I’ve always liked the idea of hara hachi bu, eating until you are eight-tenths full. On the surface it sounds like simple dietary advice, but to me it feels closer to a philosophy of presence and intentional restraint. When I pause at around 80% fullness, I’m not just regulating my appetite; I’m practising a kind of attentiveness. I notice flavour more clearly, savour satisfaction more consciously, and actually listen to what my body is trying to say, rather than rushing through a meal on autopilot. In a world that constantly nudges us towards excess, more food, more stimulation, more achievement, this gentle act of stopping short feels like a quiet rebellion. Perhaps I am advocating for slowing down. Eating, then, becomes a ritual rather than a task, and choosing “enough” becomes a way of giving myself permission to enjoy the moment as it is.
But there’s another kind of hunger I’ve been thinking about, one far more potent than the physical sort. It’s the hunger for experience: that childlike curiosity that amateurs possess in abundance, the energy that drives them to explore without hesitation or self-consciousness. Sometimes I catch myself wondering whether the more we learn, the more we retreat into assumptions, into the soft familiarity of our comfort zones. It’s like reaching that 100% full state in life, the point at which excitement dims and the flavour of experience goes dull.
I recently came across a thought from Austin Kleon, who notes that amateurs aren’t afraid to make mistakes or look ridiculous. They know they don’t know everything, and instead of hiding that fact, they lean into it. Their enthusiasm becomes its own form of hunger – a hunger to experiment, to discover, to keep asking questions even when the answers are incomplete. That kind of hunger doesn’t need moderation. If anything, it thrives on being fed. When curiosity calls, you follow it, and with enough persistence, fulfilment, or even success, tends to follow too.
If physical hunger benefits from restraint, creative hunger suffers without it. Hara hachi bu teaches us to avoid the 100% full zone in our bodies; creative hunger warns us away from the 100% full zone in our minds. That’s the place where we stop questioning, stop taking risks, and lose the spark of wonder that once came so naturally. When we decide we already know enough, the appetite for discovery fades, and life loses some of its taste.
So perhaps the paradox is this: in the physical world, “enough” sustains us; in the creative world, hunger sustains us. Mindful restraint gives us the space to breathe; creative appetite gives us the momentum to move.
And in the end, all I truly wish for is that hunger to remain. It has always kept me searching, learning, inching forward. That, to me, is the finest quality hunger can offer: the quiet, persistent tug that ensures we never quite stop growing.
