I don’t know about you, but I’m furious. At least a couple of times per week. Sometimes it’s the kids who just don’t want to go to sleep. Sometimes it’s the husband who dares to take a nap while the dishes are procrastinating in the sink. Sometimes it’s the polished Linkedin world or the fact that it’s always the same five parents who volunteer for any kind of school activity. Most of the time, however, it’s me being furious at myself. For not sleeping enough, for eating too much chocolate, for not taking the time to practice the piano, for moving 450 km away from my family. When I ignore my rage, it often turns into envy. I start feeling like I’m surrounded by people who...