It caught me off guard in the middle of a grocery store aisle, of all places. I was standing there on a late Saturday afternoon, after teaching three back to back yoga classes, staring at a wall of yogurt, overwhelmed by choices that somehow all felt exactly the same. Greek, low-fat, nonfat, high-fat, high-protein, probiotic, plant-based—every container promising a better version of me. I stood there longer than necessary, comparing labels like the decision carried real weight, like picking the “right” one might quietly fix something bigger in my life.
I remember coming back from India in early 1989, staring at the grocery store aisle of cereal choices, also somewhat transfixed. The abundance of choices was agonizing to me, the sheer amount of modern American consumption seemed selfish when compared to the lack of variety of brands and options where I had just been living for seven months. I was living in an older style of India, not the sleek modern options available nowadays to the "haves." I remember being frozen in the cereal aisle, unable to choose a cereal, and after what felt like an eternity, I left the grocery store flustered and empty-handed.
And then it hit me—this wasn’t about yogurt. It was about the way I’ve been approaching so many parts of my life lately, believing there’s a perfect choice if I just think hard enough, research enough, optimize enough. As if there’s always a best answer, a most correct path, and if I miss it, I’ve somehow fallen short. Standing there in that fluorescent-lit aisle, I realized how exhausting that mindset is—how it turns even the smallest decisions into quiet pressure.
The experience with the cereal aisle years ago also made me pause and reflect upon how much I really do have, how we Americans, even the poorest amongst us, have far more options than those beautiful creatures in other poverty-stricken or war-torn countries, and how the feeling of lack in those who are suffering can use their situations to strive, and then thrive, with grit and determination abounding. I have been in awe of those living in simpler societies for most of my life, thanks to my mother's subscription to National Geographic Magazine.
"Just make a choice, dammit!" I thought to myself. I realized this torment of choice was a waste of energy over something so simple. Perhaps it was part of my personality. Over the years, even at the Dollar Store or crafts store, picking out a pair of ninety-nine cent earrings used to take the better part of an hour. So, deciding on that Saturday, to do something spontaneous, I reached out, grabbed a yogurt without overthinking it, and put it in my cart, not because it was the best option, but because it was good enough. And oddly, that felt like a small act of rebellion, a loosening of sorts. With that toss of carton into cart, it was a reminder that most choices don’t carry the weight with which I assign them, and that constantly searching for perfection can quietly steal the ease out of everyday living.
As I walked away, cart wheels rattling slightly beneath me, I felt a little lighter. The a-ha wasn’t about lowering standards or not caring—it was about trusting myself a little more, about recognizing that life isn’t a series of perfect selections but a collection of lived moments. Sometimes, peace looks like choosing the yogurt spontaneously and moving on.
Thank you for reading this.
Sincerely,
KJ Landis
I remember coming back from India in early 1989, staring at the grocery store aisle of cereal choices, also somewhat transfixed. The abundance of choices was agonizing to me, the sheer amount of modern American consumption seemed selfish when compared to the lack of variety of brands and options where I had just been living for seven months. I was living in an older style of India, not the sleek modern options available nowadays to the "haves." I remember being frozen in the cereal aisle, unable to choose a cereal, and after what felt like an eternity, I left the grocery store flustered and empty-handed.
And then it hit me—this wasn’t about yogurt. It was about the way I’ve been approaching so many parts of my life lately, believing there’s a perfect choice if I just think hard enough, research enough, optimize enough. As if there’s always a best answer, a most correct path, and if I miss it, I’ve somehow fallen short. Standing there in that fluorescent-lit aisle, I realized how exhausting that mindset is—how it turns even the smallest decisions into quiet pressure.
The experience with the cereal aisle years ago also made me pause and reflect upon how much I really do have, how we Americans, even the poorest amongst us, have far more options than those beautiful creatures in other poverty-stricken or war-torn countries, and how the feeling of lack in those who are suffering can use their situations to strive, and then thrive, with grit and determination abounding. I have been in awe of those living in simpler societies for most of my life, thanks to my mother's subscription to National Geographic Magazine.
"Just make a choice, dammit!" I thought to myself. I realized this torment of choice was a waste of energy over something so simple. Perhaps it was part of my personality. Over the years, even at the Dollar Store or crafts store, picking out a pair of ninety-nine cent earrings used to take the better part of an hour. So, deciding on that Saturday, to do something spontaneous, I reached out, grabbed a yogurt without overthinking it, and put it in my cart, not because it was the best option, but because it was good enough. And oddly, that felt like a small act of rebellion, a loosening of sorts. With that toss of carton into cart, it was a reminder that most choices don’t carry the weight with which I assign them, and that constantly searching for perfection can quietly steal the ease out of everyday living.
As I walked away, cart wheels rattling slightly beneath me, I felt a little lighter. The a-ha wasn’t about lowering standards or not caring—it was about trusting myself a little more, about recognizing that life isn’t a series of perfect selections but a collection of lived moments. Sometimes, peace looks like choosing the yogurt spontaneously and moving on.
Thank you for reading this.
Sincerely,
KJ Landis
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