Keefe is of Irish origin, derived from Ó Caoimh, meaning “gentle, noble, or kind". Guess what - I am neither of those. My name’s Keefe — yes, in the form of a first name when it’s usually a surname. I like to think of it as my personal rebellion against tradition, but it's really because my parents are Asians.
After years of reading, listening, debating, and experimenting, I had a thought: why not publish what I think?
I don’t write because I’ve got life figured out. If anything, I write because I absolutely don’t — and this whole site is cheaper than therapy, less awkward than trauma-dumping at family dinners, and slightly more legal than screaming into the void. Life is a circus: career chaos, health experiments gone wrong, “what is happiness” rabbit holes, and the occasional 2 a.m. spiral where I start rethinking every decision I’ve ever made, including that second cup of coffee at 10 p.m.
So here’s what you’ll find: short essays, breakdowns of podcasts I actually listen to (Diary of a CEO, Jay Shetty’s On Purpose, Huberman Lab etc), and my half-serious experiments with health, productivity, and the human brain. Disclaimer: I don’t own any rights to those shows. I just digest them, regurgitate the bits that make sense, and sprinkle in my own flavor like some deranged chef tossing chili flakes on everything because he doesn’t know what else to do.
And let’s get something straight — everything here is 100% human-written. I bleed into these words. They come from my sleepless brain, not from some silicon soul. But — and here’s the kicker — my grammar is atrocious. Catastrophic. Abysmal. Picture Yoda after three tequila shots trying to write an email, and you’re in the ballpark. I’m not a native English speaker, so often my sentences come out like they’ve been through a blender. That’s where AI steps in. Not to think for me, but to save you, the reader, from watching me wrestle commas like they’re wild animals. AI is my janitor, my broom, my spellcheck on steroids. It doesn’t give me ideas; it just stops my words from looking like broken furniture.
Here’s my rule: I call bullshit when I see it. Sometimes that means calling myself out, too. I’m not here to hand you the Ten Commandments of Life™ or sell you the “one weird trick” to fix everything. Half the time I’m just fumbling through the dark like everyone else. But I do believe we’re capable of more than we let ourselves believe — if we stop overcomplicating the obvious and face the uncomfortable without excuses.
Most of what I write takes 4–5 minutes to read. Quick enough for your commute, your coffee break, or while sitting on the toilet (don’t pretend, we both know). You don’t have to agree with me. Honestly, I don’t always agree with me. Some of my writing you’ll nod to, some of it you’ll roll your eyes at, and some of it will bore you enough that you’ll skim. That’s fine. Take what hits, leave what doesn’t.
So if you’re tired of fluffy self-help candy floss and want raw, messy, occasionally poetic truths — stick around. Worst case, you waste a few minutes. Best case, you laugh, think, and maybe, just maybe, walk away with something that makes life suck a little less.
This site is personal, messy, and mine alone. If you’re curious how that squares with the rest of my life, wander over to the Disclaimer. It’s basically the fine print, written in human language