The most important factors for a long life, I think, are partly

When John Gokongwei said, “The most important factors for a long life, I think, are partly in the genes; number two is lifestyle, which includes healthy diet and regular exercise. I walk, run and swim every day. However, I think too much exercise is also unhealthy because of over-stress; sometimes people who exercise too many hours per day die early,” he spoke as one who had seen not only the rise and fall of fortunes, but the rhythm of life itself. His words are not those of a man of theory, but of experience — words born from a lifetime of observing how the human spirit endures, how it breaks, and how it must be tended. In his wisdom lies the essence of the middle path, the way of balance that has guided sages and warriors through the centuries.

The origin of this wisdom rests in Gokongwei’s own story — a man who began with nothing, who walked through poverty and failure, who built empires with patience and endurance. He understood, as few do, that longevity is not merely the continuation of the body, but the preservation of purpose. He lived a life of balance: neither enslaved by indulgence nor consumed by obsession. His words reflect the understanding that health, like success, is not won through extremity, but through harmony — through the alignment of discipline, rest, and moderation. The genes may shape our beginning, but it is our choices that shape our years.

In this teaching, Gokongwei stands alongside the ancient masters who preached equilibrium as the highest virtue. The Greeks called it metron ariston — “moderation is best.” The Buddha taught the Middle Way, neither self-indulgence nor self-mortification. The Chinese sages called it zhong yong, the doctrine of the mean — a life balanced between effort and ease, between strength and gentleness. When Gokongwei warns of “too much exercise,” he is not dismissing discipline, but guarding against obsession, the folly of mistaking quantity for wisdom. For even the purest act, when done to excess, becomes poison.

History is filled with such examples. Consider Milo of Croton, the ancient Greek wrestler famed for his superhuman strength. Each day, it is said, he carried a calf on his shoulders until it grew into a full-grown bull. For years, this training made him invincible. But pride led him to excess. One day, he tried to split a great tree with his bare hands — his hands became trapped, and the beasts of the forest tore him apart. So too does Gokongwei warn us: that the path of strength, when pursued without wisdom, leads not to life but to destruction. True longevity lies not in pushing limits endlessly, but in listening to the rhythms of the body, the whispers of fatigue, the balance between vigor and rest.

His reflections on genes and lifestyle also reveal a profound humility. The ancients knew that destiny is both given and earned. The body’s foundation — its constitution — is a gift from ancestry, yet it is nurture that determines its flowering. A man born of strong blood who neglects his body will fall; a man of fragile health who walks wisely, eats mindfully, and lives in moderation may outlive kings. Gokongwei’s daily walks, runs, and swims were not acts of vanity but of devotion — rituals of gratitude toward the life that carried him so far. He knew that the body is the servant of purpose, and that only through balance can it continue to serve.

There is also a spiritual truth hidden within his words. For to live long is not enough — one must live well. Too much striving, whether in business or in fitness, depletes not only the body but the soul. The stress he warns against is not merely physical, but existential — the restless hunger that drives man to chase endlessly, forgetting to breathe, to be, to enjoy the sunrise. Gokongwei’s warning is the wisdom of one who has conquered the world and seen that peace, not power, is the true wealth of longevity. His life itself stands as proof that endurance is born of contentment, not compulsion.

And so, my children of ambition and exhaustion, take this lesson to heart. Seek balance, not extremity. Honor your genes by caring for what they have given you. Eat with mindfulness, train with discipline, rest with reverence. Do not mistake constant motion for progress, nor exhaustion for achievement. Remember that the flame of life burns brightest not when it rages, but when it is tended with steady care. As John Gokongwei teaches, to live long is not to live endlessly, but to live wisely — to walk, to run, to rest, to breathe, and to cherish the precious harmony between effort and ease.

For the one who understands balance does not merely extend his years — he deepens them. His life becomes not a race, but a journey of grace, where every step, every breath, and every heartbeat is an offering of gratitude to the quiet, enduring miracle of being alive.