Chapter 8: Three in the Morning: Seeing the Same Load Differently

One Hundred and Twenty Essays

Imran is thirty-six and teaches literature at a secondary school. Every few weeks, his students hand in essays, and he must mark them. With four classes of about thirty students each, that means around one hundred and twenty essays at a time. Imran is a conscientious teacher. He reads every essay carefully and writes thoughtful comments. Each essay takes him about fifteen minutes.

On Friday afternoon, Imran carried a tall pile of essays home in two bags. As he unpacked them onto the kitchen table, he felt a weight settle on his chest. One hundred and twenty essays. Thirty hours of marking. He would have to give up his whole weekend, and several evenings the following week. He imagined the pile, the hours, the tiredness. By Friday evening, he had not marked a single essay, but he already felt exhausted.

On Saturday morning, Imran's partner found him sitting at the table, staring at the pile with his head in his hands. She sat down beside him and asked what was wrong. When he explained, she picked up one essay and read the first paragraph aloud. It was by a student who had written about a poem in a surprising and original way. Imran smiled despite himself. "That is Amira," he said. "She is brilliant." His partner picked up another. "And this one?" Imran smiled again. "That is Tom. He has improved so much this year."

As his partner picked up essay after essay, something changed in Imran. The pile stopped being a mountain of one hundred and twenty tasks. It became one hundred and twenty students, each with their own voice, their own struggles and their own progress. The work was exactly the same. But it no longer felt the same. By the afternoon, he had marked thirty essays, and he had enjoyed many of them.

The amount of work had not changed at all. What had changed was the way Imran saw it. The Zhuangzi tells a story about monkeys that makes exactly this point, and another about a frog that shows how the size of our world shapes the size of our troubles.

The Monkeys and Their Chestnuts

In the second chapter of the Zhuangzi, there is a very short story. A keeper of monkeys was handing out chestnuts. He told the monkeys, "You will get three in the morning and four in the evening." The monkeys were furious. So the keeper said, "All right, you will get four in the morning and three in the evening." The monkeys were delighted (Zhuangzi, chapter 2).

The story is funny because the monkeys' anger and delight are so obviously foolish. They receive seven chestnuts in both cases. Nothing has changed except the order and the words. Yet the first arrangement makes them furious and the second makes them happy. Zhuangzi observes that the reality and the name did not change, and yet joy and anger appeared. This, he suggests, is how people often are too (Zhuangzi, chapter 2).

It is easy to laugh at the monkeys. But we are often just like them. The same task can feel unbearable or manageable depending on how it is described, when it comes and how we think about it. "One hundred and twenty essays" feels crushing. "Thirty essays today, thirty tomorrow, and the rest in the evenings" feels possible. "One hundred and twenty students, each of whom I care about" feels meaningful. The chestnuts are the same. Our feelings are not.

The story has a second lesson, which is often overlooked. Notice what the keeper did. He did not argue with the monkeys or tell them they were foolish. He simply went along with them, giving them the arrangement that made them happy, since it made no real difference. Zhuangzi says that the wise person does something similar: they do not insist on one way of seeing things, but find the way that brings harmony, resting in a natural balance (Zhuangzi, chapter 2). In one common reading, Zhuangzi calls this "walking two roads": holding one's own view lightly enough to accept another that works just as well.

For people who try too hard, both lessons are useful. The first lesson is that much of the weight we feel comes from how we see our load, not only from the load itself. The second is that we can choose, like the keeper, to arrange and describe our load in a way that makes it easier to carry, without changing its substance. This is not self-deception. It is the wisdom of the keeper, who understood that if the chestnuts are the same, there is no harm in arranging them kindly.

The Frog in the Well

In the seventeenth chapter of the Zhuangzi, called Autumn Floods, there is a story about a frog who lived in a broken-down well. The frog was very pleased with his home. He told a great turtle from the eastern sea how wonderful it was. He could jump on the rim of the well, rest in the cracks of the bricks, swim in the water and walk in the mud. He was master of the whole well. Why did the turtle not come in and see it? (Zhuangzi, chapter 17).

The turtle tried to enter the well, but before he had even got his left foot in, his right knee was stuck. So he backed out and told the frog about the sea. The sea, he said, is so vast that a distance of a thousand miles cannot measure its width, and a height of a thousand fathoms cannot measure its depth. In ancient times, there were floods for years, and the sea did not rise. There were droughts for years, and the sea did not fall. It does not change with time, and it does not grow larger or smaller. The frog, hearing this, was astonished and felt lost (Zhuangzi, chapter 17).

Earlier in the same chapter, there is a related saying, spoken by the spirit of the great sea to the spirit of a river who had been proud of his own size. In my own words: you cannot talk about the sea to a frog in a well, because it is limited by its small space. You cannot talk about ice to an insect that lives only in summer, because it is limited by its season (Zhuangzi, chapter 17).

People who try too hard often live like the frog in the well. Their work becomes their whole world. The troubles of their office, their deadlines, their disagreements with colleagues and their worries about performance fill every corner of their attention. Like the frog, they are masters of a very small space, and within that space, every problem seems enormous. A difficult email can feel like a crisis. A delayed project can feel like a disaster. A critical comment can feel like the end of the world.

The turtle's description of the sea offers a different perspective. Beyond the well, there is a vast world in which our troubles, however real, are small. Floods come and go, droughts come and go, and the sea remains. Stepping out of the well, even for a moment, can shrink our problems back to their real size, and remind us that our lives are larger than our work.

There is a gentle humour in the story that is worth enjoying. The frog is not wicked or foolish. He is simply small, and his world is small, and so he believes that his well is everything. Most of us have been that frog at some point, convinced that the troubles of our particular corner of life were the most important things in existence. The turtle does not mock the frog. He simply describes the sea. Sometimes, the kindest help we can give ourselves, or others, is not to argue about the well, but to remind each other that the sea is there.

Imran Arranges His Chestnuts

After the Saturday morning with his partner, Imran began to think about his marking differently. He realized that he had been doing what the monkeys did: reacting to the description of his work rather than to the work itself. "One hundred and twenty essays" was a description that made him furious and exhausted. He decided to find a description that was just as true but easier to live with.

He began by breaking the pile into smaller groups. Instead of seeing one hundred and twenty essays, he saw four sets of thirty, one for each class. He marked one set at a time, with breaks in between. He also stopped carrying the whole pile home at once. He marked some essays during a free period at school, some on a weekday evening and some on Saturday morning, leaving Saturday afternoon and Sunday free.

He also changed the way he thought about each essay. Instead of seeing it as a task to be completed, he tried to see it as a conversation with a student. Before reading each one, he would think for a moment about the student who had written it: their progress, their interests, what they were trying to say. This made the marking slower at first, but more meaningful. And he noticed that his comments became more helpful, because he was writing to a person rather than processing a paper.

Finally, Imran talked with his colleagues and his head of department about the workload. Together, they agreed on some changes: shorter comments on some assignments, more feedback given in class discussions and spreading essay deadlines so that they did not all fall in the same week. These changes reduced the total amount of marking a little. But Imran says that the biggest change was not in the amount. It was in how he saw it.

"The essays did not get fewer," he says. "Well, a few did. But mostly, I stopped seeing them as a mountain and started seeing them as my students. It is like the monkeys and the chestnuts. Same chestnuts. Different breakfast." Imran still works hard. But he no longer spends his Friday evenings exhausted by a pile he has not yet touched.

Solène and the Endless Day

Solène is twenty-nine and has a three-month-old baby. Her days are a constant cycle of feeding, changing, comforting, washing and, occasionally, sleeping. Her partner works long hours and helps when he can, but most of the care falls on her. She loves her baby deeply. But she has started to dread each day, which feels like an endless, shapeless stretch of tasks with no beginning and no end.

When Solène described her days to a friend who had young children, the friend asked a simple question: "What do you like most about the day?" Solène had to think. Then she said, "The early morning feed, when the house is quiet and he looks at me. And the bath in the evening, when he splashes and laughs." The friend suggested that Solène think of her day not as an endless stretch of tasks, but as a series of small moments, some hard and some lovely, with those two moments as its anchors.

Solène tried this. She began to think of her day as having a shape: the quiet morning feed, then a stretch of tasks, then a walk with the pram if the weather was good, then more tasks, then the evening bath. The tasks were exactly the same as before. But now the day had a rhythm, with moments to look forward to. She also began to notice small lovely moments she had been too tired to see: her baby's first smile at the window, the warmth of him sleeping on her chest.

Like the monkeys, Solène had not received more chestnuts. Her day was just as demanding. But by arranging and seeing it differently, she found it easier to carry. She also asked for practical help, arranging for her mother to come two afternoons a week so that she could rest. "Nothing changed," she says, "and everything changed. I stopped seeing a wall of tasks and started seeing a day with a shape."

It is important to add that caring for a new baby can be extremely tiring, and changing how we see it does not remove the exhaustion. If a new parent feels persistently low, hopeless, unable to cope or unable to enjoy anything for weeks, it is very important to talk to a doctor or another qualified professional. These feelings are common after the birth of a baby, and there is good support available. Solène's friend also encouraged her to mention how tired she felt at her next appointment with her doctor, and she did.

Kagiso Climbs Out of the Well

Kagiso is fifty and works as a manager in the finance department of a large company. For the past year, his department has been in a difficult period: a reorganization, a demanding new director and a long conflict between two senior colleagues. Kagiso has become completely absorbed in it. He thinks about work all evening and all weekend. He replays conversations, plans responses and worries about what will happen next. Small events at the office feel enormous.

Kagiso's wife noticed that he had stopped talking about anything else. When their son called from university, Kagiso talked about the office. When friends came to dinner, he talked about the office. His world had shrunk to the size of his department, like the frog's world shrinking to the size of its well.

One weekend, an old friend invited Kagiso on a two-day hiking trip in the mountains. Kagiso almost refused, because he had work to do. But his wife insisted. On the second day, they climbed to a high ridge and looked out over a vast landscape: valleys, rivers, forests and distant towns, stretching to the horizon. Kagiso stood there for a long time. He realized that he had not thought about the office for hours.

On the way down, Kagiso's friend asked him what was happening at work. For the first time in months, Kagiso described it without feeling his chest tighten. From the mountain, the reorganization, the new director and the conflict between colleagues seemed real but small: one well among countless wells in a vast landscape. "It is just a job," he said, and then laughed, because he had not believed that for a year.

When Kagiso returned to work, the problems were still there. But they no longer filled his whole world. He began to make sure that his life had other parts: regular walks, time with his family, a book club he had abandoned years ago. When work troubles began to feel enormous again, he reminded himself of the view from the ridge. "I was a frog in a well," he says. "The well was real, and so were the problems in it. But there was a whole sea outside that I had forgotten."

Practical Steps: Seeing Your Load Again

The first step is to notice the description. When a task or a situation feels heavy, listen to how you describe it to yourself. "A mountain of marking." "An endless day." "A disaster at work." Notice whether the description makes the load feel heavier than it actually is. This is the monkeys reacting to "three in the morning".

The second step is to find a description that is just as true but easier to carry. Like the keeper with the chestnuts, look for another way of arranging or describing the same load. "One hundred and twenty essays" can become "thirty today". "An endless day" can become "a day with two lovely moments". The substance does not change, but the weight often does.

The third step is to break large loads into smaller pieces. A large task seen all at once can feel overwhelming. The same task broken into smaller parts, spread over time, often feels manageable. This is not a trick. It is simply seeing the load more accurately, as a series of steps rather than a single mass.

The fourth step is to look for the meaning inside the task. Like Imran with his students, look for the people, purpose or beauty within the work. A pile of tasks can become a series of chances to help, to create or to connect. This does not make every task delightful, but it often makes them more bearable.

The fifth step is to climb out of the well regularly. Make sure your life includes things beyond your work or your main source of stress: nature, friends, family, hobbies, wider perspectives. When your troubles feel enormous, step outside them, physically if you can, by going somewhere with a wide view, or in your imagination, by remembering the larger world.

The sixth step is to change the load itself where you can. Seeing differently is valuable, but it is not the only answer. Like Imran talking with his colleagues and Solène asking her mother for help, look for real ways to reduce or share the load. Seeing differently and changing what can be changed work best together.

Reframing Is Not Pretending

There is an important caution to add to this chapter. Changing how we see our load is helpful, but it should never become a way of pretending that a real problem does not exist. If your workload is truly unreasonable, if you are being treated unfairly or if you are exhausted beyond what any reframing can help, then the honest answer is not only to see things differently. It is also to change them, by talking with others, asking for help or, if needed, seeking advice about your rights.

The monkeys' story works because the chestnuts really were the same. Seven chestnuts in either order. If the keeper had reduced the chestnuts from seven to five and then described the change cheerfully, that would not have been wisdom. It would have been manipulation. In the same way, describing an impossible workload in pleasant words does not make it possible. Reframing helps with the weight of a reasonable load. It does not replace fairness.

It is also worth saying that some heaviness is not a matter of description at all. Grief, serious illness, long exhaustion and low mood can make everything feel heavy, however we describe it. If you find that nothing feels lighter, whatever you try, please talk to a doctor or another qualified professional. The heaviness may be a sign that you need care, not a new way of thinking.

Finally, it is good to remember that seeing differently takes practice. The monkeys reacted instantly to the words. Most of us do too. Learning to pause, notice the description and choose another takes time. Be patient with yourself. Each time you catch yourself reacting to "three in the morning", you are growing a little wiser, like the keeper.

It can help to practise on small things first. Notice how you describe a rainy day, a long queue or a delayed train. These are low-stakes chances to see how much of our irritation comes from the words we use. Once the habit grows on small things, it becomes easier to use on larger ones.

A Short Exercise: Rearranging the Chestnuts

This exercise helps you practise seeing the same load in a different way. It takes about fifteen minutes.

Think of a task or situation that currently feels heavy: a pile of work, a long week, a demanding responsibility. On a page, write down how you usually describe it to yourself, in a sentence. Be honest. "I have a mountain of reports to write." "This week is going to be a nightmare." "Looking after my father is endless."

Next, write down the plain facts of the situation, without any description of how it feels. "Eight reports, each about two hours of work." "Five working days with three important meetings." "Visiting my father four times a week, helping with meals and medicine." Notice how the plain facts compare with your first description.

Then write two or three other descriptions of the same facts, each just as true as the first, but easier to carry. For example: "Two reports a day for four days." "Three meetings, and two quieter days in between." "Four visits a week, each a chance to sit with my father while I still can." Choose the description that feels most helpful and most honest.

Finally, ask whether anything about the load itself could be changed or shared. Write one small step, if there is one. Keep the page and read your chosen description when the load feels heavy. When Imran did this exercise, his first sentence was "I have a mountain of essays to mark." His plain facts were "one hundred and twenty essays, about thirty hours". His chosen description was "thirty students in free periods, thirty on Tuesday evening, thirty on Thursday evening and thirty on Saturday morning, each one a conversation". His small step was "ask the department about spreading the deadlines". He said that rereading the description on Friday afternoons became a small ritual that changed his whole weekend.

Chapter Summary

In chapter 2 of the Zhuangzi, a keeper's monkeys are furious at receiving three chestnuts in the morning and four in the evening, and delighted at receiving four in the morning and three in the evening, though nothing has really changed. The wise keeper simply goes along with them, holding his own view lightly. In chapter 17, a frog in a broken well boasts of his small home until a turtle describes the vast, unchanging sea; one cannot talk about the sea to a frog in a well, or about ice to a summer insect.

Imran and his pile of essays, Solène and her endless day with a new baby and Kagiso absorbed in his department all found that the same load can feel crushing or bearable depending on how it is seen and arranged, and that stepping out of the well of their worries restored their troubles to their real size. Reframing is not pretending: it helps with reasonable loads, while unfair loads need fairness and practical help, and real exhaustion needs care.

In the next chapter, we will look at people who try too hard not for themselves but for others, and at a Zhuangzi story about a kindness that went terribly wrong.