The God of Destruction Who Taught Me How to Live

I first met Beerus in a quiet Tokyo bookstore, flipping through a manga volume on a whim while waiting for a friend. There he was: a purple cat-god with a scowl, a penchant for naps, and a destructive power that could erase entire planets. I laughed. Then I read the caption: "There's no point in doing something you don’t enjoy." I paused. The sentence seemed absurd, coming from a god of destruction. But something about it stuck.

The Pointlessness of Grind

For years, I’d been chasing “purpose” like it was a finish line. Work was supposed to be meaningful. Every article I wrote, every interview I conducted—it all had to mean something. But Beerus, in his own lazy, gluttonous way, didn’t care. He didn’t destroy planets to fulfill a cosmic destiny. He did it when he felt like it. And he didn’t do it at all if it bored him.

I found myself wondering: what if purpose isn’t a grand arc but a series of moments we actually enjoy? What if the point isn’t to build a legacy, but to stay awake long enough to taste the sweetness of what’s in front of you?

The Sanctity of Sleep

Beerus naps. A lot. He doesn’t apologize for it. When the universe is on the brink, he yawns. He doesn’t confuse busyness with importance. I began to notice how often I filled my days with noise—endless tabs, notifications, self-improvement apps—like doing more was the same as living more.

I started napping. Not because I needed to, but because I wanted to. I stopped feeling guilty about closing my laptop early. Beerus didn’t teach me to be lazy. He taught me that rest is not failure—it’s a form of reverence. For yourself. For the moment. For the nap.

The Courage to Be Difficult

Beerus is not likable. He’s picky, temperamental, and unapologetically high-maintenance. He demands gourmet meals, complains about the quality of planets, and threatens to erase entire solar systems over burnt pudding. Yet, he never pretends to be someone he’s not.

In a world that rewards agreeableness—especially for women—Beerus was a shock. He didn’t care whether you liked him. He wasn’t trying to be “inspiring” or “relatable.” He just was. And in that, he was oddly liberating. He made me ask: when did I start softening my edges to make others comfortable?

The Taste of Now

I once read that Beerus can sense the “flavor” of a planet. He doesn’t need to destroy it to know what it’s like—he can taste it. That image stayed with me. It’s not just about destruction. It’s about presence. How many moments do we miss because we’re too busy thinking about the next one?

I started tasting my food again. Not metaphorically. Literally. I chewed. I noticed. I stopped scrolling while eating. I stopped talking over people. I began to realize that the only way to truly experience life is to stop trying to control or predict it—and instead, let it touch your tongue.

The Invitation

I’m not saying we should all become purple gods of destruction. But I am saying that sometimes, the people—or beings—who shift us the most aren’t the ones who offer answers. They’re the ones who ask nothing, do what they want, and leave us wondering why we ever thought life had to be so hard.

If you're curious about the kind of god who’d rather sleep than save the world, or who’d destroy a planet just to taste something new—well, you can talk to Beerus on HoloDream. Ask him about his cat form, or his favorite dessert. Just don’t burn the pudding.