Somewhere over the last few years, without really announcing itself, a philosophy crept into my life.

It didn’t arrive as a mantra or a laminated quote on the fridge.
It just… stuck.
And then slowly started directing how I make decisions, how I spend my time, and how I respond when life puts something in front of me.

I think that’s how the best philosophies work.
They don’t shout.
They don’t demand attention.
They quietly shape behaviour.

I’ve been rewatching Loki (the Marvel TV series) recently, which is probably why this has been rattling around in my head. There’s that line about “glorious purpose” that sounds dramatic and ridiculous at the same time, but underneath the Marvel theatrics there’s a very real question hiding there.

What’s the thing that guides you when no one’s watching?
What do you default to when things are unclear?
What do you carry forward year after year?

For me, one principle has grown stronger than all the others.

Be helpful.

Not because it looks good.
Not because someone might notice.
Not because it earns credit, points, or karma.

Just because you can.
And if you can, you probably should.

It’s not heroic.
It’s not cinematic.
It’s usually boring, quiet, and inconvenient.

And that’s exactly why it matters.

I donate plasma every fortnight. Not because I’m special. Not because I’m trying to be a good bloke. I do it because I’m healthy and able. That’s it. If I don’t, someone else has to. And if enough people decide they’ll leave it to “someone else”, the whole thing falls apart.

That small realisation ties directly into responsibility. Not the heavy, guilt-laden kind. The simple kind.

If I don’t do the small thing I’m capable of doing, who will?

That question shows up everywhere once you start noticing it.

If I see someone struggling and I can help, why wouldn’t I?
If I can make something easier for someone else, why wouldn’t I?
If I can give time, attention, effort, or kindness without it costing me much, why wouldn’t I?

Being helpful doesn’t mean being a martyr.
It doesn’t mean setting yourself on fire.
It doesn’t mean fixing everyone’s problems.

It means responding when life taps you on the shoulder and says, “This one’s yours.”

That idea really landed for me when I was writing and researching my book, Don't Be a Dick: The Unconventional Guide for Life. I ended up writing a chapter on the Good Samaritan, and the deeper I dug, the more uncomfortable it became in the best possible way.

There are some genuinely incredible people out there doing selfless things for no recognition at all. No audience. No reward. No post afterwards.

They didn’t help because it was strategic.
They helped because they could.

That’s it.

And once you see that, it becomes very hard to unsee how much of our modern life is built around doing the opposite.

We optimise.
We weigh up effort versus reward.
We ask what’s in it for us.
We delay small acts of good because they don’t feel “impactful” enough.

Stoicism cuts straight through that noise.

You’re not responsible for fixing the world.
You are responsible for your actions within it.

Being helpful is a compass. When things are messy, unclear, or overwhelming, it gives you something solid to return to.

You don’t need to know the perfect outcome.
You don’t need a five-year plan.
You don’t need certainty.

You just need to ask one simple question.

Can I help here?

If the answer is yes, do it.
If the answer is no, let it go.

That principle has guided more of my decisions than any goal I’ve ever written down.

It shapes how I show up as a dad.
How I lead.
How I work.
How I respond when someone needs something and I’m tired.

And I’m carrying it into 2026 with me.

Not as a resolution.
Not as a slogan.
As a way of moving through the world.

You don’t need to copy mine.
That’s not the point.

But I do think everyone benefits from identifying their own version of this. Their own guiding light. Their own quiet philosophy that directs behaviour when motivation fades and plans fall apart.

Maybe yours is kindness.
Maybe it’s honesty.
Maybe it’s patience.
Maybe it’s courage.
Maybe it’s restraint.
Maybe it’s simply trying to leave things slightly better than you found them.

Whatever it is, name it.

Because goals will wobble.
Plans will change.
Life will do what it does.

But principles travel well. They survive chaos. They work in ordinary moments. And they don’t need perfect conditions to be useful.

That’s about as glorious a purpose as I need.

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Until next time,
Broden Johnson