There you are, standing at the center of a capacious warehouse in an abandoned building somewhere at the edge of the city, empty except for a single wooden chair that sits on the dusty concrete floor underneath your feet. You look around. It’s just you and the chair and the scattered fragments of debris from several different decades and the muted sounds of the city.

Your mission: try to pick up the chair.

But this presents a unique problem, doesn’t it? You see, you can’t try to pick it up, either you pick it up or you don’t, you can or you can’t, you succeed or you fail, but you don’t try. It is impossible to try to pick up that chair.

So instead of try, you lift the chair and smile triumphantly. Success. There was no try, you just did it. You didn’t try to accomplish your goal, you took action and you accomplished it.

And yet we’ve failed in the past, we’ve set out to do something and we didn’t do it.

“But I tried really, really hard,” we say.

And therein lies the problem. Trying is the problem.

Let’s Stop trying; start doing…

Are we trying to live a more simpler, meaningful life? Let’s Stop trying; start living it.

Are we trying to declutter your life? Let’s Stop trying; get rid of it.

Are you trying to start a profitable business or write a book or lose weight or be a more positive person or travel more often or donate more time to charity? Stop trying; start taking action.

What else are we trying? What do we want?

And do yourself a favor, try not to use the word try for a week, or better yet make a conscious effort to not use the word, catch yourself when you slip, notice the difference.

Overheard on a airport transit last week:

“This plane boarding is taking too long.”
“This bag is so freaking heavy.”
“This drink would be better over ice.”

These aren’t benign observations; they’re sneaky complaints.

We all do it: we badmouth life’s banalities. The weather. The long lines. The technologies that work imperfectly. We feel compelled to announce our dissatisfaction with every blemish, dragging others into our vortex of vexation.

Even when we don’t fret aloud, we murmur or let the pessimistic thoughts stew until they become a stifling atmosphere of toxicity. Over time, these noxious judgments poison our days, our lives.

With each complaint, it’s as if we’re Google review-rating our experience of life—one star, one star, one star! Imagine a restaurant barraged by dozens of negative reviews every day. How would that affect them? How does the juggernaut of negativity affect us?

The person who’s regularly disgruntled by their circumstances—rather than grateful for what they have—has found the perfect recipe for discontent. Most complaining, however, is habitual, and that’s good news because it’s entirely possible to break bad habits.

First, we must accept the unchangeables. The plane boarding will finish when it finishes; bellyaching won’t alter its protocol. Instead, smile, breathe, and bask in acceptance.

Then, we must change the changeables. If that bag is too heavy, consider asking for help or packing lightly. (A lighter load is sure to make us smile.)

Finally, we must appreciate what we have. True, that drink may not be perfect, but we can smile and be grateful we’re not thirsty.

In virtually every scenario, a smile is more useful than a snivel.

What do you do? This is often the first question we ask strangers. On the surface it seems like an innocuous query, one we ask each other every day, a servile four-word nicety we utter so we have something—anything—to talk about.

The majority of the answers are boring, soundbite-ish replies we have standing by at the ready, prepped for the next dinner party or networking event: I am a director of operations. I am a regional manager. I am the senior vice president of Who-Gives-a-Shit.

Whoop-dee-do. Good for you.

Truth be told, we regurgitate these canned answers because they’re easy to repeat, trance-like and semi-conscious, over and over and over again. No one wants to talk about their boring day job ad nauseam, but it sure is easy to state your name, rank, and serial number: it’s easy to prove you’re a cog in the wheel or a rung on the ladder—just like everyone else. It’s much harder, however, to talk about other, more important aspects of life. So, instead of finding more worthwhile discussions, we go about our days providing lifeless answers to this lifeless question, our collective discs set to repeat.

Let’s think about this question: it’s such a broad, salient inquiry any answer would suffice. What do I do? I do a lot of things: I drink water. I eat food. I write words sloppily onto little yellow legal pads.

Once you scrape away its cheap gold-plating, however, you’ll find a series of irksome inquisitions lurking beneath the surface. Sadly, what we’re actually asking when we posit this malefic question, albeit unknowingly, is:

How do you earn a paycheck? How much money do you make? What is your socioeconomic status? And based on that status, where do I fall on the socioeconomic ladder compared to you? Am I a rung above you? Below you? How should I judge you? Are you worth my time?

There is a better way to answer this dangerous query, though: by changing the question altogether.

The next time someone asks what you do, try this: Don’t give them your job title. Instead, tell them what you’re passionate about, and then change course by asking them what they are passionate about:

“What do you do?” asks the stranger.

“I’m passionate about writing (or rock climbing or sailing or input accounting),” you say, followed by, “What are you passionate about?”

At this point, you’ll likely get one of three responses: 1) a blank stare, 2) the person will tell you they’re also passionate about X, Y, or Z, and the conversation will veer off in a more heartfelt direction, or 3) the stranger will attempt to recite their job title, to which you can respond, “That’s great. So you’re passionate about your job?” Eventually, you will both discuss the things you enjoy, instead of the jobs you don’t.

Think of this shift as changing a noun into a verb. Instead of giving people a title (i.e., a box to put you in), let them know what you enjoy doing—what you’re passionate about—and then discover what they enjoy. The conversation will morph into something far more interesting, and you’ll learn a lot more about each other than your silly job titles.

I was cycling through the beach road in the Deep South today, alone but not lonely.

I used to think there was something wrong with me. Throughout my college life, I followed societal norms, doing all the things you’re supposed to do to be a normal, functioning member of society: spending every evening and weekend with friends, killing time with vapid small talk. Always engaged. Always on. Never alone.

But this constant interaction wore me out. Often, I wasn’t pleasant to be around. It felt oddly lonely to never be alone.

Then, as my college life twilighted, I discovered I was more affable whenever I carved out time for myself. (After all, I’m an INFJ.) But don’t worry, this isn’t a platitudinal reminder to “make time for yourself”; rather, it’s a reminder to embrace your individualism—your personality.

Today, I spend copious amounts of time by myself; in fact, I don’t know anyone who spends more time alone than me. At least 80% of my time (of course this doesn’t include my lecture hours) is spent solo: walking, writing, exercising, reading, ruminating. In the process, I’ve learned to enjoy the sound of silence: to sit quietly and hear what’s going on not just around me, but inside myself.

Yet the greatest benefit of prolonged solitude is that when I do decide to immerse myself in social situations—be it dinner with friends, a date, or on tour—I’m pretty awesome to be around. Not only do I benefit from my alone time, but everyone around me benefits, too: we all get the best version of me. I’m able to burst into social situations with stored energy, which actually makes most people believe I’m an extrovert since I’m able to engage at a high level and employ active listening, and intellectually stimulating conversation.

I don’t, however, recommend more alone time, or more social time, to anyone: life is not one-size-fits-all, so what works for me may not work for you.

But classifying extrovert approach, or my approach, as right or wrong misses the point. Both can be right—or wrong—depending on your personality, which is, of course, a continuum: even I, and my introverted ways, would hate to be sentenced to perpetual solitary confinement. Just as an Extrovert, and their charming extroversion, occasionally needs a break from their socialite lifestyle.

Ultimately, whether introvert or extrovert, man or woman, young or old, I recommend learning more about yourself: once you better know yourself, you can grow by easing into your discomfort zone.

Letting go is not something you do.

It is something you stop doing.

You stop pretending every thing is precious.

You stop clinging to toxic relationships.

You stop acting like busy is a good thing.

You stop posturing as if achievements make you, you.

You stop thinking new habits will solve the problem.

You stop trying to “fix” everything.

You stop turning to breaking news for information.

You stop mistaking information for understanding.

You stop polishing the facade of success.

You stop chasing happiness.

No matter the fixation—

be it possessions, people, or prosperity—

attachment is always suffering.

Always.

When you let go of attachments,

you pick up freedom, peace, equanimity.

But if you hold on,

you’ll get dragged.

We often look at the things we enjoy—the relationships, the experiences, the possessions—and we want to hold on to them forever. We expect that these things will continue to add the same value to our lives, day in and day out.

But life does not work this way. Not everything that adds value today will add value tomorrow.

This is particularly evident within our material possessions. Each time we purchase a sparkling new doodad, we bask in the light of its potential, excited by the initial value the new object brings to our lives. Over time, though, the value wanes, the glossy newness wears off, and our excitement abruptly dissipates.

When that possession stops adding value, however, what do we do? Do we ask ourselves why? Do we donate it or sell it or question why we purchased it in the first place?

Not usually.

Often, once the dullness sets in, we let our effects gather dust or wither away in boxes in our basements, closets, and junk drawers. Out of sight, out of mind.

And but then the only way to reclaim the missing value is to find another doodad that is shiny and exciting and new. This cycle is a dangerous downward spiral, a vortex of consumption in which we’re constantly looking for that next nugget of excitement, that next burst of euphoria, that cocaine high that doesn’t last but a few feet past the cash register.

Thankfully, there are at least two ways to break this vicious cycle.

First, we must question our purchase. Of course there’s nothing inherently wrong with material possessions. What’s wrong is the idea that material possessions will bring lasting joy and contentment. They won’t. Instead, we must ask,

Will this thing add value to my life? and Is this thing still adding value to my life?

This kind of intentional living, when done consistently, will form lasting, empowering habits.

Second, we must be willing to let go. We should let go of superfluous excess in our lives, starting with the dusty belongings inhabiting every nook and cranny and dark corner of our homes, eventually moving on to the more difficult things no longer adding value to our lives: sentimental items, extra gadget, shitty relationship.

Ultimately, we must learn to let go. To do so, acceptance is the key. We needn’t settle, but we all have a reality we must accept. As much as we might want to, we’ll never be able to hold on to a sunset. Likewise, we can’t retain every thing and still lead meaningful lives. Life is fulfilling only when we allow ourselves to let go, when we allow ourselves to be in the moment, when we allow ourselves to feel the moment.

After all, this moment is life’s only true reality.