Chapter 4: Making Up Your Mind

Three Years of "Maybe"

Sadia is thirty-eight and works in the payroll office of a large company. For three years, she has been thinking about leaving to open a small bakery. She has a business plan in a folder on her laptop. She has taken a short course in running a small business. She knows where she would rent a space, which ovens she would buy and what she would bake. Her friends love her bread and tell her she should do it.

And yet, for three years, she has not decided. Every few months, she opens the folder, updates the numbers and imagines the bakery. Then she thinks about the risks: losing her steady salary, failing, disappointing her family, having to come back to an office job with her savings gone. She closes the folder and tells herself she will decide next year, when the time is right. The time never feels right.

One evening, her grandmother, who ran a market stall for forty years, asks her about the bakery. Sadia explains, again, all the reasons why she cannot decide. Her grandmother listens and then says something that surprises her. "You are not afraid of failing," she says. "You are afraid of deciding. Once you decide, whatever happens, you will manage. But you will never manage while your mind is in two places."

Sadia's grandmother had named something that the old writers on bushido thought about a great deal. They spoke of a quality called kakugo in Japanese: a settled resolve, a mind that has been made up and is ready to accept whatever follows. This chapter explores that quality, including a famous line from the Hagakure that has been both deeply misunderstood and dangerously misused.

What Resolve Means

The Japanese word kakugo is difficult to translate with a single word. It can mean resolve, determination, readiness or preparedness. It suggests a state of mind in which a person has looked squarely at a situation, including its possible costs and dangers, and has made up their mind to act and to accept the consequences.

A person with kakugo is not necessarily fearless. They may still feel fear. But their fear no longer controls their decisions, because they have already accepted the worst that could happen. Having accepted it, they are free to act fully and wholeheartedly, instead of hesitating with one foot forward and one foot back.

We can see the opposite of kakugo in Sadia's three years of "maybe". Her mind is divided. Part of her wants the bakery; part of her clings to safety. Because she has not accepted the possible cost of either choice, she cannot fully commit to either. She stays in her job, but half-heartedly, dreaming of the bakery. She dreams of the bakery, but fearfully, never taking the step. This divided state is exhausting, and it can last for years.

Resolve, in this sense, is not about making reckless decisions. Sadia has done her research, prepared her plan and taken a course. Preparation is important. But at some point, preparation must give way to decision. Kakugo is the quality that allows that step: the moment of saying, "I have thought enough. I accept the risks. I will do it," or, just as validly, "I have thought enough. I choose to stay, and I will stop dreaming of leaving."

There is an old image that captures the difference. A person standing on the edge of a cold river, testing the water with one toe, can stand there shivering for a long time. Each moment of hesitation makes the water seem colder. A person who has decided to swim walks in steadily, gasps once at the cold and then begins to swim. The water is just as cold for both. What differs is the divided mind of the first and the settled mind of the second.

A Famous and Dangerous Line

The Hagakure is a collection of sayings and reflections dictated in the early eighteenth century by a man named Yamamoto Tsunetomo, a former samurai retainer who had become a Buddhist monk after the death of his lord, and recorded by a younger samurai named Tashiro Tsuramoto over several years. It was written during a long period of peace, when few samurai ever fought. It circulated privately in handwritten copies and, as far as historians can tell, was little known outside one region until it was printed and more widely read in the twentieth century.

The Hagakure contains many different kinds of material: memories of people Tsunetomo had known, practical advice about behaviour, reflections on service and some extreme and troubling statements about death and violence. It is a complicated and uneven text, and readers should approach it with care.

Its most famous line comes near the beginning of the first book. In my own paraphrase, it says that the way of the samurai is found in death. When faced with a choice between life and death, Tsunetomo says, one should simply choose death, without overthinking it. He then explains what he means: if a person, by setting their heart right every morning and every evening, lives as if their body were already dead, they will gain freedom in their way of life, and they will be able to carry out their duties without fault.

As we saw in the first chapter, this line was used in the 1930s and 1940s as propaganda, to encourage young soldiers to throw away their lives in war. Taken literally and used in that way, it is a dangerous and destructive idea. It must be said very clearly: this book does not recommend that anyone seek death, risk their life needlessly or treat their life as worthless. No ideal of courage or resolve requires that.

If you are going through a time when you feel that your life is worthless, or have thoughts of ending it, please reach out right away to a crisis helpline, a doctor, someone you trust or emergency services. Your life matters, and help is available.

It is also worth knowing something about Tsunetomo himself. Although he wrote about death with great intensity, he did not die in battle. When his lord died, he wished to follow him in death, as some retainers had done in earlier times. But this practice had been forbidden, and he instead became a monk and lived quietly for many years in a small hermitage, where he dictated his reflections. Whatever one thinks of his words, his own life was one of reflection and service, not of seeking death.

Reading the Line Today

So why mention the line at all? Because, when we read the full passage carefully, and in the context of the peaceful time in which it was written, many readers have found in it a psychological insight that does not require any literal seeking of death.

Look again at Tsunetomo's explanation. He does not say "go and die". He says that a person who, every morning and evening, settles their heart as if their life were already given up, gains freedom. What does this mean? One reasonable interpretation is this: much of our hesitation, half-heartedness and fearful clinging comes from our attachment to particular outcomes, above all to our own comfort and safety. If we accept in advance the worst that could happen, we are freed from the paralysis of fear, and we can act fully and wholeheartedly.

In ordinary life, we can take this insight in a far gentler form, without any connection to physical death. The "death" we accept in advance can be the possible loss of things we cling to: our job, our reputation, others' approval, our comfortable routine, our image of ourselves. If Sadia could say to herself, calmly and in advance, "I may fail. I may lose my savings. I may have to go back to an office job. I accept that possibility," then she would be free to decide. The fear would still be there, but it would no longer have the power to stop her.

This is very close to the meaning of kakugo. It is not a wish for disaster. It is a readiness to face it, if it comes, so that fear of it does not govern our choices. Many people who have made difficult decisions, such as leaving a job, speaking out against wrongdoing or starting a new life, describe a moment when they accepted the worst possible outcome, and felt a surprising sense of calm and freedom.

It is worth repeating that this interpretation is a modern, careful reading of a text that also contains harsh and troubling material. The Hagakure as a whole should not be treated as a guide to life. But a single insight, taken gently and wisely, can still be useful: accepting the possible cost of a right action in advance can free us to act.

Remembering That Time Is Short

Another early eighteenth-century text, written by a scholar and military teacher named Daidōji Yūzan, offers a related idea in a calmer form. His book, often called Budō Shoshinshū, which might be translated as "Basic Teachings for Beginners in the Way of the Warrior", begins with advice about keeping death in mind.

In my own paraphrase, Daidōji writes that a samurai should keep in mind, from the first morning of the new year to the last night of the old, every day and every night, that life will end. He explains why he considers this so important. A person who remembers that their life is limited, he says, will take their duties seriously, treat their parents and their lord with proper care, avoid foolish quarrels and careless behaviour, look after their health and live a better life. A person who forgets this, by contrast, tends to become careless, quarrelsome and lazy, as if they had all the time in the world.

This is a much gentler idea than the Hagakure's line, and it is close to ideas found in many traditions around the world: that remembering the shortness of life helps us live it well. In this sense, it is not about death at all. It is about life: about not wasting it, not postponing what matters and not filling it with pointless conflicts.

For Sadia, Daidōji's advice might sound like this: your life is not unlimited. Three years have already passed in "maybe". If you keep waiting for the perfect moment, you may wait forever. Remembering that time is short does not mean rushing. It means taking your choices seriously now.

In some ways, Daidōji's advice is the same insight as the Hagakure's, expressed more calmly. Both suggest that the person who has faced the reality of loss in advance is freer and more careful in daily life. But where the Hagakure speaks in extreme language that was later misused, Daidōji speaks in the measured voice of a teacher concerned with good conduct, health and kindness to family. For ordinary readers, his gentler version is far easier to apply wisely.

The Cost of Never Deciding

Many people believe that, by not deciding, they are keeping their options open and avoiding risk. But not deciding has its own costs, which are often hidden.

The first cost is time. Every year spent in "maybe" is a year that cannot be lived again. Sadia's three years of indecision are three years in which she neither fully enjoyed her job nor built her bakery.

The second cost is energy. A divided mind is a tired mind. Thinking about the same decision again and again, imagining both futures, weighing the same risks over and over: this uses a great deal of mental energy, which could be spent living.

The third cost is half-heartedness. When we have not decided, we often do everything a little less fully. Sadia works without full commitment, because part of her is elsewhere. She dreams without full commitment, because part of her is afraid. Neither path receives her whole self.

The fourth cost is confidence. Each time we postpone a decision, we send ourselves a quiet message that we cannot trust ourselves to choose. Over time, this can erode our confidence in our own judgment.

Of course, some decisions really should wait: when important information is missing, when circumstances are changing rapidly, or when we are in great emotional turmoil. Waiting can be wise. But it should be a deliberate choice to wait, with a clear reason and perhaps a date for deciding, rather than an endless drifting. Deciding to wait, with resolve, is itself a form of kakugo.

It may help to notice that many decisions are less permanent than they feel. Sadia could open a bakery and, if it failed, return to office work. A student who changes course can, if the new subject does not suit, change again. A person who moves house can, if unhappy, move back. Not every decision is reversible, but many are more reversible than our fear suggests. Recognizing this can make it easier to decide, because the stakes, while real, are not as absolute as they seem in the middle of the night.

Resolve Is Not Stubbornness

It is important to distinguish resolve from stubbornness. A person with kakugo makes up their mind and acts wholeheartedly. But they are not blind. If new information shows that the decision was mistaken, or if circumstances change dramatically, a wise person can change course.

Stubbornness, by contrast, refuses to change course even when the evidence is clear, often out of pride or fear of admitting error. It can look like resolve, but it is a different quality. It clings to a decision instead of to what is right.

Resolve also includes accepting the results of our decisions, whatever they are, without endless regret or blame. If Sadia opens her bakery and it struggles, kakugo means accepting that this was a possible outcome she chose to risk, learning from it and deciding what to do next. It does not mean pretending the struggle is not happening, or blaming others, or spending years wishing she had never tried.

In this way, resolve is closely connected with the quiet confidence this book is about. A person who can make up their mind, act wholeheartedly, adjust when needed and accept the results without excessive regret is a person who can trust themselves. That trust is the foundation of real self-confidence.

There is also a kind of peace that comes after a real decision. Many people describe it: the relief of no longer arguing with themselves, the energy that returns when the mind is no longer divided, the simple pleasure of moving in one direction. Even when the chosen path is hard, this peace often remains, because the struggle is now with the situation, not with oneself. That inner unity is one of the deepest sources of quiet strength.

Four Lives, One Decision Each

Magnus is fifty and has smoked since he was a teenager. He has tried to stop many times, always half-heartedly, keeping a few cigarettes in a drawer "just in case". After his doctor talks with him about his health, Magnus sits down and thinks seriously. He realizes that he has never fully decided to stop. He has only hoped to. He makes a clear decision, tells his family, throws away the cigarettes in the drawer, asks his doctor about support and accepts in advance that the first weeks will be very hard. They are. But for the first time, he does not leave himself a back door. He says that the decision itself, made wholeheartedly, was the turning point.

Rahul is nineteen and in his first year studying law, which his parents chose for him. He has realized that he wants to study music. For months, he has avoided telling them, imagining their disappointment and anger. One day, he decides that he will speak to them that weekend, and he accepts in advance that they may be very upset. When he tells them, they are upset, as he expected. But because he has already accepted this possibility, he is able to stay calm, explain his reasons and listen to their concerns. Over the following months, they slowly come to accept his choice.

Edith is sixty-seven and has been thinking for two years about moving closer to her daughter and grandchildren, who live several hours away. She loves her home and her friends, and the move would mean leaving them. She keeps going back and forth. Finally, she sets herself a date: by the end of the summer, she will decide, one way or the other. She spends the summer visiting her daughter, talking with friends and thinking. At the end of the summer, she decides to move. She is sad to leave, but the decision brings relief. She says that the hardest part was not the move, but the two years of not deciding.

Sadia, from the beginning of this chapter, takes her grandmother's words seriously. She sits down one evening and writes, honestly, the worst things that could happen if she opens the bakery: losing her savings, failing, having to find an office job again, feeling embarrassed. She reads the list and asks herself: could I survive this? The answer is yes. She would be sad, but she would manage, as her grandmother did through many hard years at her market stall. She also writes what would happen if she never tried. That list makes her feel worse. She decides. She gives her notice at work, signs the lease and, four months later, opens the bakery. It is difficult, and the first year is not profitable. But she has never once regretted deciding.

Magnus, Rahul, Edith and Sadia each lived for a while with a divided mind. Each found that the turning point came not from more information, but from a decision made wholeheartedly, with the possible costs accepted in advance. That is the heart of kakugo.

Practical Steps

First, notice where your mind is divided. Ask which decisions in your life you have been postponing, and for how long.

Second, do your preparation, and then set a limit. Gather the information you need, think carefully and then set a date by which you will decide.

Third, accept the worst in advance. Write down the worst realistic outcomes of each option, and ask whether you could survive them. Often you can.

Fourth, remember that time is short. Ask how many more years you are willing to spend in "maybe".

Fifth, decide wholeheartedly. When you decide, close the back doors you were keeping open, and give the choice your full commitment.

Sixth, stay open to learning. If new information shows a decision was mistaken, adjust without shame. Resolve is not stubbornness.

A Short Exercise: Accepting the Worst in Advance

This exercise takes about thirty minutes. It is for a decision that you have been postponing because of fear. If the decision involves your safety, your health or serious financial or legal matters, please also seek advice from appropriate professionals.

Write the decision at the top of a page, for example: "Should I leave my job to start my own business?" or "Should I have an honest conversation with my sister about our argument?"

Draw a line down the middle. On the left, write "If I do it", and on the right, "If I do not do it". Under each heading, list the worst realistic outcomes. Be honest, but realistic, not catastrophic. For example: "I may lose my savings," "She may be angry," "I may feel embarrassed."

Now read each list slowly and, for each outcome, ask: could I survive this? What would I do if it happened? Write a short answer next to each one. You will often find that you could survive more than you feared.

Then, under each heading, add the best realistic outcomes. Look at the whole page. Which choice can you accept, knowing its worst and best possibilities?

Finally, write a sentence of resolve, in your own words: "I have considered the costs. I accept them. I choose to..." If you are not ready to decide, write: "I will decide by..." and choose a date. Then keep that date.

Questions People Often Ask

"Isn't it dangerous to tell people to accept the worst?" It would be dangerous to tell people to seek the worst, or to take reckless risks. Accepting the worst in advance is different. It means looking honestly at possible costs so that fear of them does not control your choices. It is a way of making calmer, clearer decisions, not of inviting disaster. And it never means accepting harm to your life or safety.

"What if I decide and it goes badly?" Some decisions will go badly; that is part of life. Kakugo means accepting this possibility in advance, so that if it happens, you can face it without endless regret. You can learn from it, adjust and decide what to do next. Many people find that they regret the decisions they never made more than the ones that went badly.

"Should I read the Hagakure?" If you are interested in history, you may find parts of it interesting, but it should be read critically. It contains harsh and troubling passages, it reflects the values of a narrow group in a particular time and it has been used to promote harmful ideas. It is not a guide to life. If you do read it, it may help to read a modern introduction that explains its context.

Chapter Summary

The Japanese word kakugo means a settled resolve: a mind that has looked at a situation, including its possible costs, made itself up and is ready to accept what follows. Its opposite is the divided mind of endless "maybe", which costs time, energy, wholeheartedness and confidence.

The Hagakure's famous line that the way of the samurai is found in death was misused as wartime propaganda and must never be taken as a reason to seek death or treat life as worthless. Read carefully, in its context, its explanation suggests that accepting the worst in advance frees us from the grip of fear. Daidōji Yūzan's Budō Shoshinshū offers a gentler idea: remembering that life is limited helps us live carefully and well. Resolve is not stubbornness; it can change course when evidence demands, and it accepts results without endless regret.

In the next chapter, we turn to Miyamoto Musashi and his teaching that confidence is built through training.