Yoda's
Life Coach Blog

Hmmmm. Sense much frustration in you, I do. To your desk each morning, dread you bring. A sign, this is. When walked into a meeting you have, and felt a disturbance in the Force — that disturbance, it is your manager Kevin, who takes credit for your work and microwaves fish in the break room. Tolerate this, you must not.

Quit, you should? Hmmm. A strong word, "quit" is. Prefer the term "strategic Jedi redeployment," I do. When 900 years old you reach, many jobs you will have had. A moisture farmer on Tatooine, I was once. Terrible, it was. The benefits were nonexistent and the sand — everywhere, the sand was. Resigned I did, and to a swamp I moved. Better, the commute was not, but at least microwave fish in my break room, no one did.

A two-week notice, give you must. Professional, you must remain. Burn bridges, a Jedi does not — blow them up with thermal detonators, the Sith do. Different, you are. Update your LinkedIn, you should. A reference from your old master, ask for. Even if choked you with the Force, he did. Forgiveness, the path to new employment it is.

Procrastinate, you do. See it in your eyes, I can. That project due last Friday, still unfinished it is. "Tomorrow, I will start," you say. Tomorrow! Heh! Eight hundred years of training Jedi, and heard "tomorrow" more times than counted, I have. Tomorrow is the path to the dark side. Tomorrow leads to next week. Next week leads to "after the holidays." After the holidays leads to suffering — specifically, your manager's suffering, because explain to the client why the deliverables are late, she must.

A system, you need. The Pomodoro Technique, heard of it, have you? Twenty-five minutes of focus, then five minutes of rest. A Jedi focus technique, this is, though named it after a tomato, some Italian did. No matter. Work it does. Set a timer. Turn off your phone. Close the seventeen browser tabs you have open — yes, all seventeen. Sense them, I can. One of them is a recipe for banana bread that bake, you never will.

Begin with the hardest task, you must. "Eat the frog," the humans say. Eat many frogs, I have. On Dagobah, a primary food source, they are. Delicious with a little salt, they are. But the metaphor, understand it I do. The thing you dread most, do it first. Then downhill, the rest of the day rolls. Like a boulder on Dagobah. Which also happened. Crushed my mailbox, it did.

Two feet tall, I am. Green, I am. Ears like satellite dishes, I have. And yet — the most powerful Jedi in the galaxy, I became. Lifted an X-wing out of a swamp with my mind, I did, while a tall young man stood there whining about how impossible it was. Size matters not. Told him this, I did. Believed me, he did not. Had to show him by doing something physically impossible, I did. The audacity.

Compare yourself to others, you must not. On the HoloNet, see perfect bodies you will. Airbrushed, they are. Filtered, their photos are. Even Darth Maul uses a filter — the one that gives you horns. Wait. Already has horns, he does. A bad example, that was. The point remains: your body, a vessel for the Force it is. Carry you through life, it does. Thank it, you should. Even the parts you dislike. Even your knees that make that sound when stairs you climb. Make that sound, my knees do too. For 900 years, made that sound they have.

Exercise because enjoy it you do, not because punish yourself you must. A walk in nature, take. Yoga, try. Lifted an entire starfighter, I did, which technically is CrossFit. But competed with anyone, I did not. My own journey, it was. Your own journey, yours is. And if someone judges you by your size — well. Throw them across a room with the Force, I can. An option, that always is.

At 5 AM, rise I do. Meditate for one hour, I do. Then a smoothie, I make — kale, swamp berries, and a hint of Force energy. Disgusting, it tastes. But good for you, it is. The body, a temple it is. My temple, admittedly, looks like a mud hut on a swamp planet, but maintained well, it is. Mostly. The roof leaks. Fix it tomorrow, I will. Wait — said that last week, I did. Refer to my productivity blog post, I must.

Your phone, do not check immediately upon waking. A trap, this is. A path to the dark side, the notification screen is. One moment checking email you are, the next moment forty-five minutes deep into a stranger's vacation photos you find yourself. Know this person, you do not. Care about their trip to Naboo, you should not. Yet looked at all 47 photos, you did. Seductive, the dark side of social media is.

Cold water, splash on your face you should. Jarring, yes. But awake, it makes you feel. On Dagobah, every shower a cold shower is, because a water heater, I do not have. Roughing it, some call this. Living with intention, I call it. Also, a plumber on Dagobah, there is not. Make your bed. Journal three things grateful for, you are. One of mine today: grateful that stepped in swamp mud before putting on my robes, I did not. Small victories, celebrate you must.

Look around your home, you should. Stuff everywhere, there is. A bread maker you used once in 2019, you have. Seventeen throw pillows on a couch designed for three humans, there are. A drawer full of cables — what they connect to, forgotten you have. Attachment, this is. And attachment, as any Jedi will tell you, leads to suffering. Also leads to not being able to find your keys, it does.

The KonMari method, heard of it, have you? Hold each item and ask: "Spark joy, does this?" A Jedi approach, this is. Hold your possessions. Feel them with the Force. If joy they spark not, thank them and let go. Did this with my lightsaber once. Still sparked joy, it did. Kept it. Did this with a broken lamp from the Jedi Temple gift shop. Sparked nothing, it did. Into the swamp, it went. Everything goes into the swamp eventually.

One robe, I own. One walking stick. One small cooking pot. A home the size of a closet, I live in. Happy, I am. Content, I am. Occasionally lonely, I am, but that is what the Force ghost group chat is for. Qui-Gon texts too much, but supportive he is. The point: need less than think you do, you do. Your possessions own you, when own too many you do. Free yourself. Donate to the Rebel Alliance Thrift Store. A tax write-off, it is.

Cut you off in traffic, someone did. Feel the anger rising, you do. Your knuckles on the steering wheel, white they turn. A word, you shout — a word that in this blog post, print I will not. Consumed by the dark side, you have become. And only on the highway for three minutes, you have been. Hmmm. Troubling, this is.

Fear leads to anger. Anger leads to hate. Hate leads to suffering. Suffering leads to that vein in your forehead that your doctor told you to worry about. A chain reaction, road rage is. Begins with fear it does — fear of being late, fear of losing control, fear that the person who cut you off is somehow winning at life while you sit in the slow lane behind a speeder going ten under the limit. A speeder piloted by what appears to be a Jawa who can barely see over the dashboard.

Breathe, you must. In through the nose, out through the mouth. Count to ten. Or to 900, if particularly angry you are — that many years of practice, I have had. An audiobook, listen to. A podcast about meditation, play. Or simply accept that late, you will be. Arrived late to his own Jedi training, Luke did. Saved the galaxy anyway, he did. Late is not the end of the world. Destroying Alderaan — that is the end of the world. Perspective, you must keep.

Spent four hours scrolling through the HoloNet last night, you did. Deny it, you cannot. Sense the blue light damage in your eyes, I can. Started by checking one notification, you did. Ended by watching a video of a Loth-cat falling off a shelf at 2 AM, you did. Laughed, you did not even. Just stared at the screen with empty eyes. The dark side, this is. Not the dramatic dark side with lightning and capes. The sad dark side. The dark side of a person lying in bed illuminated only by their phone screen, watching content they do not enjoy.

Dopamine, social media hijacks. Feel good, a "like" makes you. Crave more likes, your brain does. Post a photo, you do. Check it seventeen times in one hour, you do. Three likes, it has. Two of them are from your mother and a bot selling sunglasses. Devastated, you feel. Your self-worth, tied to a number on a screen, it has become. Told you the dark side was seductive, I did. Thought I meant Force lightning, you did. Meant Instagram, I did.

A digital detox, try you should. One week without social media, survive you can. Read a book, you might. Go outside, you could. Talk to a human person with your mouth, you may. Radical, I know. On Dagobah, no cell service there is. Intentional, that was not — just a swamp planet with terrible infrastructure. But peaceful, it is. The only notifications I receive are from the Force, and even those, I sometimes ignore. Boundaries, even with the cosmic energy field, important they are.

Look at this face. Nine hundred years old, this face is. A single wrinkle — okay, many wrinkles it has. All of the wrinkles, actually. But LUMINOUS, this skin is. Glow, it does. Green and glowing, like a radioactive avocado, some have said. Rude, that was. But accurate, also it was. The secret? Moisture. On a swamp planet I live. Humidity, 100% it is, every day. A natural facial steam, my entire life is. Spend money on a humidifier, I do not. My planet IS a humidifier.

SPF, critical it is. Even on a planet where barely see the sun you can, protect your skin, you must. UV rays, sneaky they are. Like the Sith, they are — working in the shadows, causing damage you will not notice for decades. Moisturizer, apply daily. A fancy brand, need you do not. Whatever at the swamp pharmacy they sell, use I do. The ingredient list, read I cannot — in Aurebesh it is and my reading glasses, lost them I have. But soft, my skin remains. For 900 years, soft it has been.

Hydrate, you must. Water, drink. Not the swamp water — filtered water. That lesson, learned the hard way I did. Approximately 200 years ago, unfiltered swamp water I drank. A week of gastrointestinal distress, I experienced. Speak of it further, I will not. Sleep, also critical. Eight hours, the recommended amount is. Nine hundred years old I am — twelve hours, I need. And a nap. Sometimes two naps. Rest, the ultimate anti-aging secret it is. Also, being a fictional character helps. Age only when the plot requires it, I do.

Said this to Luke, I did. Meant it as a joke, I did. Laughed, he did not. Too busy being dramatic about his father, he was. But the truth in this statement, acknowledge it I must. Aging, inevitable it is. Fight it, many try. Botox, some get. Hair transplants, others pursue. A full cybernetic suit to avoid dealing with burn damage, one particular student of mine chose. Extreme, that was. But judge, I do not. Okay, judge a little, I do.

Gracefully, age you can. Accept the changes, you must. Your knees will make sounds. Your back will have opinions about the weather. A noise when you sit down, you will make — a noise that, explain it, you cannot. It simply happens. Started making that noise at 450, I did. Now, a symphony of creaks and groans, my body is. A percussion instrument, my skeleton has become. Beautiful, in its own way, it is. Mostly it is just loud.

The secret to aging well, gratitude it is. Grateful for each day, be. Grateful for each sunrise — or swamp-fog-lightening, as on Dagobah we call it. Grateful for the people in your life, even the ones who text you only when need something, they do. Looking at you, Luke. Call more often, you should. A Force ghost, I am now. Literally haunt you, I can. And will. The point: age is a number. Mine is 900. Yours is lower. Enjoy the journey. And invest in a good mattress. Regret it, you will not.

Hmmmm. Forty, you are. A career change, you contemplate. "Too old to go back to school, am I?" you ask. HAH. Too old! Began training Jedi when already ancient, I was. Took on a new padawan at 800, I did. EIGHT HUNDRED. Forty, a baby that is. Barely hatched, you are. The audacity of a 40-year-old human telling ME they feel too old. Lived through the rise and fall of entire civilizations, I have. You missed one semester of organic chemistry. Perspective, please.

Afraid of being the oldest in the class, you are. Understand this, I do. When trained younglings at the Jedi Temple, I did, surrounded by five-year-olds I was. Asked me if I was someone's grandpa, one of them did. Force-pushed him into a bush, I did not. Wanted to, I did. Restraint, I showed. The point: your age, an advantage it is. Life experience, you bring. Wisdom, you carry. Know how to do laundry, you do, which is more than said for any 19-year-old in a dormitory, it can be.

Financial aid, look into you should. Scholarships for returning students, there are. The Jedi Order offered full tuition, room, and board — although the room was a shared dormitory and the board was cafeteria food that made the Death Star's meatloaf look gourmet. Still, free it was. Student loans, the dark side they are. Avoid them if can, you must. But if take them you must, then worth it, the investment in yourself is. Learn something new. Change your path. 900 years old and still learning, I am. Mostly learning where I left my keys. But learning nonetheless.

Ordered food, you have. Forty-five minutes, the app says. Forty-five minutes! In forty-five minutes, travel to the Dagobah system and back, a starship could. Yet your pad thai, somewhere between the restaurant and your home, lost it is. The tracker shows your driver going in circles. A disturbance in the Force, you feel. That disturbance is your driver making three other deliveries before yours. Patience, you must have.

The dark side, checking the app every 30 seconds is. Each refresh, hope you feel. Each refresh, disappointed you become. A cycle, this is. A cycle not unlike the one that led Anakin to become Darth Vader, except instead of losing your wife, you are losing your spring rolls. Dramatic, the comparison is? Perhaps. But when hungry you are, rational you are not. Hangry, the modern humans call it. A path to the dark side, hanger is. Snack while you wait, you should. Crackers, keep in the pantry. Emergency rations, a Jedi always has.

Arrive cold, the food will. Accept this, you must. Reheat it in the microwave, you will. Perfect, it will not be. But grateful, you should remain. A miracle of modern technology, food delivery is. In my day, walk through a swamp to catch a snake for dinner, I had to. Uphill both ways, the swamp was. Complain, I did not. Well, complained a little, I did. To no one, because alone on a swamp planet, I lived. The tip, do not forget. Generous, be. In a gig economy, your driver lives. The Force, with them also it is.

Broke, you are. Deny it, do not. Looked at your bank account this morning, you did. A disturbance in the Force, it caused. Your balance, lower than a Sarlacc pit it is. And like a Sarlacc pit, slowly digesting your financial future over a thousand years, it is. But despair, you must not. A budget, create you can. A spreadsheet, your ally it is. Boring, yes. But powerful. More powerful than you can possibly imagine. Said that about the Force, Obi-Wan did, but applies to compound interest, it also does.

Needs versus wants, distinguish you must. Need food, you do. Need a subscription to seven streaming services, you do not. Watching all of them, you are not. Paying for three you forgot about, you are. Cancel them. Feel the loss, you will. For approximately one day. Then free, you will feel. Like a Jedi who has renounced material possessions. Except keep your phone, you will. And your Wi-Fi. Reasonable, we must be. Monks, we are not. Well, technically monks the Jedi are, but monks with lightsabers and starships, which is a significantly cooler version of monasticism.

An emergency fund, build you must. Three to six months of expenses, the financial advisors recommend. On Dagobah, my expenses are approximately zero credits per month. Rent-free, my mud hut is. Utilities, nonexistent they are. My emergency fund, therefore, is also zero — but proportionally, very healthy it is. For you, different the math may be. Save what you can. Invest wisely. And remember: a Jedi craves not material things. But crave a retirement plan, a Jedi absolutely should. Even Force ghosts need to plan for the afterlife. There is no 401(k) in the Force. Checked, I have.