Counting Sheep, Not Hours

#256

"A good laugh and a long sleep are the two best cures for anything." — Irish proverb

Lately I haven't been able to successfully maintain a wind-down routine. Chamomile tea, no-screens-after-9pm, humidifier with aromatherapy. None of it stuck.

What works? Tiring myself out during the day so I just crash. No graceful shutdown. No memory of the transition. Just - Close eyes. Gone.

There are people who regularly and very easily fall asleep anywhere, anytime, on command. A superpower, genuinely. I applaud them and strive to emulate this skill of theirs. 

My current, unglamorous sleep hacks: tire yourself out throughout the day in good ways, and cut caffeine after 5pm. That's it. No app. No ritual. Just physics.

On adrenaline-heavy days or evening workout days especially, guided meditation on Insight Timer earns its place — not as a spiritual practice, but as a physiological off-switch. Ten minutes, and my nervous system gets the memo. There's also the Navy SEAL technique: progressively relax every muscle group from feet to face, picture a still scene, and reportedly fall asleep in under two minutes. Free. Worth trying.

And then there's my Apple Watch. Which, in late 2025, committed the unforgivable act of abolishing "Excellent" from its sleep score vocabulary. Replaced with "Very High." Stricter algorithm, better at detecting quiet wake moments, more aligned with sleep science — all reasonable. I understand it. I do not have to like it though.

What used to be a proud 93 out of 100 — "Very High," thank you very much — is now just "High." Participation trophy for surviving the night with five interruptions. Apple never signed up to be anyone's hype person. Fair. But did they have to be quite so ruthless about it?

Nevertheless, there are days I score low but feel great. Other days, even the best score doesn't reflect my sluggish morning demeanor.

All in all, as tech folks say - YMMV. Your Mileage May Vary. Eight hours is a guideline, not gospel. Some people thrive on six deep, uninterrupted hours. Others need nine and still surface groggy. The number isn't the point. The feeling is.

Do you wake up feeling rested? Does your body wake up not craving more rest? That's it. That's the whole rubric.

Now if you'll excuse me — bonne nuit, shubh raatri, oyasumi nasai — this writer is going to go practice what she preaches. Zzz. 

Chop, Chat, Chew

#255

I started cooking with my partner recently. And what a revelatory experience that has been!

Not the cooking itself — I've done that plenty. But cooking together. Intentionally. As a daily ritual rather than a chore to knock off the list.

Here's how it usually goes. One of us chops vegetables while the other gets the pan going. We catch up on the day — the mundane stuff, the funny stuff, the stuff that somehow never comes up when you're just sitting across from each other at dinner. The kitchen becomes this strange little confessional where conversations flow easier because your hands are busy and your eyes aren't locked in that "we need to talk" formation.

And then there's the sounds. The carrots snapping under the knife. Onions sizzling as they hit oil. The rhythmic tap-tap-tap of dicing that honestly feels like a personal ASMR session I'm creating for myself. You don't notice these things when you're rushing. But when you tune in? It's almost meditative. Mellifluous, even.

Does it take longer than ordering in or microwaving something? Absolutely. But here's the thing — when you've watched the raw ingredients transform, when you've smelled the spices bloom in real-time, when you've tasted and adjusted and debated whether it needs more salt — you savor the final plate differently. You're not just eating. You're enjoying your creation.

Every sense gets a seat at the table. Sight, sound, smell, taste, touch. All engaged. All present. No screens competing for attention. Just two people, a cutting board, a pan and spatula, and whatever the fridge had to offer.

As Thich Nhat Hanh put it: "When you are washing the dishes, washing the dishes must be the most important thing in your life."

Replace dishes with dinner. Same wisdom. Better ending — because you get to eat it.

Permission to Pause

#254

The Fun Phase

I had picked up my guitar sometime last year in the hopes of learning to play my favorite songs, strum basic patterns and seamlessly switch between common chords. I went in with no plan and no roadmap. No deadlines, no "have to do this and that". And I managed to achieve just that.

For the first few months, it was genuinely enjoyable. Ten minutes here, fifteen there. Longer, even. Learning songs badly. Struggling to play even a four-chord song that repeats throughout. But I loved that struggle; that phase was pure joy, no strings attached (okay, yes strings, but you know what I mean). I could play and practice the same easy song over and over without frustration, and quickly saw greatly-improved results. Even tiny progress felt like a big win.

When Joy Becomes Obligation

After some time though, I felt the mood gradually shifting. It had been more than 20 songs by now, most beginner, a few intermediate, and a couple of them truly advanced for me then. My mind started telling me I was supposed to be progressing faster. The beginner phase felt like a box to check. Intermediate loomed like homework.

I started asking: What's the point? Where is this going? Shouldn't I have stopped struggling on these basics by now? Why do songs with more than two barre chords still trip me up? And the moment you ask that about something that started as pure fun, you've already hit a sour note.

Here's the thing: hobbies don't owe you anything. And you don't owe them relentless optimization either.

Two States

What had happened? Comparison had crept in without me noticing.

At first, I was just playing. Floating like a confident butterfly in my own lane. Owning my naivete. But then I'd watch YouTube tutorials. See other people play guitar—effortlessly switching between chords I was still wrestling with. And somewhere amidst all that, I stopped being content with my own progress. And slowly started losing motivation.

Morgan Housel talks about how luxuries become necessities the moment you see someone else with them. Charlie Munger says: "The world isn't driven by greed, it's driven by envy." Watching someone else have it and thinking: Why not me? Why can't I do that yet?

One day you're content playing four-chord songs. The next, you're measuring yourself against someone else's journey. And that's when the fun dies.

Choosing What Serves You

Some days, the guitar calls out to me and I pick it up, get into flow state and an hour goes by feeling like minutes. Other days it feels like work. Classes get harder. The jump from beginner to intermediate isn't playful anymore—it's just demanding. Fingers hurt a lot more especially my left pinky (hello jazz chords!). Even my instructor urged me to keep at it saying this is where the early-on intermediate players tend to plateau and lose hope, but with persistence you shall emerge victorious soon enough. 

I still wasn't feeling it though.

And that's okay. It's your choice.

You can push through. Growth often lives on the other side of discomfort. But you can also pause. Put it down. Do something else for a while. Come back later with a fresh mind and heart, or don't.

The guilt? That's the hustle brain talking. Telling you that stepping back means you've failed. That rest is weakness. Or giving up.

Self-care isn't just meditation and green juice. It's also knowing when to amp it up—and when to lay low. It's being gentle with yourself when a hobby stops striking the right chords (literally in this case!), and trusting that if it does, you can pick it right back up. Whatever floats your boat. 

Either way, approach with kindness, especially towards yourself.

"Money, Money, Money, Must Be Funny"

#253

(Title reference: ABBA song)

Past vs Present

I used to count every rupee. Literally. Budget groceries, skip unnecessary coffees, debate whether premium tomatoes were worth the three extra rupees. It was my default. Then I moved to Seattle, got a better job, and suddenly I was ordering $16 salads without flinching.

And I wondered how my relationship with money changed rather easily.

When Comfort Becomes Invisible

In "The Psychology of Money," Morgan Housel says: discipline isn't about willpower. It's about the constraints that force you to decide. I didn't choose frugality. Scarcity chose it for me. But somewhere in that forced discipline was something real—the habit of deciding.

I went from "I can't spend" to "I can spend." Sounds like freedom. Except it's not the same as choosing.

When you can't spend, every rupee has weight. You have to decide. But when you can spend, that forcing mechanism disappears. Suddenly you're just... spending.

My first Whole Foods trip made it clear. The sheer number of choices for every single thing! Rainbow carrots. Five types of tomatoes. Zero budget pressure forcing my hand. So I just picked things. No decision. No intentionality. Just abundance doing the thinking for me.

And it wasn't peer pressure that changed my spending. It was simpler than that. Rupees became dollars. Seattle's baseline cost of living is just higher than India's. A salad that costs 250-300 rupees here costs $16. That wasn't a choice. That's just geography.

But somewhere in that shift, I lost track of why I was spending. I thought I valued frugality. Turns out, I valued something else: the ability to choose.

What Actually Matters

Having more green bills doesn't mean you upgrade your entire life. Your apartment doesn't need to be fancier. Your wardrobe doesn't need a complete overhaul. Your baseline doesn't need to skyrocket.

But it does mean you get to add a little oomph. An extra coffee without guilt. A book you've been eyeing. A meal that tastes good. Small things. Within means. But chosen.

It's about treating yourself to what "sparks joy"— experiences that create memories. Things that matter.

I still practice minimalism. I'm just not obsessed anymore. Under $20-30? I don't shy away. Bigger purchases? I still research deeply, discuss with my husband, think it through. But I'm not torturing myself over every single decision anymore.

When I budget these days, I round up smaller amounts. It makes tracking more seamless.

The freedom isn't about having more. It's about getting to decide what matters to you—and actually investing in it.

That's the self-care part. Not the deprivation. The choosing.