Getting Off the Rickshaw: A Lesson from Milli

I met my grandpa's sister for the first time this week. Her name is Milli, and at 91, she's still living in Honolulu where she grew up. She's tiny and bright, with a playfulness that makes you want to squeeze her the way you'd squeeze a baby's rollie thighs or cheeks.

But Milli's 4-foot-10-inch frame is deceptive. From a young age, her convictions loomed large.

She was 18 when she traveled to Japan for the first time in the early 1950s, representing her family at a funeral. The organizers placed her in a rickshaw with another woman. But instead of being drawn by horses, the carriage was carried by a man. She watched him strain under the weight—two passengers, the wooden frame, the oppressive heat. It felt wrong.

So she jumped off.

She walked alongside the procession instead. The decision came easily to her. She didn't count it as bravery.

My grandpa does. He told me his way would have been different—to ride in discomfort, spending the entire journey contemplating what to do, unsure, not wanting to offend.

I don't count that as weakness. It's a familiar feeling to me. Overthinking often leads to complacency in my own life. I've ridden in plenty of rickshaws, metaphorically speaking—staying in roles that drained me, biting my tongue when something felt wrong, choosing comfort over conviction.

But as I think about my remaining days and how I want to live, I want a Milli perspective. To act on my intuition. To do what feels most representative of my values. To leave a work environment that doesn't feel right anymore. To speak up when something needs to be said. To take actions that protect my personal peace and keep me true to myself.

The rickshaw is always an option. So is getting off.

Reflection

Where are you riding in discomfort instead of getting off the rickshaw? What would it look like to make the decision easily—not counting it as bravery, just counting it as living?