It was a lazy Saturday afternoon, and I was in the grocery store. A moment caught me off guard in the middle of the dairy aisle, of all places. I was standing there staring at a wall of yogurt, overwhelmed by choices that somehow all felt exactly the same. Greek, low-fat, non-fat, 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 immediately was transported to January of 1989, just returning from seven months living in India. I was transfixed in the cereal aisle at the grocery store near my parent's home. There were so many brands and varieties, an abundance of options, and it overwhelmed me. In India, I had lived a simple life in a small dirt-paved neighborhood, at the edge of a small city. There were no grocery stores with options like this. I froze, just staring at each box and reading the labels, admiring the art. After some time, I left 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.
Back in '89, when I mused upon my American life of consumption, gluttonous ideals, and in-your face marketing, I felt a guilt of sorts. Who am I to have all these choices at my fingertips? What did I do to deserve this? I felt a sense of responsibility to make the "right" choice in the cereal aisle, as if there were internal judgements happening just under the surface of my consciousness. It was all too much to bear as I was assimilating back into the American lifestyle.
On that Saturday, many years later and after many experiences had, I learned lessons in my lifetime. So I reached out, grabbed one 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. A reminder that most choices don’t carry the weight I assign them, and that constantly searching for perfection can quietly steal the ease out of everyday living.
As I walked away, cartwheels rattling slightly beneath me, I felt lighter. The a-ha moment 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. And sometimes, peace looks like choosing the yogurt and moving on.
In Gratitude,
KJ Landis
@superiorself on Instagram and X
@SuperiorSelf channel on YouTube
@superiorselfwithkjlandis on TikTok
[email protected]
Books available everywhere!
I immediately was transported to January of 1989, just returning from seven months living in India. I was transfixed in the cereal aisle at the grocery store near my parent's home. There were so many brands and varieties, an abundance of options, and it overwhelmed me. In India, I had lived a simple life in a small dirt-paved neighborhood, at the edge of a small city. There were no grocery stores with options like this. I froze, just staring at each box and reading the labels, admiring the art. After some time, I left 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.
Back in '89, when I mused upon my American life of consumption, gluttonous ideals, and in-your face marketing, I felt a guilt of sorts. Who am I to have all these choices at my fingertips? What did I do to deserve this? I felt a sense of responsibility to make the "right" choice in the cereal aisle, as if there were internal judgements happening just under the surface of my consciousness. It was all too much to bear as I was assimilating back into the American lifestyle.
On that Saturday, many years later and after many experiences had, I learned lessons in my lifetime. So I reached out, grabbed one 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. A reminder that most choices don’t carry the weight I assign them, and that constantly searching for perfection can quietly steal the ease out of everyday living.
As I walked away, cartwheels rattling slightly beneath me, I felt lighter. The a-ha moment 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. And sometimes, peace looks like choosing the yogurt and moving on.
In Gratitude,
KJ Landis
@superiorself on Instagram and X
@SuperiorSelf channel on YouTube
@superiorselfwithkjlandis on TikTok
[email protected]
Books available everywhere!
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