Patience.

I love my desk. Scattered across the top are my household to-do list, a webcam, a casual steel-ball nunchuck key ring, the book I’m currently reading, Atlas Shrugged, beads to make my friend a good-luck bracelet, and one framed photograph.  A boy, no more than four, stands boldly on the edge of a rooftop, his red cape blazing behind him.

Below the image reads: DO EPIC SHIT.

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Mantras are powerful. This photograph followed me from high school, through university, and overseas, into government offices. It always sat at the edge of my desk, reminding me why.

It encouraged me to move boldly, say yes to spontaneous adventures, work hard, and hold high standards for myself. It inspired me to build a full life worth living—to seek incredible and challenging experiences and to try my best. To embrace the moments when I feel like that little kid on the roof: bold, on the edge of danger, possibilities spread out before my feet, wind rippling through my hair. Capable, strong, a little scared, and vulnerable.

What we tell ourselves matters.

The idea isn't new. Back in 1913, Prentice Mulford wrote about thoughts as forces: that repeated thoughts grow stronger, shape character, and influence the way we act and experience the world. Whether or not thoughts literally create our circumstances, I’ve found something useful in the practice of deliberately choosing which ones I repeat.

If the mind naturally searches for evidence to support the stories we tell ourselves, then I want to give it stories worth proving. Give me a life that is deliciously mine, full to the brim with memories of exploring the world with curiosity.

That’s how I came to collect mantras—not as permanent rules, but as words for the person I was trying to become in a particular season of my life.

Since DO EPIC SHIT, I have had:

• Fuck it - during my migration to New Zealand. 

• Here for fun and violence - training leading up to and during NZ No Gi Brazilian Jiu Jitsu Nationals. 

• How can it get any better than this? -a trial of bad experiences renting rooms and houses.

• Elegant & Incredible - how I would act for 2025. 

• Keep on, Keeping on - my migration/transition back home. 

• Wild and Whismical - how I will act for 2026. 

• Growth and grins - my 3 day PSIA Level 2 ski instructing assessment. 

I could say I live by mantras now, endlessly searching for the next version of Live, Laugh, Love. But there is something more intentional about it than that. Each one gives me a lens through which to approach a particular season. They become a small instruction I can return to when the noise gets loud, the climb is long, and there’s storms coming in. 

Currently, I’m in another transition. It has taken longer to settle into my career than I expected. I’ve realized I need to invest in myself— to spend time developing skills and knowledge, to become the person I want to be. My instinct is to rush. I want to leap ahead, compress the learning, and arrive at the finished version of myself.

Some things simply take time.

It reminds me of a bus in Japan. My mother and I strolled on, wide-eyed and smiley, map clutched in hand, animatedly asking if this bus went past our hotel, pointing to a pen scribbled circle on the other side of town. The driver looked like a slimmer stone carved  Buddha in a polo shirt. He nodded, and we stepped forward.

A hand slapped down, halting our progress. A finger pointed toward a sign - symbols illegible to us. A ticket protruded from a metal slot. I pinched the pink paper between my fingers and nodded. We received a grunt in response. The hand retracted. We found a pair of empty seats.

A few stops later, commotion drew our attention toward the front of the bus. A schoolboy was chaotically digging through his backpack for his wallet, obviously anxious to get somewhere quickly. He pulled out his money. The coins were about to change hands when the bus driver bellowed:

“Patience.”

The boy froze.

The driver slowly counted the coins, one by one. Deliberate. Slow. Intentional. He counted them again, handed back the change, and dismissed the boy with a nod.

Only after the doors closed did my mother and I catch each other’s gaze. Laughter escaped us. The whole scene belonged in a comic.

At our stop, we precariously made our way to the front of the bus. We handed over our tickets and opened our palms, displaying a fistful of Japanese coins.The driver looked at our treasure. Then he began counting. One coin. Then another. Then another. He patiently counted out our fare, nodded, and dismissed us from the bus.

I think about that bus driver now.

He wasn’t telling the boy not to go. He was telling him to take the time required to get there.

I am on that bus. Becoming the person I want may be painfully, humorously, chaotically, unfittingly slow—but good things take time.

The boy on my desk is still standing on the rooftop, cape blowing behind him.

He can keep looking toward the horizon.

He just has to wait for the bus.