Towards the tail end of 2024, I saw a tweet from a lady proudly proclaiming she’d read 110 books that year. Congratulatory replies poured in, with people marvelling at her dedication. I, too, offered my congratulations—it was no small achievement by any usual metric. Yet a quiet question gnawed at me: was she truly absorbing those books, or simply ticking them off a list? My doubt wasn’t meant to diminish her success but to highlight a tension I knew well—because not too long ago, I was in that same place.

Growing up, I was always told to give every competition my best shot, whether that meant running across the school playground or standing my ground in a heated class debate. I found the advice simple in its directness: if you want to succeed, participate wholeheartedly. Yet as I journeyed further along life’s winding paths, I discovered moments where the best course of action was, quite counterintuitively, not to engage at all.

I used to keep a pristine spreadsheet detailing every book I read: fifty-two columns for fifty-two weeks—each row a neat checkpoint in my personal race against the calendar. It was an unspoken pact I made with myself: if I could surpass the target I’d set, I would feel worthy, accomplished—perhaps even validated. I remember the little thrill of updating my Goodreads profile, watching the numbers climb as I racked up one title after another. “Your 2021 Reading Challenge: 63/50 books completed!” it would proclaim, and I would bask in the glow of that fleeting achievement. At the height of this obsession, I even bought a Kindle, partly because of its built-in stats. The device tallied how long I spent reading, how many pages I turned, and how many days I managed to keep my streak alive. For a time, it felt like the perfect synergy of technology and ambition—yet beneath the surface, I was becoming more enamoured with the numbers than with the words themselves.

One evening I was reading John Steinbeck’s East of Eden. As I neared the final chapters, I realised with a jolt that I couldn’t recall the plot of the book I’d finished just the previous week—or, for that matter, the one before that. Characters and motifs that should have remained vivid simply disappeared like morning dew under a rising sun. In my frantic rush to consume pages, I had lost the wonder that first drew me to reading. Ironically, I was ‘winning’ at reading but losing the very thing that brought me to books in the first place.

Around that time, a proverb from Chinua Achebe echoed in my mind: “We often stand in the compound of a coward to point at the ruins where a brave man used to live.” On the surface, it highlights how quickly people can label others as cowards while celebrating those who rush headlong into peril. Yet the more I reflected, the more I saw a cautionary tale: bravery without discernment can lead to ruin, while so-called ‘cowards’ might preserve what truly matters by knowing when not to engage.

When I examined how this proverb applied to my reading habits, I saw it resonated across other areas of my life. Keeping that reading spreadsheet was just one example; in truth, I had metrics for nearly everything—from daily steps and calories consumed to language practice sessions and meditation minutes logged. My days revolved around tick-boxes and neat curves of data. In all these pursuits, I aimed to feel ‘enough,’ to reassure myself that I was on track and making progress.

I recall sometime ago with a particularly competitive friend group at school. We vied endlessly for top marks in class or the attention of a teacher we all admired. I still believe in having good grades, but the air was thick with rivalry, and my anxiety soared whenever I had a chance to outperform the others. Over time, this relentless chase turned friendships into alliances of convenience; everyone scrambled to stay one step ahead. One day, after exhausting myself and fracturing relationships I genuinely treasured, I realised the cost of playing that game was far too high.

Naturally, stepping away from these rituals of record-keeping felt disorienting. I had built my sense of self around discipline, achievement, and the constant push for more. Suddenly, I feared losing that structure—perhaps I would become lazy or aimless. Yet I soon saw that such a shift isn’t always a collapse of ambition but a recalibration of purpose. Bravery doesn’t mean fighting every battle; sometimes it means choosing not to fight at all.

Of course, we can’t sit out of every challenge. Life is filled with worthwhile battles—those that help us grow or bring us together as a society. The wisdom lies in discerning which games are worth playing and which ones drain us without offering a meaningful reward. My experiences taught me that mindfulness is key: understanding what motivates you, what you stand to gain or lose, and whether a particular struggle aligns with who you are.

When I finally closed my reading spreadsheet for the last time, it felt like a mini surrender. As the days and weeks passed, however, that feeling gave way to an unexpected lightness. No longer driven by quotas, I read with the same curiosity I’d known as a child—slowly, thoughtfully, and with my imagination fully engaged. Some weeks I devoured multiple books; other times, days or even weeks slipped by without picking up a single title, simply because life ebbed and flowed that way. The difference was that now I was reading because I truly wanted to, not because I needed a higher score.

As I look back, the changes didn’t stop with my reading habits. Freed from the tyranny of metrics, I began enjoying activities for their intrinsic worth again. I started sketching my digital art without worrying if I was ‘good enough’ or improving at a steady rate. I also began journaling more frequently—hence this blog—because the act of writing out my thoughts felt like both catharsis and discovery. I spent more time outdoors, cycling or travelling and marvelling at nature’s patient unfolding, rather than timing every chore with a stopwatch.

Just as in Achebe’s proverb, too much unyielding bravado can lead to one’s downfall. Whether it’s reading a staggering number of books or persisting in a career path that no longer serves us, sometimes we need the courage—or ‘cowardice,’ to use Achebe’s words—to yield. In many battles, a quiet retreat is not the shameful opposite of bravery; it can be a strategic move toward wholeness and longevity. We remain in our own ‘compounds,’ intact and ready to rebuild, rather than ending up in metaphorical ruins.

But here’s what I’ve gained in exchange for my metrics: the ability to quote lines that changed me, to feel stories in my bones, and to let books alter my way of seeing the world. I’ve learned that wisdom often comes disguised as surrender, that growth happens in the spaces between measurements, and that sometimes the most courageous act is to stop proving our courage.

Today, when people ask how many books I’ve read this year, I confess I haven’t kept track. Reactions vary from bewilderment while others nod in slow recognition of a truth they sense too. Without the metrics, I savour words more deeply, remember resonant lines, and let stories affect me in ways that can’t be tallied on a chart. My pace is no longer frantic but measured, often leading me to revisit certain books instead of perpetually chasing new ones.

So I stand in my own ‘coward’s compound,’ reflecting on the illusions I once chased so fervently. Instead of feeling shame, I feel gratitude. By letting go of the games that demanded perpetual striving, I made room for a gentler but more authentic growth. My shelves—physical and digital—are still brimming with stories waiting to be discovered, yet they no longer loom like unfinished tasks. They beckon with the promise of exploration, not obligation.

The greatest wisdom, I’ve found, lies not in knowing how to win, but in knowing which games to play, which to abandon, and how to tell the difference. Sometimes the only way to win is not to play—and in that choice lies a different kind of victory, one that transforms not just the game, but the player as well.