn’t the best approach, as even the strongest mental muscles quickly get tired. Instead, distract yourself: find a way to look at something else.