The Income Statement of my life

Welcome back to another chapter of The Financial Lens.

Over the past two chapters, I’ve looked at my life through a balance sheet and a cash flow statement. One helped me understand what I own, while the other reminded me how I manage the things that come into and leave my life.

Today, I’d like to continue this journey through another financial statement: the Income Statement.

When people hear those words, they usually think about revenue, expenses, and profit. But while writing this chapter, one question kept coming back to me:

At the end of a year, how do I know whether I’ve had a good year?

Every December, I find myself reflecting on that question. Sometimes the answer has nothing to do with grades, money, or achievements. Instead, it makes me wonder what I have truly earned after everything I’ve experienced.

That is why I wanted to look at my life through the lens of an income statement.

The first source of revenue in my life is freedom and peace.

For a long time, I didn’t realize how valuable these two things were.

When I was still living in Vietnam, I often felt lost. It wasn’t because my life was difficult, but because I didn’t really know who I was or what truly made me happy. I rarely spent money or time on myself, and I didn’t know how to enjoy my own company.

Living in Taiwan slowly changed that.

It wasn’t about buying more things or living a more comfortable life. Instead, I began learning how to take care of myself emotionally. I started paying attention to the little things that brought me peace, the places that helped me breathe more deeply, and the routines that quietly recharged me after difficult days.

Over time, I realized something important: inner peace doesn’t suddenly appear one day. It is built through understanding yourself.

The more I observed my emotions, the more I understood what I truly needed. I learned how to comfort myself. I learned how to stay with myself. And perhaps most importantly, I learned that I could become the person who gives myself the love and understanding I had always searched for elsewhere.

To me, that is real freedom. Not the freedom to do anything I want, but the freedom to live honestly with myself. And I think that has become one of the greatest sources of revenue in my life.

When I looked back at the past few years, the another source of revenue that came to my mind was new experiences and opportunities.

Coming to a completely new environment brought far more than I had expected. It wasn’t only about happy memories or exciting adventures. It was also about uncertainty, disappointment, loneliness, and moments that pushed me far beyond what I thought I could handle.

Some experiences made me smile. Some made me cry. Some completely changed the way I see the world.

Looking back now, I wouldn’t remove any of them. Because every experience, whether joyful or painful, quietly added value to my life. They became lessons I could never have learned inside a classroom or from a textbook. Perhaps that is why I see them as my greatest source of revenue. Not because they were easy. But because they helped me become someone I couldn’t have become otherwise. Today, when I think about my part-time job, my university life, the people I met, and even the difficulties I went through, I don’t immediately remember whether they were good or bad.

The first feeling that comes to my mind is gratitude.

Some people stayed. Some people left. Some opportunities appeared unexpectedly and disappeared just as quickly. None of them were completely under my control. But each of them left something behind. And for that, I am deeply thankful.

Every source of revenue comes with a cost.

The more valuable something is, the higher the price we are often willing to pay. Looking back at my own life, I realized that many of the things I treasure today were never free. They asked me to give up something in return.

For me, the most expensive cost was starting over.

Leaving Vietnam wasn’t simply about moving to another country. It meant leaving behind a stable job, familiar faces, and a life that had already found its rhythm. I knew I was choosing uncertainty, but I don’t think I ever truly understood what uncertainty would look like until I lived through it.

There were many nights when I cried. Not because I regretted my decision, but because starting from the beginning was much harder than I had imagined. Everything was unfamiliar: the language, the culture, the way people communicated…

Even the smallest daily tasks sometimes felt overwhelming. There were moments when I couldn’t see any light ahead.

I questioned my decisions. I doubted myself. I wondered whether I had made the wrong choice. Yet, even in those moments, I kept moving forward. Not because I was fearless. But because moving forward was the only direction I wanted to choose.

One lesson that took me a long time to accept was that not every battle deserves to be fought. Some situations felt unfair. Moments when I wanted to explain myself, defend myself, or prove that I was right. But I slowly realized that protecting my peace was sometimes more important than winning an argument. So I chose to let go.

Not because I was weak. But because I understood that holding on would cost me even more. Instead of spending my energy trying to change what I couldn’t control, I quietly returned to my own small world.

A place where I could rest. Heal. And slowly gather enough strength to continue. During those difficult days, I gradually realized something that no one had ever taught me.

People can encourage us. Comfort us. Walk beside us.

But no one can heal us on our behalf.

Many nights, I simply hid under my blanket and allowed myself to cry. Not because I wanted to escape. But because I needed a quiet place to feel everything before standing up again. Looking back now, I don’t see those moments as signs of weakness. I see them as part of the cost of becoming the person I am today.

Not every cost in life comes from making big decisions. Some costs quietly appear every single day. They don’t change the direction of our lives overnight, but they slowly consume our energy without us even noticing.

For me, those hidden costs have always been fear, self-doubt, and overthinking.

They rarely arrive all at once. Instead, they quietly follow me through ordinary days. Sometimes they make me question my decisions. Sometimes they make me worry about a future that hasn’t even happened. Sometimes they convince me that I’m not doing enough.

Looking back now, I realize they have probably consumed more energy than many of the difficult situations themselves.

For a long time, I tried to push those thoughts away. I thought ignoring them would make them disappear. Instead, they kept coming back. So I decided to change the way I dealt with them.

Whenever those thoughts appeared, I simply opened the Notes app on my phone and wrote them down.

No editing.

No judgment.

No attempt to solve them immediately.

I just let them exist.

Sometimes all I wrote was a single sentence.

“Let it be.”

I didn’t need every question to have an answer. Sometimes I only needed to stop carrying everything inside my head.

When words no longer felt enough, I picked up a pencil. Not because I wanted to create something beautiful. But because quietly shading a page somehow helped me calm my thoughts.

There was no right or wrong. No finished picture. Just me, a pencil, and a few peaceful moments that slowly brought me back to myself.

Looking back now, I don’t think those little habits solved my problems.

They simply reminded me that I was still taking care of myself, even on the difficult days. And perhaps that was enough.

Fortunately, life also gives us things we never plan for. In accounting, they might be called non-operating income.

For me, they are the unexpected blessings that quietly appear along the way. One of them has been this blog. When I first started writing, I never expected anyone to read it. I simply wanted a place to organize my thoughts and remember my journey. Then, little by little, messages from friends and readers began to appear.

Some shared their own stories. Some thanked me for writing. Some simply told me that a paragraph had stayed with them. None of those things were part of my original plan. But each of them encouraged me to keep writing. And for that, I am deeply grateful.

The same thing happened throughout my university journey. When I first came to Taiwan, I never imagined that one day I would have opportunities to discuss ideas with my professors or even work alongside their colleagues from different countries. Those opportunities weren’t things I could predict. They weren’t things I could force. They simply appeared after many ordinary days of studying, asking questions, and quietly doing my best.

Perhaps that is why I like calling them hidden income. Because they arrive unexpectedly, yet they often become some of the most meaningful rewards.

These experiences have also taught me something I remind myself of very often. I cannot force a tree to bloom before its season. My responsibility is simply to keep watering it.

To keep learning.

To keep writing.

To keep showing up every day.

Whether flowers bloom or fruit appears one day is no longer entirely within my control. And strangely enough, accepting that has brought me a great deal of peace. Just as life brings unexpected blessings, it also brings unexpected losses. Some of them arrive without warning. Some arrive without explanation. And some stay much longer than we wish they would.

If I had to describe my own non-operating expenses, they would probably be disappointment, uncertainty, and unfairness. Living in another country has taught me that not every situation can be explained by logic.

Sometimes, people make decisions that feel unfair. Sometimes, cultural differences create misunderstandings that cannot easily be resolved. Sometimes, despite doing your best, you are simply not the one who gets chosen.

At first, I fought against those moments. I wanted to explain. I wanted people to understand me. I wanted fairness. But after experiencing the same feelings again and again, I slowly realized something. Not every battle is worth fighting. Some battles only leave us more exhausted than before. Instead of trying to change everything around me, I began learning how to protect the only thing I could truly control—my own peace.

Whenever those difficult moments became too heavy, I stopped forcing myself to keep going.

Sometimes I simply chose to sleep.

Sometimes I went for a walk by the beach.

Sometimes I sat quietly and allowed my thoughts to settle.

Those moments didn’t erase the disappointment. But they reminded me that healing also deserves time. Acceptance didn’t make the situation fair. It simply allowed me to continue living without carrying unnecessary weight. Finally, we arrive at the number that everyone usually looks for on an income statement.

If someone asked me what the net income of my life has been over these past few years, I don’t think I would answer with a degree, a salary, or even the experiences I’ve collected.

Those things matter. But they are not what has stayed with me the longest. The greatest return I have earned is something much quieter. I have come to know myself a little better. I understand my emotions more than I used to. I know what gives me peace. I know what quietly takes it away. I no longer spend all my energy trying to become someone else. Instead, I have slowly learned to accept the person I already am.

Perhaps that is the most meaningful profit I could ever ask for.

When I first left Vietnam, I thought I was searching for a new country, a new education, or a different future. Looking back now, I realize I was searching for something much closer than that. I was searching for myself. And perhaps that search will never truly end.

Every year, my income statement will probably look a little different. My revenue will change. My costs will change. Life will continue bringing unexpected gains and unexpected losses. But if I can continue understanding myself a little more with every passing year, I think my life will always remain profitable.

Writing this chapter reminded me that an income statement is never just about numbers. At least, not in my life. It is about understanding what truly creates value, recognizing the price we have paid, and appreciating the quiet profit that remains after everything else has passed.

Perhaps all of us are preparing our own income statement every single day.

Not for a company.

Not for an employer.

Not for anyone else’s approval.

But for ourselves.

If one day you decided to prepare your own life’s income statement, I wonder…

What would your greatest source of revenue be?

And after subtracting every cost, what would remain as your true net income?

Thank you for spending another few minutes in my little world.

I’ll see you in the next chapter.

— Jai