This morning began with a clear intention: focus on my professorship application.
I was ready for deep work, to immerse myself in the narrative of academic legitimacy and purpose.
But reality had other plans.
Instead of shaping visions, I found myself buried in receipts and tax documentation.
Expense reports. Reimbursement forms. Clarifications for the 2024 income declaration.
No poetry—just numbers, dates, and deductions.
Eat the frogs first, they say. So I did.
One bitter bite after another.
But here's the strange part:
As I pushed through the admin fog, something inside me cleared.
There’s a quiet discipline in addressing the mundane.
It’s not glamorous.
No one will ever thank you for accurately calculating travel expenses.
But it's necessary.
And on some days, it’s what makes the rest possible.
The more I completed, the lighter I became.
No longer distracted by looming to-dos, my body softened, my mind steadied.
Then the message came:
An invitation to give an Ikigai Masterclass on stage.
A real stage. Real people.
A moment of alignment—sudden and electric.
I felt the contrast.
From spreadsheets to soulwork.
From bureaucracy to beauty.
And I remembered: I am not here despite the friction—I am forged by it.
I closed my laptop with reverence.
Not everything needs to be inspiring.
Some things just need to be done.
And now?
Now, I’m ready for the real work.
The kind that whispers through the noise,
and waits patiently behind the frogs.