What binds me with Jimmy O. Yang and Lee Je-Hoon?

We were all aspiring entertainers in our 20s.

Growing up on Channel 8 dramas, I didn't just admire what I saw on screen—I was drawn to the lives behind it. The recognition. The freedom. The idea that this could be me someday.

So I tried. I landed a cameo in a period drama on Channel U. Then a police officer extra with dialogue. For a brief moment, it felt like progress. I had ONE whole line.

Then came the opportunity: a supporting role in a series about army life.

My big break had arrived.

This is where my story diverges from Jimmy O. Yang and Lee Je-Hoon.

All three of us started with a dream. We all got our foot in the door. We all faced a moment where the journey demanded something from us.

Jimmy's moment: Driving Uber to survive while performing stand-up at night. Years of half-empty comedy clubs before he was cast in Silicon Valley.

Je-Hoon's moment: During the 1997 IMF crisis, his family's rice shop closed. He dropped out of college to pursue acting—years of uncertainty, audition rejections, and instant noodles before landing Taxi Driver.

My moment: I had to shave my head for the role.

At the time, I had long hair. Glorious, flowing locks. Shaving it all off felt unthinkable. What would I look like? What would people say?

So I said no.

And just like that, my acting journey ended.

Jimmy endured years of financial struggle. Je-Hoon lived through a national economic crisis. And I walked away from a haircut.

A reversible haircut.

The difference between us wasn't talent or luck or opportunity.

It was our relationship with discomfort.

Jimmy and Je-Hoon embraced the pain. They made peace with years of struggle because they loved the craft more than they feared the cost.

I walked away from a single haircut.

Bruce Lee once said: "Don't pray for an easy life. Pray for the strength to endure a difficult one."

I wanted the easy life. I wanted the outcome (the recognition, the freedom, the career) without the process.

Looking back, the irony stings. If I'd truly been committed, I would have done what serious actors do: trained, studied the physicality of a soldier, done my own "BMT" prep.

But I didn't.

Because deep down, I wanted the outcome, not the journey.

I wanted to be Christian Bale in The Machinist (minus the dramatic weight loss). I wanted method acting without the method. I wanted the Oscar without the suffering.

This pattern plays out everywhere with our New Year's resolutions.

We want six-pack abs. We want social media success. We want financial freedom.

But we're far less excited about the daily grind behind them.

Six-pack abs? That means 5:30 AM alarms when your bed feels like heaven. That means meal prep every Sunday instead of Netflix. That means grilled chicken over char kway teow five days a week.

That means leg day when your quads are still screaming. That means saying no to your aunt's CNY pineapple tarts and watching her face fall. That means showing up even when you don't feel like it. Which is most days.

As Dwayne "The Rock" Johnson puts it: "Success isn't always about greatness. It's about consistency. Consistent hard work leads to success. Greatness will come."

The Rock wakes up at 4 AM to train. I wake up at 4 AM to pee and consider it my cardio.

Financial freedom? That means automatic transfers to investment accounts before you see the money. That means driving a five-year-old car while your peers lease new BMWs. That means packing lunch in Tupperware while colleagues eat out at that new Japanese place.

That means watching friends plan trips to Maldives while you're googling "budget hostels in Johor Bahru." That means explaining for the seventh time why you're not upgrading your phone when it works perfectly fine.

That means compound interest working silently for 15 years before the numbers feel significant. Fifteen. Years.

Warren Buffett said: "Someone is sitting in the shade today because someone planted a tree a long time ago."

Most of us want the shade right now, and we want someone else to have planted the tree.

The most important question to ask yourself in 2026 isn't:

What do I want to become?

It's this:

What pain am I willing to endure to get there?

Because the dreams are easy. Everyone has dreams.

It's the 5:30 AM alarms that separate the dreamers from the doers.
It's the years of financial discipline that build wealth.
It's the shaved head" (or whatever your version of that sacrifice is) that determines whether you're serious.

As Muhammad Ali put it: "I hated every minute of training, but I said, 'Don't quit. Suffer now and live the rest of your life as a champion.'"

The suffering is part of the deal. It's not a bug; it's a feature.

So this year, let's not fixate on outcomes. Let's get honest about the price tag attached to them.

And then let's ask ourselves: Am I willing to pay it?

Because if the answer is no, that's okay. Genuinely. Not everyone needs six-pack abs. Not everyone wants to be an influencer. Not everyone needs to be a millionaire by 40.

But then let's stop pretending we want the dream.

What we want is the dream without the work.

We want the cheat code. The shortcut. The montage scene where you go from zero to hero in 90 seconds with uplifting music.

And that doesn't exist.

Unless you're in a Channel 8 drama. In which case, carry on.

For the rest of us? We're going to need a better plan.

And maybe, just maybe, a willingness to shave our heads when the moment calls for it.

Adrian Tan
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