The First Week Back

I restarted my daily Mandarin practice this past week with the best of intentions. The plan was to spend fifteen minutes going through flashcards during my lunch break using the Pleco app. I set up the flashcards feature to test me on HSK 1 and HSK 2 vocabulary. Rather than creating a separate alarm specifically for Mandarin, I tried habit stacking, attaching the practice to my existing lunch break routine. The logic was sound. Combine tasks to eliminate wasted time and reduce the mental load of remembering yet another obligation.

The first two days went smoothly. I dutifully reviewed my cards, testing myself on the vocabulary needed for those early exams. But the third day seemed to disappear into the void of a busy week. In other words, I forgot. The fourth day became a makeup day where I completed two sessions back-to-back to compensate for the lapse.

The Character Observation

I learned to read traditional Chinese characters while living in Taiwan. I didn’t want to lose my traditional literacy, especially since I find the characters beautiful, but I eventually started focusing more on learning simplified characters, figuring it would be useful for travel to mainland China.

This week, I couldn’t help but notice that when I find myself stuck on a word during flashcard reviews, I look at both the simplified and traditional versions displayed in Pleco. More often than not, when the two forms differ significantly, I remember the pronunciation faster when looking at the traditional form. It appears that, despite my past efforts to prioritize learning simplified characters (and it was for a decent chunk of time, might I add), the character system I learned first still sticks more in my brain.

The Post-Workout Boost

Later in the week, I experimented with reviewing flashcards immediately after exercising. The difference was palpable. I’m not sure if it was because of increased oxygen flow or simply elevated endorphins, but character recall felt sharper and more fluid. The satisfaction of physical exertion seemed to carry over into mental exertion, creating a compound effect of accomplishment.

The Consistency Challenge

I’ll be honest about this week’s metrics. Technically, I covered a week’s worth of characters (twenty per session), but I didn’t hit my daily target consistently. I skipped one day, made it up the next, then skipped the following day (tapping out in complete “weekend mode”), and tackled another double session to compensate.

The friction of starting remains my biggest hurdle. My thumb has developed a muscle memory that leads it straight to Instagram or YouTube the moment I unlock my phone. It’s basically a reflex at this point. Choosing Pleco instead requires active resistance against the algorithm’s pull. But once I push through that initial resistance and find my flow, the satisfaction is genuine (especially when I correctly recall both the meaning and pronunciation of a character I was sure I’d forgotten).

Knowing Your Bandwidth

I haven’t started looking for a tutor yet. Part of me feels like I’m being too easy on myself, taking “baby steps” when I should be sprinting. But the reality is that my schedule is currently bursting with preparation for an upcoming event. Right now, maintaining this flashcard habit (imperfect as it is) represents my best effort.

This raises a larger question that I’m still sitting with: How do we balance the need for consistency in skill-building with life’s inevitable ebbs and flows? Some chapters offer more space for ambitious projects while others feel like barely keeping afloat. We know that consistency is the engine of progress, but life consistently refuses to cooperate with our ideal timelines. When do we push past our perceived limits, and when do we wisely deprioritize to preserve our sanity?

Maybe that’s a topic for another day. Until then, may your flashcards be memorable and your apps be opened intentionally.

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I studied Mandarin for a period of time (longer than I care to admit). I’d say I reached a level of proficiency that I can be proud of. But then, I stopped…gradually, and then completely.

I could blame my busyness. I’ve been working on meaningful projects that demand attention. But if I’m being honest, I’ve also been distracted. Not by the important stuff, but by the endless scroll (YouTube, specifically). I tell myself I’ll watch one video, and suddenly hours have disappeared into content that entertains but never enriches. It’s an escape, and I’m addicted to the dopamine hit.

The reality of the situation stings. I know exactly what I need to do. I need to put the phone down, install blockers, and reclaim those fragmented hours. Logically, it’s simple. But emotionally, it feels like preparing for withdrawal. These habits are ingrained and comfortable. Breaking them means sitting with the discomfort of not being constantly entertained, and I’m…hesitant.

Motivation in Exile

I felt most alive learning Mandarin when I lived where it was spoken. Yes, it was survival, but I also found a lot of joy in connecting with the people around me. Now that I’m back in an English-speaking environment, it’s as if the urgency evaporated. My daily survival doesn’t depend on ordering food or asking for directions in another language. As a result, the motivation disappeared along with the positive pressure.

The truth is that the process of language learning isn’t actually fun for me. Flashcards feel dry. Writing characters repeatedly feels like homework. What I crave is the application. The moment you realize you understand what someone is saying in the target language and they understand you in return is nothing short of electric. Without a Mandarin-speaking environment, I feel like I’m memorizing vocabulary into the void.

Making You My Accountability Buddy

So, why am I telling you this?

For one, if you feel like you’re stuck in the cycle of investing in skills, letting them atrophy, and then beating yourself up for the waste, I want to assure you that you’re not alone. I don’t plan on giving up on myself, so I hope you’ll take this as encouragement to not give up on yourself either.

I’m also experimenting with public accountability. By admitting my stagnation here, I’m making you a witness to my goal. I’m making the intention known to the world, which makes it harder for me to ignore.

The plan is simple (execution remains the hard part):

• Micro-habits: Fifteen minutes daily with Pleco flashcards, same time every day, alarm-enforced

• Habit replacement: When I reach for YouTube, reach for Mandarin instead

• Human connection: Potentially hiring a weekly tutor for instruction, conversation, and that hit of actual communication that makes the memorization worth it

I need to rebuild my focus muscle first. Without discipline and systems, I’ll keep defaulting to easy dopamine. But if I can replace the entertainment escape with the harder, richer work of language acquisition, maybe I can salvage all the years of effort I put into learning this skill.

What About You?

Have you struggled to maintain a skill when the environmental pressure disappears? How do you pull yourself out of the algorithm’s gravity well? I would love to know your strategies.

Next week, I’ll report back on whether the alarm worked, whether the tutor search began, and whether I’ve managed to trade viral videos for vocabulary lists.

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I am learning two different subjects simultaneously, and my brain is protesting.

Late at night, I sit with Mao’s Great Famine—an eye-opening account of the Great Leap Forward—while also attempting to master Obsidian, a networked note-taking system. The technical aspects of linking notes are starting to click. I have created notes for Mao Zedong, the Chinese Communist Party, the 1958-1962 date range, Frank Dikötter (the author of the book), and “Archives” (since the book draws heavily on archival documents). In the graph view, I can see the constellation forming: Mao connected to the Party, Dikötter linked to Archives, the timeline tethered to the Great Leap Forward.

Yet, I am reading sentences three, four, five times, and still watching them slide through my mind like water through a sieve. It is the reading equivalent of “in one ear and out the other”—in one eye and out the other. Part of this is circumstantial. It is late, I am tired, and my attention span feels frayed. But part of it is the cognitive load of learning a devastating history while at the same time figuring out how to organize its various facets in a way that I can wrap my head around.

The Rabbit Hole Temptation

My vocabulary is failing me, or perhaps the text is simply dense. I find myself encountering unfamiliar terms in the preface alone. The instinct is to stop, consult ChatGPT or a dictionary, and create a new note for every concept. I have already linked one term to a Disney movie character because the definition triggered that association.

But if I look up every word, create a note for every concept, and follow every rabbit hole, I will be reading this book for years. On the one hand, there is the desire for a comprehensive understanding of the material. On the other hand, there is the reality of finite time. I catch myself wanting to “cover” pages rather than absorb them, driven by an anxiety that there are so many other books waiting.

The Breakthrough

Later that evening, I attempted to explain to my husband what I had learned so far, fully expecting to stumble over my words. I’ve always considered myself to be more of a writer than a speaker.

But something unexpected happened. I found myself articulating the concepts with a clarity that surprised me. I understood the material better than I had realized. The slow and repetitive reading, the obsessive lookups, the linking of different ideas; it had all sunk in deeper than the “in one eye and out the other” sensation suggested.

The Case for Slowness

This forced me to reconsider my impatience. When I was studying Mandarin in Taiwan, the words that stuck were the ones I struggled with—the characters I wrote over and over again, the phrases I researched and butchered. The words I glossed over were the ones that disappeared from my memory. Depth required friction.

Perhaps this is simply how learning works, especially for complex, emotionally weighted material. The historical devastation I am studying demands comprehension, not coverage. My brain is building new pathways, and construction takes time. I cannot expect to speed through the foundations and still expect the structure to hold.

Quality Over Quantity

I am trying to be brutally honest with my note-taking process. Before I create a link or capture a detail, I ask myself: Will I remember this? Does this matter in the grand scheme of things? I’ve found this necessary when I’m fighting the instinct to transcribe linearly and instead trying to trust the network of ideas to hold what is essential.

Will my methods be adjusted as time passes? Maybe. But for now, I am choosing depth over speed. The book will most likely take longer to finish. The notes will (hopefully) be fewer but denser. And when I close the app and try to explain what I have learned to someone I love, I hope to do so accurately without sounding like I’m simply reciting facts from a textbook.

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The Starting Point

I recently decided to dive deep into Obsidian, focusing specifically on one use case: book notes. After reviewing various possibilities, I kept coming back to the question of how to transform reading into lasting knowledge. To get started, I returned to Nick Milo’s “Linking Your Thinking” channel—the same source where I first learned Obsidian basics in fifteen minutes. This time, I needed a refresher on the fundamentals, particularly the concept of connecting ideas across notes rather than grouping them all together in one giant note.

The Mental Shift

Here’s the challenge: My brain loves lists. For years, I’ve organized thoughts in linear formations (bullet points, numbered lists, etc.). That’s what order looks like to me. Obsidian’s graph view, with its constellation of interconnected nodes, fascinates me, but it also feels mentally cluttered right now. I’m struggling to envision how I might make the connection between a note about one idea and something I write six months later, or how to organize thoughts that seem to branch infinitely.

The mechanics are coming together. I’ve downloaded Obsidian locally and learned Markdown formatting—discovering that typing asterisks for bold or dashes for lists feels surprisingly logical once you abandon the toolbar mentality. But the philosophy remains slippery. When every note could link to countless others, how do you maintain coherence without chaos?

The Test Case

I’ve chosen my first test case: Mao’s Great Famine, a history book sitting in my Kindle library that I’ve started and abandoned more times than I would like to admit. The grades I received in my history classes weren’t terrible, but I would hardly call the subject my strong suit. Despite having an excellent history teacher in high school whose tests were only made up of essay questions rather than multiple choice, I relied on brute-force memorization. The information never stuck because I never truly integrated it.

This time, I’m approaching it differently. Instead of recording facts for regurgitation, I’m thinking in terms of tags and categories—people, dates, events, locations—but with a twist. I want to push myself to make personal connections, even when they seem tangential. If a historical event reminds me of a modern experience, that link goes in the note. The goal isn’t to write a school report; it’s to weave the material into my existing mental framework.

The Anticipated Struggle

I expect confusion. When I actually start reading, I’ll likely face that old impulse to transcribe everything important—which, historically, has meant nearly everything. Learning to curate rather than copy will be uncomfortable, and so will breaking the habit of hierarchical organization in favor of associative thinking.

But that’s precisely why I’m conducting this experiment to begin with. I’ve always admired people who can recall historical timelines with ease, and I’ve accepted that my current methods aren’t serving me. There is room to grow here, even if the path feels messy at the start.

What Comes Next

Once I begin reading, I’ll be documenting the specific process—what deserves a note, what warrants a link, and how the graph view actually functions when populated with real content rather than theoretical possibilities. Will the visual network reveal patterns I would normally miss in a traditional outline? Or will it confirm my fears about digital clutter?

There’s only one way to find out. I’ll keep you posted on what emerges from the chaos.

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I’m finally doing it. I’m documenting my personal development projects with some assistance from AI. School may be behind me, but the desire to keep learning isn’t. Now, it’s about finding and utilizing the tools that will aid in continual growth.

Enter: Obsidian

I recently learned about Obsidian from a friend who sent my husband and I one of those “Learn Obsidian in 15 Minutes” YouTube tutorials. It was…overwhelming, to say the least. And yet, that overwhelm led to curiosity. I wanted to figure out how this markdown-based “second brain” could actually fit into my life.

To cut through the noise, I asked Claude for a blank-slate assessment: What is Obsidian actually for? The answer was both inspiring and paralyzing. Knowledge management, fiction writing, project management, recipe collections, D&D campaigns, legal research—the list seemed endless. I fixated on the book notes feature (a nudge to restart my reading habit beyond the occasional fiction novel binge), but I also saw potential for research and study workflows that go beyond my current Apple Notes setup.

The Real Challenge: Understanding vs. Memorizing

Here’s the truth: I’ve been a “repetition learner” my whole life. Drill, memorize, repeat. It works for tests, but the knowledge rarely sticks in a way I can use. What I’m hoping Obsidian offers isn’t just better organization, but a structural shift toward understanding. The linked notes, the visual graph of connections, the atomic nature of the ideas—I’m hoping these features force me to process information deeply rather than simply store it.

I already know this transition won’t be seamless. I’m comfortable with Apple Notes. It’s accessible and it’s familiar. Moving to Obsidian means stretching my brain around new workflows, new syntax, and the paradox of choice that comes with 1,500+ plugins. So, what’ll be my strategy? Start embarrassingly small. I’ll run it locally first (skipping the sync subscription until I’m committed), pick one low-stakes use case, and resist the urge to build a perfect system on day one.

AI as a Thinking Partner, Not a Crutch

Where does AI fit in? It definitely won’t be a replacement for the work, but it’ll act as a guide through the confusion. When I’m stuck on a feature or can’t visualize how to execute a specific workflow, I’ll use Claude to troubleshoot. The key is resisting the temptation to let AI do the learning for me. Frankly, my attention span is beginning to resemble that of a goldfish, which is why I want to rebuild the discipline of sitting with complexity—reading, internalizing, and then acting.

I’m also using the VoicePal app to record my thoughts and capture the raw, stream-of-consciousness reflections, which I will then share in this newsletter.

Systems Over Motivation

Motivation is fleeting, but discipline is more likely to result in consistency. So, I’m building systems I can maintain when the initial excitement fades. That means regular check-ins, documented milestones, and permission to be human when the “limitless capabilities” of Obsidian feel more intimidating than exciting.

I’ll be sharing updates as I install, poke around, and inevitably break things. If you’re also trying to build a learning system that prioritizes depth over speed, I’d love to hear how you’re doing it.

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