Signals I Pay Attention To

On a clear night, the stars matter because there is darkness around them. If the sky were packed edge to edge with light, no single star would register. It would be bright, but meaningless. What makes the stars visible is not their abundance, but the space that holds them.

I’ve come to notice something similar with signals. Signals don’t amplify through addition. They emerge through subtraction. Clarity rarely arrives by adding more - more information, more opinion, more activity. It arrives when enough noise is removed for something to separate itself. What remains after subtraction is usually the signal.

What follows are some of the signals I’ve come to notice and pay attention to over time. Not rules or advice—just patterns that tend to emerge once the background clears.

Energy

Of all the signals I pay attention to now, energy is the most important.

In the heat of an interaction or a decision, I still find it easy to get caught up in facts - pros and cons, logic, timing, surface appeal. But over time, I’ve learned that those details are rarely decisive. The signal that matters most comes afterward.

Every interaction, opportunity, or decision leaves a residue. It either adds energy or it takes it away. There’s no neutral. The effect may be subtle, but it’s always there. Do I feel more awake, or slightly depleted? More energized or less energized?

I don’t try to assess this in the moment. I notice it later, often without commentary. That after-effect has proven more reliable than whatever rationale I could assemble at the time. So the primary signal I pay attention to now is energy - not intensity or excitement, but the net balance it leaves behind.

Urgency

Another signal I pay attention to is urgency - not as a fact, but as a form of communication.

I’ve noticed that when someone pressures me to make a decision within twenty-four hours, my interest usually drops rather than rises. I often find myself quietly amused when that same offer resurfaces a couple of days later, still very much available. By then, whatever urgency existed has evaporated entirely.

I don’t find it offensive or alarming, just informative. When everything is marked urgent, nothing actually is. The mailbox fills with envelopes stamped “urgent,” and they cancel each other out.

A friend of mine has a simple rule: he only responds to the second email someone sends. Not out of indifference, but as a filter. If something is truly urgent, it tends to resurface on its own.

Taste

One place I notice signal very clearly is taste, something I’ve written about before as I ate my way through San Sebastian. I’ve always loved espresso and cacao. What draws me to both is that they are already complete, just as they are. The flavour is fully formed in the bean itself - shaped by air, altitude, humidity, soil and time. Nothing needs to be added.

For that reason, flavored coffee or flavored cacao has never held much appeal for me. It feels like diffusion - something layered on top of a signal that was already pure. When the base is strong, additional flavor doesn’t clarify it. It blurs it.

Competence

Another signal I pay close attention to is competence on a topic. I consider myself an autodidact. I learn most things on my own, and over time I’ve noticed that the fastest way to understand a new subject is to look for signals of competence and influence.

Today, there’s very little friction to expressing an opinion. Anyone can publish a post, a tweet, or a thread. Volume is cheap. What’s harder to fake is influence on other thoughtful people.

When I want to understand a field, I pay attention to who everyone else is quoting. Not who’s loudest—but who keeps appearing across independent sources. In artificial intelligence, for example, you can read thousands of takes. Or you can notice that conversations keep circling back to neural networks and to Geoffrey Hinton. That repetition isn’t accidental.

A simple trick I once read—and still use—is this: take any three books on a subject, flip to the bibliography, and see which names appear most often across all of them. That person is usually the signal. I start there.

Bubbles

I’ve also come to find the structure of bubbles fascinating. Not prices, but signals. There’s no better place to see this than in meme stocks.

What happened with the GameStop stock in 2021 and later dramatized in the film Dumb Money (it was no foreign film but was still excellent) wasn’t just a market event. It was a memetic one. Ideas spreading faster than understanding. Signals amplifying each other.

I notice a familar pattern. When the cleaning lady mentions a stock in passing, a bubble is beginning to form. When the cashier at the grocery store checkout casually mentions the same stock, a bubble in full swing. When the cleaning lady, the cashier and the Uber driver are all talking about the same stock, its only a matter of time before the bubble bursts.

Music

A final signal I love is music.

Silence can be described as auditory perfection. Every note, musical phrase, or piece is competing with silence—and silence is a very high bar. Most don’t clear it.

Most people can name a song or a piece that didn’t resonate with them. It wasn’t offensive. It simply wasn’t better than silence. Only what earns that interruption is worth listening to.

The same is true with writing. An empty page is perfect. Every word competes with it. Most don’t win.

I’ll stop here.

There are more articles about my various experiences on my writing page.

Three Days and Three Stars - San Sebastian

For as long as I can remember, I’ve enjoyed fine dining — not simply as places to eat, but as places where craft, imagination, and emotion come together on a plate. San Sebastián, Spain, is one of the few places in the world where this level of culinary artistry feels so concentrated. In the best kitchens, food becomes more than food. It becomes art: a form of expression, a creative language, a way for a chef to communicate a lifetime of passion in a single, fleeting moment.
Food, for me, has always been one of the most delicious forms of art.

Michelin stars aren’t merely awards; they’re acknowledgments of a creative mission in the world of fine dining. Chefs are bestowed Michelin stars — one for excellence, two for exceptional craft, and three for a level of artistry only a small handful of restaurants in the world ever reach. As of 2025, there are 157 restaurants globally with three Michelin stars.

San Sebastián, a small city on the northern tip of Spain, remarkably has three Michelin three-star restaurants, one of the highest concentrations of top-tier dining anywhere in the world. At some point, I realized I wanted to experience all three in a single trip — not as indulgence, but out of curiosity. What would it feel like to encounter three different expressions of culinary art on three consecutive nights?

So I planned it deliberately: three days, three nights, three Michelin stars — a short, intentional immersion into a world of culinary craft that exists in only a few places on earth.

San Sebastián felt like the right place for that kind of exploration. It’s a coastal city shaped by the ocean and framed by green hills, reminiscent of Florence in how the water meets the old town, just smaller. It’s only a four-and-a-half-hour train ride north of Madrid, yet it feels entirely different the moment you arrive.

This isn’t how I live day to day. Experiences like this make up a very small fraction of my year. But every so often, that one or two percent offers a chance to pause and reflect. I was coming off an intense chapter of focused work — one I’ve written about elsewhere — and wanted a change of pace that felt thoughtful rather than rushed.

A City Between Two Beaches

Two beaches give San Sebastián its geography and its personality. La Concha, an elegant, west-facing crescent, calm and classic. Zurriola, to the east, more open and energetic. The Old Town sits between them, compact and walkable.

A river separates the Old Town—narrow stone alleys, pintxo bars, and history—from Gros, a creative neighborhood of pastel homes and coffee shops. Crossing the bridge between the two reminded me of Florence: a city divided into distinct areas, architecturally unique.

The Basque people were warm and welcoming—proud of their culture, their food, and their unique language, Euskara. Traveling solo made those interactions feel more immediate and immersive.

A Balance of Routine and Freedom

I enjoy travel where I can keep parts of my routine while giving myself the freedom to explore fully. In San Sebastián, that meant staying at the Hotel Maria Cristina, a beautiful historic landmark, and beginning each morning with some form of movement.

When I travel solo, I tend to divide my day loosely into thirds. Mornings are for breakfast and a workout. Afternoons are for lunch and exploring on foot. Evenings are for dinner and, when possible, something cultural or local. It’s a simple structure, but it allows me to experience a city fully without losing the grounding elements of routine. It also makes frequent travel feel sustainable rather than disruptive.

In San Sebastián, the gym I joined for a few days was AltaFit Donostia, a modern, welcoming space with everything I needed. On the mornings I ran, I followed routes around Monte Urgull, looping along La Concha and weaving through the streets of the Old Town. It reminded me of running the Seawall around Stanley Park in Vancouver—just on a much smaller scale.

Exploring a city on foot — including through running — has gradually become one of my favorite ways to understand a place.

Afternoons were slower. I wandered the Old Town and spent time in cafés. Simona stood out—bright, relaxed, with good food and a view across the water. Dripper was more of a small espresso bar and the kind of atmosphere that invites an hour of reflection or planning.

It was an ideal rhythm: routine in the morning, exploration in the afternoon, and in the evening, meals that lingered. One night, before my first dinner, I walked along Zurriola and looked back toward the Old Town. The pastel buildings were catching the last light of the day, glowing softly. It was a simple moment, but one I still remember.

Basque Cuisine as Art

Basque cuisine is shaped by both the sea and the mountains: fresh fish, charcoal grilling, seasonal vegetables, and a respect for simple ingredients handled with care. The region has long been known for culinary innovation, which helps explain why so many influential chefs come from here.

I’m not a food expert, but I appreciate art — and in San Sebastián, art shows up in many forms.

One note before describing the dinners. There are many excellent food writers who document every course in detail. This isn’t meant to be that. The meals unfolded slowly over a few hours, but what stayed with me wasn’t any single dish. It was the pacing, the atmosphere, the warmth of the people, and the way each place expressed itself. What follows are impressions, not a catalog.

Three Evenings, Three Stars

A typical tasting menu lasts two and a half to three hours—unhurried, intentional, quietly immersive. All three restaurants sit just outside the city center, reached by short taxi rides into the wooded hills or along the coast. Each evening felt distinct, as if you were briefly stepping into a different world.

Night One: Akelarre

“Akelarre” comes from the Basque word for “witches’ sabbath,” a reference the restaurant leans into subtly. When the butter arrived, it was stamped with a small mythical creature—half human, half animal—pressed into the surface. It sounds simple, but it was among the best butter I’ve ever had, and an early signal of the care behind everything that followed.

The dining room is contemporary—wood, glass, open space—and intentionally quiet. The tasting menu, around a dozen courses, leaned gently toward the sea. One dish diners often remember is Akelarre’s playful, ocean-inspired creation, understated rather than showy.

Night 2: Arzak

Arzak is named after its founder, Juan Mari Arzak, one of the pioneers of modern Basque cuisine. Today, the restaurant is led by his daughter, Elena Arzak, who carries the legacy forward with her own voice and perspective.

The space feels like an intimate modern home—less wood, more warmth and history. Upstairs is their flavor and spice laboratory, with hundreds of ingredients, where combinations are tested like creative ideas in progress.

The menu, roughly ten courses, blends innovation with tradition. Dessert arrived looking like a small abstract sculpture—delicate, surprising, and memorable. I had the chance to meet Elena briefly; she was warm and focused, attentive to the dining room while ensuring everything moved with quiet precision.

Night 3: Martín Berasategui

The restaurant that bears his name is even more contemporary: wood, large windows, and an open concept designed not to distract. The room recedes so the plate can lead.

The pacing was steady and assured, each course arriving with quiet confidence. A layered eel dish—often mentioned by diners— was delicious. The atmosphere felt joyful but calm, as if the entire team was moving in sync.

When the food takes the lead

What struck me across all three restaurants was how little noise there was. I’ve noticed this pattern at the best restaurants I’ve been to: when the room steps back, the food steps forward. The result isn’t dramatic—it’s immersive. And it allows the food on the plate to speak for itself.

A City That Leaves a Mark

San Sebastián still carried the afterglow of its film festival, which takes place each September. I’ve always had a soft spot for film festivals, especially ones that celebrate foreign films—the kind that slow you down and ask you to pay attention. Between the walks, the cafés, the hills, and three very different dinners, the city revealed itself gradually—through small details, warm gestures, and the steady presence of the sea.

I was reminded of a line I once read in a critic’s review of Jiro Dreams of Sushi, the documentary about the three-star restaurant in Tokyo:
“The only tragedy is that Michelin does not—and never will—give out a fourth star.”

After three days and three stars in San Sebastián, I understood exactly what he meant.

There are more articles about my various experiences on my writing page.

How Running Became a Passion - Without Me Realizing It

I never set out to become a better runner. For most of my adult life, running was simply something I enjoyed — a couple of easy runs each week folded into a broader fitness routine that was centered on strength training. It was familiar, uncomplicated, and restorative.

Then the COVID pandemic arrived.

Gyms closed. Routines dissolved. Life contracted into a much smaller radius. Like many people, I found myself pushed outdoors for exercise. I was fortunate to have a small functional gym in my basement (thank goodness), but running quickly became the most consistent part of my days.

What surprised me wasn’t that I ran more — it was how running quietly transformed from a casual habit into a genuine passion. Not overnight. Not intentionally. But slowly, almost without my realizing it.

Within two years, running had eclipsed weightlifting as my primary sport — something I would have told you was not possible before COVID.

Around the same time, I bought a Garmin Fenix watch.

That’s where this story really begins.

This article is a personal reflection on how running quietly became a passion during COVID — and how, along the way, I began paying attention to small improvements that eventually led to a meaningful drop in my 5K time.

Biometric Tracking: A Double-Edged Sword

The Garmin Fenix watch tracks everything: heart-rate variability, VO₂ max, sleep, steps. But one metric quietly hooked me — predicted 5K time.

After each run, I’d check it out of curiosity. And every time, it showed something in the 21-minute range:

21:20
21:15
21:18

Eventually I found myself thinking:

“What if I can get this thing under 21 minutes?”

Then:

“How do I get it under 20?”

Then:

“Now can I get it to 19 minutes-and-change?”

It became an experiment — nothing competitive, nothing public — just curiosity and tinkering. And the more the watch responded, the more enjoyable the process became.

It ultimately took about 18–24 months — from early 2020 into late 2021 and early 2022 — to bring my predicted 5K run time into the high 17s.

At my peak, Garmin predicted my 5km run time at 17:52.

Not a race time — just the model — but directionally accurate based on my pacing, VO2Max and running efficiency.

Running became a quiet demonstration of a familiar idea:

We overestimate what we can do in the short term and underestimate what we can do in the long term.

Understanding the heart rate Zones

Endurance training is often framed around heart-rate zones — not as jargon, but because physiology responds differently at different intensities.

Zone 1 (≤60% max HR): recovery
Zone 2 (60–70%): conversational aerobic base
Zone 3 (70–80%): moderately hard — the so-called no-man’s-land
Zone 4 (80–90%): threshold; controlled discomfort
Zone 5 (90%+): VO₂ max; very hard

Most recreational runners spend years in Zones 3 training. It’s excellent for health.This is what I did too.

But if the goal is to meaningfully improve your 5K time, the adaptations that matter mostly live at the extremes:

Very easy (Zone 2)
and
Very hard (Zone 5).

Polarized Training: The Structure Behind the Improvement

At a certain point, I began researching how elite middle-distance runners train. That’s when I learned about “polarized training”, a structure with decades of evidence behind it. Essentially you cut out most of your zone 3 and zone 4 training and instead work at the ‘polar’ ends of the heart rate zones - Zone 2 and Zone 5.

More specifically you spend 80-90% of your running time in zone 2 and 10-20% of your running time in zone 5. Almost no time is spent in zone 3 or zone 4.

Zone 2 builds the engine (aerobic base):
Mitochondrial density, stroke volume, capillary growth, fat oxidation, lactate clearance, aerobic durability.

Zone 5 raises the ceiling (VO2Max):
Peak oxygen uptake, cardiac output, fast-twitch aerobic capacity, plasma volume, maximal aerobic power.

Zone 3 is productive… but plateaus:
Excellent for general fitness, not ideal for breakthroughs.

Polarized training develops both ends of the system — a strong engine and a high ceiling.

After reading about Polarized training a lightbulb went on for me. I wondered if my prior training style (lots of zone 3 and 4 running) was why my progress had plateaued. I figured I had nothing to lose and would givepolarized training a try.

Norwegian 4×4: The Hard Sessions That Made the Difference

Zone 2 training was quite easy for me to grasp - run at an conversational pace for a long time (60-90 minutes). Zone 2 training is easy and you feel great after. However Zone 5 training was more of a black box to me - if I was supposed to spend 10-20% of my total training time there, how did I structure the ideal program?

When I begin researching zone 5 training, also known as VO2Max training, I learned about Norwegian 4x4 training. This came out of a study from Norway where researchers had athletes exercise for four minutes at VO2Max heart rate, followed by three minutes of active recovery. They repeated the bouts four times. So in total the people exercising spent 16 minutes at VO2Max pace in each workout. The results were profound - the most cited study shows that VO2Max improves by ~8% in just 8 weeks. Over 12 weeks VO2Max can improve up to 13% for non-trained individuals. VO2Max improvements are non-linear. There are ebbs and flows. I experienced this first hand. As I read more, I learned that VO2Max improvements tend to be non-linear. That matched my own experience — progress came in waves, not straight lines.

My hard-day structure revolved around Norwegian 4×4 intervals:

4 minutes hard
3 minutes easy
Repeat 4 times

These sessions are not for the faint of heart.

You spend much of the four-minute effort near your VO₂ max, and there’s a reason this format is ideal for improving 5K performance:

Four 4-minute intervals equals 16 minutes faster than your 5K pace.

A well-known study compared 4, 6 and 8-minute VO₂ max intervals.

The outcome was clear:

4-minute intervals produced the best improvements relative to recovery cost.

I tried six-minute intervals once, just for “fun”. By the end of the workout, I had done 24 minutes at VO2Max pace. Don’t go there. Not worth it. I do not recommend!

I returned to 4×4 quickly.

These Norwegian 4x4 sessions, paired with consistent Zone 2 work, moved my predicted 5K more than anything else.

The Weekly Schedule That Worked

The structure that brought my predicted 5K time down was pretty simple. One day I would do strength training, the next day I would do either a Zone 2 run or a VO2Max run. Rinse and repeat. So a typical week would look like this:

Week 1

• Monday — Long run (Zone 2)

• Tuesday — Full-body strength

• Wednesday — VO₂ max (4×4)

• Thursday - Full body strength

• Friday — Long run (Zone 2)

• Saturday - Fully body strength

• Sunday — VO₂ max (4×4)

Week 2

• Monday — Full-body strength

• Tuesday — Long run (Zone 2)

• Wednesday — Full-body strength

• Thursday — VO₂ max (4x4)

• Friday — Full-body strength

• Saturday — Long run (Zone 2)

• Sunday - Full-body strength

Repeat.

If I needed a rest day, I skipped the strength day — never the run day.

Periodization and Mesocycles - important for systemic Recovery

Later, I began to understand the role of periodization and mesocycles — concepts I hadn’t thought much about at the beginning. Up until then, my training had been fairly linear: similar effort, week after week. Over time, I noticed that progress came more easily when periods of harder training were followed by deliberate pullbacks.

What I eventually learned is that periodization simply introduces rhythm into training — intentional waves of effort and recovery rather than constant intensity. That framing helped explain something I was already experiencing: the biggest gains tended to show up after the quieter weeks, not during the hardest ones.

A mesocycle, as I came to understand it, is just a short block of training — usually a few weeks — with a particular emphasis, whether that’s aerobic volume, VO₂ max work, or something else. Nothing complicated. Just a way of grouping effort into manageable chapters.

Over time, I settled into a simple four-week rhythm that worked well for me:

Three weeks of steady work, followed by one lighter recovery week.

I found that breaking the month up this way made the harder stretches feel more sustainable — and the recovery weeks more satisfying. Even during the “push” weeks, I learned that stepping back for a day or two when needed was part of the process, not a failure of it.

Most of the real adaptation seemed to happen during those quieter periods — a pattern that mirrored much of the rest of the experience.

Gear I Used

I kept gear simple:

Garmin Fenix watch + Garmin heart rate chest strap
(The strap is far more accurate than wrist HR.)

Hoka Shoes
Long Zone 2 runs — soft, forgiving, perfect for 90-minute sessions.

Nike Vaporfly Shoes
VO₂ max interval runs — light, responsive, ideal for speed.

Now that I had the training program in place it was all about finding great places to run.

Toronto: Where My Structure Took Shape

Throughout 2020 and much of 2021, I stayed in Toronto - it was during COVID so we were all stuck anyway.

Long Runs

My long runs followed a similar ritual:

• I’d drive down to the Distillery District

• Start at Balzac’s Coffee

• Run down to the waterfront

• Head west on the waterfront bike path toward Humber Bay Shores

• 35-45 minutes out, 35-45 minutes back

I did this 2x per week:
one 75-minute run and one 90-minute run.

The waterfront bicycle path is exceptional — wide, open, safe and perfect for steady-state running. As long as you stay in the slower cyclist lane, you can comfortably share the path

Running became a form of meditation.

VO₂ Max Runs

My hard sessions happened either down on the waterfront path I mentioned earlier or at Queen’s Park close to University of Toronto campus — its an 800–900m loop I grew to appreciate.

Recovery in Toronto

I’ve always believed in recovery. I have a standing red-light therapy unit at home, and I used it regularly — especially during heavier training periods.

Miami: A Temporary Escape, Not a Lifestyle

In the winter of 2021, Toronto was still under strict COVID lockdown. There was nowhere to go, little open, and a long winter ahead. The city reopened briefly around Christmas before the Omicron variant arrived and restrictions returned.

I decided to spend some time in Miami — it was in the same time zone, and I had heard positive things from a few clients who lived and worked there. I rented a short-term place in Brickell and continued running as part of my daily routine.

It wasn’t a lifestyle shift. Miami felt more like a temporary sanctuary during an unusual period.

Almost unexpectedly, it became the most consistent and enjoyable stretch of running I’d had up to that point.

Zone 2 Runs — South Beach to Sunny Isles

My favorite runs during that period were long Zone 2 efforts after work. Brickell sits on the mainland, and the beach is just across the bridge, connected by a north–south boardwalk that stretches for miles — from South Beach through Mid-Beach and North Beach, past Surfside and Bal Harbour, all the way up to Sunny Isles.

I’d usually start near the southern end of South Beach, around 5th Street and Collins Avenue, where the Art Deco buildings line the street — a style I’ve always been drawn to. From there, I’d run north along Ocean Drive and onto the pedestrian boardwalk, moving steadily through each neighborhood until eventually reaching Sunny Isles. Depending on the day, the run took around 80–90 minutes.

It was during those long, unhurried runs that I began to realize how much I enjoyed discovering a city this way — moving through it slowly enough to notice details I’d otherwise miss.

I’d often end the run in Sunny Isles, stop at Treesome Natural Foods Café, apologize to the staff for being drenched in sweat, grab something simple to eat, and head back. By the end of the run, it had become a familiar routine rather than a destination.

Some evenings I’d start at sunset and finish in the dark. During that stretch of COVID, the rhythm of those runs felt unexpectedly peaceful.

VO₂ Max Runs — North Beach to South Beach

For the harder days, the boardwalk was perfect. I’d head to North Beach do a 10 minute Zone 2 warm-up and then to the 4x4 intervals running south along the boardwalk. Finishing with a 10-20 minute zone 2 cooldown and wind up in South Beach, go to the Whole Foods and then head back to Brickell.

Recovery in Miami

Although I already had an Equinox membership in Toronto (Yorkville), I extended it to the Brickell location while I was in Miami. It became part of my routine during that stretch, particularly for recovery.

I also joined the UFC Gym in the Design District specifically for their recovery lounge, which included a cryogenic chamber, NormaTec compression boots, and a full-body red-light bed. I didn’t work out there — I only recovered there.

Having access to those recovery tools made it easier to sustain the higher training volume during that period.

Miami was never meant to be permanent. It was simply a temporary chapter during an unusual time.

The Two-Year Arc

From the outside, progress can look neat and orderly. Internally, it felt much quieter.

A series of small, steady improvements that accumulated over 18–24 months — the kind of progress you barely notice until one day you do.

That’s one of the quiet joys of running: even as an adult, improvement is still possible, often arriving without fanfare.

Some of my favorite memories from that period are the long Zone 2 runs where I’d have catch-up calls with friends, family, and colleagues. During a particularly demanding stretch at work, those runs became a natural place to reconnect — I’d tell people, “Call me between 6 and 7:30 — I’ll be out on a long run.”

A few moments that still stand out:

• Long waterfront runs in Toronto that felt meditative

• Queen’s Park intervals in the cold

• Sunset runs in Miami ending under the night sky

• Watching VO₂ max inch upward one decimal at a time

Running became a quiet companion.

Where I Am Now

Today, I’m no longer chasing a particular time. That chapter served its purpose.

Lately, I’ve been thinking more about the idea of minimum effective dose — not how much training I can tolerate, but the least amount required to maintain fitness and feel good over the long term. That shift has changed how I approach running.

These days, I usually run twice a week for about an hour, and a couple of times a month I’ll include a Norwegian 4×4 session. It’s enough to stay connected to the practice without turning it into a project.

The passion remains — calmer now, woven into the rest of my life.

Running carried me through COVID, through Toronto winters, through Miami escapes and a very busy time at work. Running is still one of my favorite ways to clear my head if I am working on solving a complex problem.

It remains one of the clearest parts of my day.

A Quiet Ending

Looking back, I’m not sure I fully appreciated it at the time, but running ended up being one of the most stabilizing forces during the process of exiting my company. It created a daily rhythm when many other variables were in flux.

This isn’t a training guide. It’s the record of what happened when a hobby I enjoyed intersected with a pandemic, a Garmin Fenix watch, a handful of routes in Toronto and Miami, and the slow compounding of small improvements.

Some of the most meaningful chapters begin without a plan. Running was one of those chapters for me.

Who knew tinkering with a sports watch would have led me down this path.

Visit my writing page for more articles on other aspects of life.

What I Do When a Problem Won’t Move

I’m partly writing this for myself — for the next time a problem won’t move. Because it will happen again. It always does.

When I was running my company, I’d sometimes hit a problem that simply wouldn’t move. Getting a new product off the ground. Entering a new market. A hiring decision. A strategy question with no obvious path forward. I’d be at my desk, banging my head against the wall trying to figure it out, and nothing I did seemed to unlock it.

I assumed the problem needed more effort. More analysis. More grinding. It rarely did.

Over time — largely through experience — I realized something else: the difficulty wasn’t the problem itself, but the process I was using to think about it.

And once I noticed that, everything shifted.

The Structure of a Stalled Problem

No matter what the problem was (the content), the way I got stuck looked almost identical every time.
No one got stuck quite as thoroughly as I did — I became surprisingly good at it.

When I stripped away the business details about the problem itself, I realized I was usually looping in my head in one of two ways:

1. A Visual Loop

I’d be replaying imagined scenes or “what if” scenarios — like watching the same movie segment over and over.

2. An Auditory Loop

More often, I’d be running an internal dialogue with myself: Should I do this or that? What if I’m wrong? What if this backfires?

Different challenges, same underlying pattern — I’d end up looping in my mind, either visually or auditorily.

And what mattered wasn’t the specifics of the situation — it was the channel I was stuck in.

Once I understood that, the solution became simpler:

• If I was stuck in an auditory loop, I needed to do anything that pulled me out of my head and into movement or sensation.

• If I was stuck in a visual loop, I needed to do anything that interrupted the internal movie.

Everything that follows grew out of that realization.

1. Switching the Channel

Our office building had a gym on the basement level with a great steam room. I worked out there most days anyway, but every so often, when progress on a problem stalled, I’d go down at midday, bring my gym clothes, and sit in the steam room for fifteen minutes. This was quite an effective stress reliever when I was in the process of scaling up the company.

It was one of the simplest ways to get out of my head and into my body.

Heat, breath, and sensation interrupted whatever mental loop I was in. They replace inner noise with something immediate and physical. And once the loop breaks, clarity has a way of surfacing without any deliberate effort.

Running worked the same way. Rhythm, breath, movement — they dissolved mental knots in a way thinking never could.

Even a brisk walk around the block often did the job. Anything that shifted the channel was usually enough.

2. Surrounding Myself With Excellence

After a day of getting nowhere on a problem at the office, I’d sometimes find myself buying a last-minute ticket to something that evening.

One of the benefits of being in Toronto is that there’s always something happening. Koerner Hall. Roy Thomson Hall. The Four Seasons Centre for the Performing Arts. The Art Gallery of Ontario. Random pop-up events. You can decide at 6:45 p.m. that you want to hear a pianist at 8:00 p.m. and actually make it happen.

I wasn’t doing this to be cultured. I simply noticed that these performances pulled me out of whatever loop I was in.

There was always a moment — watching someone completely absorbed in what they were doing — when my internal dialogue would quiet. I’d become drawn into their mastery, their discipline, their years of repetition. And almost through osmosis, I felt influenced and inspired by their excellence.

It also reminded me that anyone who has achieved mastery has been worked through stalled problems many times before. No one escapes that part of the process. I noticed this when watching an excellent foreign film as well.

And once I was absorbed in what they were doing, I wasn’t in my head anymore. All of my attention was on the performer. I suspect my unconscious mind started working on the problem the moment I got myself out of the way.

3. Stepping Away Entirely

Another thing that worked for me was travel.

Sometimes it meant going to a new city altogether. Other times it was as simple as exploring a different part of Toronto. Either way, it snapped me out of autopilot.

In a new environment, my attention naturally shifted. I’d find myself figuring out the metro, scanning street signs, navigating unfamiliar streets, looking for a café I’d never been to, noticing small details I’d normally overlook.

It got my brain working differently.

I found that when I stayed in the same routines — same route, same cafés, same environments — I was also using the same mental apparatus to think about the problem. If that apparatus wasn’t producing answers, staying inside it rarely helped.

But when I went somewhere new, even briefly, my brain switched modes. It began using different pathways. And often, the solution to the problem lived in that different pathway.

Even short trips — Madrid to San Sebastián, for example — reset everything. Running through Retiro Park. A chocolate shop. A train north. Ocean air. Small rituals in unfamiliar places.

When my internal pattern changed, the problem rearranged itself.

The Meta-Pattern

Looking back, the three approaches — switching the channel, surrounding myself with excellence, and stepping away entirely — all did the same thing.

They broke the loop.

They changed the mode I was in.

They gave me enough distance for clarity to surface naturally.

And the moment I stopped trying to solve the problem from inside that pattern, the problem often solved itself.

When All Else Fails

When nothing else worked, I slept on it.

John Steinbeck once wrote:
“A problem difficult at night is resolved in the morning after the committee of sleep has worked on it.”

That matched my experience almost exactly. The solutions I couldn’t force during the day often arrived unannounced the next morning — as if some quieter part of me had kept working long after I had stopped.

Uh-oh — I think I’ve just come down with a case of writer’s block. I’m trying to find the best way to finish this article, and I’m stuck in my head.

Hang on a second. I hear Seong-Jin Cho is coming to town to play some Chopin. I think I need to follow my own advice and buy a ticket right now.

I’ve written about several other topics. Visit my writing page for a complete list.

Foreign Films: One of My Favorite Ways to Learn About The World

Every September, back when I was running my company, I would take a week and a half off work and disappear into the Toronto International Film Festival (TIFF). TIFF always starts on the first Thursday of September and ends on the second Sunday — a ten-day marathon of stories from around the world. It became a ritual for me. A reset. A quiet celebration. And eventually, one of my favourite ways to learn about the world — through foreign films.

When I first started attending TIFF, I’d dabble — a foreign film here, a foreign film there. But over the years, something shifted. Each time I logged in to book my tickets, I noticed my selections tilting more and more toward international cinema. At some point, almost without realizing it, foreign films became the majority of what I watched.

And since I’m no polyglot, the more subtitles, the better.

One of the best festivals I ever experienced was 2023, when Hollywood was shut down by the writers’ and actors’ strikes. Most people were disappointed — no red carpets, no studio premieres, no celebrity appearances. But I felt like a kid in a candy store. Cameron Bailey and the TIFF programming team scrambled to fill the lineup with films from around the world, and it became the most foreign-film-heavy TIFF I’ve ever attended. I didn’t miss the celebrity culture for a second.

Watching three films a day for ten days is a kind of immersion. Some people perform sentiment analysis by feeding thousands of tweets into a model to understand how a culture is thinking. For me, watching foreign films back-to-back at TIFF does something similar. You begin to feel the emotional pulse of the world that year — its anxieties, its humour, its moral struggles, its family dynamics, its dreams, and its disillusionments.

It’s like taking a trip around the world without leaving Toronto.

One thing that fascinates me about foreign cinema is the sheer determination required to make it. Directors often spend years fighting for budgets, negotiating censorship, or pushing through political resistance just to get their story out into the world. And there’s a strange paradox I’ve noticed: the more repressed or culturally constrained a society is, the more explosive and daring its films often become.

Two cultures that immediately come to mind are Iran and South Korea.

Iranian Cinema

Despite heavy artistic restrictions, Iranian filmmakers routinely produce some of the most emotionally rich and morally sophisticated films in global cinema. What makes Iranian cinema so compelling is its restraint — meaning is often conveyed through implication rather than declaration, through silence rather than spectacle.

A Hero (2021) — Directed by Asghar Farhadi

The film explores truth, reputation, and moral ambiguity with remarkable subtlety. Small decisions carry enormous weight, and the story unfolds in shades of grey rather than clear victories or villains — a hallmark of Iranian storytelling. It’s a powerful example of how creativity finds a way to surface even under pressure.

Korean Cinema

Korean cinema is equally remarkable, though its intensity expresses itself differently. Born from a conservative society navigating rapid economic growth, social stratification, and enormous performance pressure, Korean films often feel tightly wound — precise, urgent, and emotionally charged.

Parasite (2019) — Directed by Bong Joon-ho

The film blends dark humour, class tension, and suspense with surgical control, revealing how inequality quietly shapes daily life. It’s both entertaining and unsettling — and emblematic of a broader Korean cinematic tradition that isn’t afraid to interrogate power, status, and survival. As with Iranian cinema, Parasite is just one entry point into a much deeper body of work.

Over time, as I watched more films from more countries, I realized that at the heart of every great story — regardless of culture — is the same structure. Years ago, I read The Writer’s Journey, which simplifies Joseph Campbell’s The Hero with a Thousand Faces. Campbell’s book is brilliant but dense; Vogler’s version makes the ideas more accessible.

When you strip away setting, language, genre, and style, every hero / character arc story reduces to a simple architecture:

A protagonist
A challenge
An internal struggle
A transformation
A return

Two films in particular capture this beautifully — and they remain two of my favourite foreign films of all time.

The Secret in Their Eyes (2009)

Directed by Juan José Campanella

Set against the backdrop of a decades-old unresolved murder, the film follows a retired Argentine legal investigator as he revisits a case that never truly left him. Beneath the mystery lies a much quieter story about regret, restraint, and unrealized love.

The protagonist, played by Ricardo Darín, begins the story somewhat timid — professionally, romantically, morally. He writes a letter that begins with the words “I fear” (tengo miedo) and, in a single moment of courage, changes one letter so it becomes “I love” (te amo). That tiny shift represents the entire character arc. He becomes someone new — not because the world changes, but because he does.

The Lives of Others (2006)

Directed by Florian Henckel von Donnersmarck

Set in East Berlin during the Cold War, the film centers on a Stasi officer tasked with surveilling a playwright and his partner, immersing the viewer in a world of constant observation, suspicion, and quiet control.

Over time, the officer slowly transforms from a dutiful instrument of the state into an empathetic protector of the very people he is assigned to watch. Through exposure to art, intimacy, and moral consequence, he regains his humanity. It’s one of the greatest portraits of internal change I’ve ever seen.

What Foreign Films Have Taught Me

And that, ultimately, is what foreign films have taught me: while cultures differ wildly in how they express emotion, humour, family, hierarchy, or conflict, the underlying human journey is the same everywhere. We are all wrestling with fear, courage, love, desire, identity, and meaning — just in different languages.

By no means am I a film buff or a critic. I simply love learning through immersion, and foreign films offer a remarkable window into the inner life of a culture. They’re not a substitute for travel, food (such as places like San Sebastian), or meeting people from that culture — those are still the best ways to understand the world. But foreign films come surprisingly close.

After watching many foreign films, they remain one of my favourite ways to learn — about others, about the world, and sometimes about myself.

Elsewhere, I’ve written about other formative chapters, including the process of selling my company.

To read more of my writing, visit my writing page.