Questionably Nice: The Secret Life of Ordinary Excellence

There’s something quietly amusing about how society treats perfection, as if it’s a contagious lie.

You see a couple walking down the street, holding hands, smiling at each other with that rare kind of easy affection, and someone whispers, “Hmm… they must have issues. No one’s that happy.”

Because heaven forbid love exist without complications, therapy sessions, or passive-aggressive texting between eye rolls. Happiness, apparently, is suspect.

Or take social media.

Someone crafts an article that has perfect grammar. Not a missing comma in sight. You might expect applause—or at least a nod of recognition.

But no.

People lean back, squint at the screen, and murmur, “Wait… did you write this? Must’ve used some tool. No human can… you know… write so well.” Structured grammar, coherent thought, thoughtfulness—all suddenly proof that you are not quite of this world.

And yet, paradoxically, the same world expects perfection in deliverables, clarity in communication, and competence in execution. The absurdity is exquisite.

Even compliments are dangerous.

A friend writes a thoughtful, genuine note praising your work or effort, and suddenly a third party wonders aloud, “Why are they being so nice? What do they really want?”

Generosity, kindness, care—these are now anomalies, anomalies that demand hidden motives. Because if humans can be purely good, free of irony or agenda, the world feels unbalanced. Sincerity, it seems, is a threat to equilibrium.

Nowhere is this phenomenon more pronounced than when promotions appear on the horizon.

Ah yes, the office promotion—the ultimate social Rorschach test.

Someone receives recognition, and the gossip machinery revs to life: “She got promoted? Must be buttering up the boss.”

It doesn’t matter that the person has consistently produced brilliant work and exceeded every target. No, clearly there is a hidden agenda. Recognition, merit, and excellence cannot exist organically. Success must always be engineered through charm or manipulation, preferably while standing on one foot and winking at the boss.

Compliments at meetings? Calculated.
Staying late occasionally? Strategic.
Offering to help a stressed coworker? Networking.

Every act of competence, kindness, or initiative is filtered through the lens of suspicion.

This suspicion isn’t restricted to promotions or relationships. It extends into every sphere of life where effort meets recognition.

The message is clear: humans cannot simply do well—they must have ulterior motives. Competence must be mysterious, and success must be suspicious. Ordinary excellence is dissected, analyzed, and reframed as either artifice or subterfuge.

It’s funny, really. Society has a curious obsession with imperfection. Flaws are comforting—they prove that life is messy, unpredictable, and human.

If someone is kind without irony, competent without manipulation, or precise without calculation, it feels like an anomaly. And when that anomaly is rewarded—a promotion, a public acknowledgment, even a smile—it threatens the narrative we have constructed about how life “usually” works. Excellence becomes, by default, suspect.

Yet there is a subtle, quiet joy in this absurdity. Observing perfection or competence without ulterior motives becomes a kind of private amusement. We notice the humor in the whispers, the sideways glances, the over-analysis. There is liberation in witnessing skill and sincerity without being required to explain or justify it. Excellence exists, and sometimes the most satisfying response is simply to smile and let the world puzzle over it.

And then there are the everyday instances—the small, nearly invisible ones—that compound the amusement.

The colleague who brings in a perfectly baked cake for a team birthday.
The teammate who quietly fixes a shared spreadsheet without announcement.
The manager who gives clear, concise feedback. Feedback that actually helps people grow.

Each act is met with gratitude by those directly involved, yet whispers circulate elsewhere: “Wait… why are they being helpful? Is there a reason?”

The humor emerges from the tension between intention and perception—the sheer audacity of humans doing good or competent work without ulterior motive.

Happiness, competence, and kindness are treated like rare artifacts, almost too precious to trust. And yet, they exist. Quietly, beautifully, and often unnoticed.

I’ve come to see these social suspicions as a reflection less of reality and more of human psychology. Humans are narrative beings. We need stories with conflict, mystery, and twists.

When someone simply acts with integrity or skill, we instinctively invent a story to account for it.
A loving couple? Must have hidden arguments.
A competent coworker? Must have hidden strategies.
A kind friend? Must have hidden demands.

If life were simply as it appears, we would be deprived of plot, suspense, and gossip. And so, suspicion is born, not from the person, but from the audience’s craving for complexity.

This absurdity, however, is rich material for humor. We are performers and spectators at once, caught between genuine effort and constant evaluation.

So, what is the lesson here?

Perhaps it is that perfection, competence, and kindness do not need to defend themselves. The pursuit of perfection, or the compulsion to manufacture it, can easily kill the present. No one needs to chase flawless expression or flawless behavior relentlessly. Yet when perfection does appear—whether in a well-crafted paragraph, a thoughtful gesture, or a quietly competent act—it should inspire hope, not suspicion.

And sometimes, if someone asks, we can simply smile and say, “Completely human, completely intentional. Just a little extra care in a world that often skips it.”

Writing is Who I am

It usually starts with a smile.

A pause.

Then, casually — like asking how many sugars I take in my coffee — someone drops the line: 

“How do you write so much?”

They say it with interest.
Sometimes with awe.
Sometimes with the gentle disbelief reserved for people who do strange things voluntarily. Like running marathons in the rain. Or watching documentaries to relax.

I nod. I smile. I know the question isn’t new.

People notice patterns. They see the articles, the stories, the newsletters, the books. My name keeps floating up every now and then.

The natural assumption? I must have some secret formula. A quirky muse. Maybe an underground lab where I whisper ideas to my AI clone while sipping turmeric chai.

If only.

The truth is, I write because I like it. That’s it.
That’s the secret.
I like it.

Writing, for me, isn’t something I have to force. It’s not a tool I sharpen for performance. It’s not even some brave act of self-expression.

Writing is like breathing.

It’s like being in a hill station where the air feels clearer, the noise dims, and you remember how to be a person again. That’s what writing does for me.

Yes, there’s a process. A real one. There are index cards. Storyboarding. Showing up every single day — whether I feel profound or not.

People rarely want to credit the method or discipline. It’s easier to attribute it to magic. Or madness.

Some say, “I haven’t read everything but I love how consistent you are!” — the literary equivalent of, “I didn’t taste the food, but the presentation is stunning.”

Still, I appreciate it. Because attention — especially today — isn’t nothing.

Sometimes I want to answer with equal ambiguity: “I breathe in. I write out.” Or: “I wait till the hill air hits, and the sentences just arrive.” (Spoiler: I don’t live in the hills.)

The truth is I feel like writing often. It brings me back into focus. Some people go for walks. I chase paragraphs.

I’m not chasing greatness. Not trying to write like Nietzsche or Camus.
Not trying to impress. I write because it’s what I do. Because it’s what I’ve always done.

Now and then someone says, “You’re always writing,” as if it’s a condition I should monitor. As if one day a doctor will diagnose me with Excessive Creative Output Syndrome and prescribe rest, hydration, and no metaphors for a week.

But what they don’t see is that writing doesn’t drain me. It fills me.

That’s what people miss when they chase productivity hacks. They want content calendars, neat and colour-coded. But creative work — especially the kind rooted in human experience — doesn’t run on timelines. It runs on truth.

Of course, the DMs keep coming:
“Hey Janani, just wondering if you need help scaling your brand…”
I’m a trained counsellor, engineer, and personal branding expert. I didn’t ask for help. But unsolicited expertise thrives.

I nod, archive, and return to what matters — the work.

Not the visibility of it. Not the branding of it.
Just the quiet discipline of showing up for what feels real.

Of course, I don’t expect everyone to read everything I write. But it does amuse me how often people skip the piece but want to know how I wrote it. It’s like ignoring the movie but asking how the director framed the shots.

Once, someone asked what editing tool I use. I told them: “Mostly… my eyes.” Needless to say they were disappointed.

Another time, a friend texted: “I haven’t read the whole piece yet but HOW do you keep writing week after week?!” I replied, “Well, reading the piece might actually answer that.” She sent a laughing emoji. And didn’t read it.

Still, I hold no resentment.

I’m grateful for the question — even if it misses the heart of what I do. Because somewhere in that curiosity is a reminder that people are watching. Even if they’re not reading. Yet.

It’s not a job, even though I’ve made it one. It’s not therapy, though it often feels better than some. It’s not self-promotion. It’s self-return.

There are, of course, days when I don’t write. When I just want to scroll, eat toast, and be unremarkable. And I let myself. Because writing is not a chain I’m tied to. It’s a window I get to open.

Most days, though, I write. Not for algorithms. Not for applause.
Because something in me asks, gently — “Can we make sense of this?” And I answer, “Okay.”

So yes, I write often. I write publicly. Without waiting to feel genius. And when people ask how I do it, I give them a kind answer.

Because maybe what they’re really asking is:

Can I do it too?
What does it take to be honest out loud?
Will anyone care if I do?

To all of that, I say: yes. Yes. And yes — even if it’s just you.

And to the readers who not only read my latest book Fear Off Work but also every article, newsletter, and even poster captions — thank you. You are the reason my book marketing phase is fun. You notice the tone, the phrasing, even the background score. You tell me about the one word I paused on or the moment the music shifted. That’s my tribe.

This journey has been deeply rewarding.

Despite all the humour, I want to say this plainly: I have nothing but love and gratitude — for every curious question, for every kind message, and for you, the reader, who quietly builds me up and reminds me why I keep writing.

Thank you!

📖 If you enjoyed this piece, my latest book Fear Off Work dives into a very different world — the fears we carry into our careers, and how to break free from them. Buy it here → https://www.amazon.in/dp/B0FL7WWCH1

To check out my bibliography, please visit my amazon author page: https://www.amazon.in/stores/Janani-Srikanth/author/B0BTX2G413

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The Philosophy of Music #StressFreeJuly

 

In a world that rarely slows down, stress can become the background score to our lives.

We rush, respond, react—rarely pausing long enough to feel what’s really playing inside us.

But sometimes, it takes a familiar melody, a quiet instrumental, or a timeless Bach piece to remind us: music isn't just for filling silence. It can become a path to finding it.

As part of #StressFreeJuly, we’ve spoken of movement, rest, and digital detoxes. But there’s one gentle shift that’s often overlooked: listening to music—not passively, but completely. Not as background noise, but as a mirror.

The German philosopher Josef Pieper once said:

"Not only is music one of the most amazing and mysterious phenomena of all the world’s miranda, the things that make us wonder but music may be nothing but a secret philosophizing of the soul. Music prompts the philosopher’s continued interest because it is by its nature so close to the fundamentals of human existence."

This isn’t a poetic exaggeration. It’s a psychological truth.

Music, when truly absorbed, allows us to bypass the analytical mind. It bypasses the inner critic, the overthinking, the performance trap.

It meets us where we are, and slowly, wordlessly, helps us move somewhere softer.

Stress often stems from disconnection—from ourselves, from our feelings, from the present moment. But when you surrender to a song, especially one without lyrics, something shifts. You’re no longer trying to fix or solve your inner state. You're simply being with it. Feeling it. Allowing it to surface and move through.

Pieper calls this process a kind of “secret philosophizing of the soul.” You’re not consciously thinking deep thoughts. But somewhere within, you begin to reflect. You may find that a sorrow you've buried returns, not to harm but to release. You may notice that a fear, once tangled in your chest, softens under the weight of a cello or the clarity of a piano.

There’s no rule about which genre to choose. It could be a Bach fugue, a lo-fi instrumental, a movie soundtrack, or your childhood lullaby.

What matters is your presence. Listening not to distract yourself, but to meet yourself.

So this week, give yourself ten quiet minutes. No phone. No scrolling. Just music.

Sit with it. Let it move through the noise in your head.

Let it reach the part of you that words often can’t.

Because sometimes, the most powerful form of healing isn’t about doing more. It’s about hearing more—of yourself.

P.S. One of the stories in my latest book, 'A Connection Called Life' explores how a quiet moment of shared music can spark something meaningful. If you’ve ever found yourself changed by a single song, that story 'Musical Connections' might stay with you. Check it out here: https://amzn.in/d/6uBF7b9