There’s something simple about joy: it lives in the tools you use every day.

For years, I loved the idea of espresso. I’d try to coax it out of a moka pot, force it through an Aeropress, always ending up with something that wasn’t quite right. I could get caffeine into my body, sure. But there was no joy in the process. Just the vague dissatisfaction of knowing I was fighting my equipment to produce an inferior result.

In 2020, I bought my first espresso machine.

Now I wake up excited. Not for the coffee itself, though that’s excellent, but for the ritual. I turn on the machine, let the water heat while I freshen up, and by the time I’m ready, it’s ready. The process has become something I look forward to, not something I endure. The difference isn’t marginal. It’s total.

I have a kettle that cost upwards of 20K rupees. Friends have ridiculed me for it. I’ve accepted that I’m a snob. The kettle makes perfect pourovers every single time. It’s beautiful to hold, beautiful to pour. This is what money is for. Converting it into daily joy.

I used Windows for a decade. It worked. But working isn’t the same as working well. Twenty years ago, using a Windows machine meant constant maintenance. Fighting drivers, managing updates, troubleshooting inexplicable slowdowns. In 2013, I switched to a MacBook. Suddenly, I wasn’t spending my energy keeping the machine functional. I was doing the actual work I’d bought a computer to do. The tool disappeared into the background, which is exactly where tools belong when they’re right.
Same with cycling. I had an MTB. It got me from point A to point B. But riding it felt like work in the wrong sense. Effort spent compensating for the bike rather than enjoying the ride. I upgraded to a gravel bike. Now the things that used to be a pain are just… not. The tool matches what I’m actually trying to do.

Inferior tools extract a tax you don’t notice until you stop paying it. You can absolutely get things done with the wrong equipment. You can make coffee without a proper espresso machine. You can write code on a struggling laptop. You can ride a bike that fights you on every surface. But you’re spending energy on the tool instead of the task. And worse, you’re spending energy convincing yourself you don’t mind.

The right tool doesn’t just work better. It changes your relationship with the activity itself. It transforms the thing from “something I need to do” into “something I want to do.” The mocha pot made espresso a chore I subjected myself to because I wanted the result. The espresso machine made it a morning ritual I genuinely look forward to.

I’m not talking about expensive versus cheap, or new versus old. I’m talking about fit. The right tool for what you’re actually trying to accomplish. Not what you think you should be trying to accomplish, or what you can technically get away with. What you actually want to do.
When the tool is right, it disappears. You stop thinking about the espresso machine and start thinking about the espresso. You stop managing your computer and start creating with it. You stop fighting your bike and start riding it.

That’s what great tools do. They don’t announce themselves. They don’t demand appreciation. They don’t need justifying. And they make damn sure you never settle.