Everyone says the algorithm is broken.
That it penalizes you. That it keeps you invisible.
But after 6,000+ YouTube videos, I’ve realized something:
The algorithm isn’t the enemy. It’s just a mirror.
It reflects what we click on, what we crave, what we can’t look away from.
Here’s the problem:
If you’re not exceptionally beautiful, funny, shocking, or extreme, the internet ignores you.
“Being normal” doesn’t trend.
But being normal is what lets you survive.
Most people burn out chasing performance.
Trying to out-hustle, out-shock, out-perfect the algorithm.
Me? I chose survival.
I chose to lower the bar, to just show up every day as a professor, a dad, a researcher, and a human being.
Because survival compounds.
It lets you build for decades, while everyone else quits after a few months.
It’s not glamorous. It’s not clickbait.
But maybe — just maybe — showing up as yourself is the most radical strategy left.
I was just having this conversation with my son—about how human nature drives so much of what we see online. You go on LinkedIn, and it’s like everyone has to sound like they’ve got their act together. “Founder of this,” “Thought Leader of that.” You meet them in real life, and it’s like… wait a minute. That title doesn’t match the person. Sometimes it’s funny. Sometimes it’s sad. But mostly, it’s just human.
I know I sound like a pretentious jerk saying all this, but you’ve probably seen it too. The polished title, the perfect posts, the projection of success. Yet behind the curtain, we’re all a little bit of a mess. And maybe that’s okay. Maybe the only real status is being okay with falling apart some days and holding it together on others. If you’re someone who’s tired of the fakeness—or just wants to feel human again—this one’s for you.
Don’t buy into the highlight reels. The truth behind progress—real, lasting, meaningful progress—is much slower and far more painful than anyone admits. Most people who look successful are just better at hiding their struggle. The ones who are actually making a difference? They often feel like failures. Because they’re pushing. Because they’re going slow. Because they’re honest with themselves about how hard it really is.
I had no investors. No team. No roadmap. Just one strange, stubborn belief: that I could build something that changed the way research is done. Everyone said it was foolish. Many still do. But I kept showing up. Every day. With nothing but a broken idea and a full heart.
This post is about what it actually feels like to create something when the odds are against you. It’s not glamorous. You’ll be ignored, doubted, and dismissed. But you might also build something no one else dared to try. If you’re chasing a wild idea—if people don’t understand why you’re doing it—you’re probably on the right path. Keep going.
The internet is designed to keep you scrolling.
Not thinking. Not learning.
Most people check out the second a conversation gets difficult.
Not “heated.” Just difficult.
Hard conversations — about data, about money, about failure — get ignored, not because they’re wrong, but because they’re inconvenient. They feel uncomfortable.
And this is why so many of us never learn the most important lessons.
• Learning is not fun.
• Real growth feels terrible while you’re doing it.
• Engagement online isn’t built on wisdom — it’s built on what people already believe.
Once you see this, you can’t unsee it.
You stop expecting people to stay.
And you start focusing on the few who don’t check out.
Because the future is always built by the people willing to sit in the discomfort and keep going.
We keep hearing AI will ruin everything—but no one talks about how much of our life already changed without us noticing. From daily showers to spotless homes to chauffeuring kids every night—this is all new. In 30 years, we quietly reinvented “normal.” So what happens when robots don’t just work for us—but become better partners, better parents, even better lovers?
Everyone says they want innovation—until you actually try to fail on purpose.
But living in the land of failure is the only way anything truly new happens.
You won’t get applause.
You won’t get permission.
You will be told you’re wrong—by people who only repeat what worked last time.
But the truth is simple:
Those who win in the long run are the ones who keep failing deliberately,
quietly,
again and again.
They’re not chasing prestige.
They’re chasing truth.
And they know: the path to something real goes straight through what looks like a bad idea.
Try things that lead to failure. You never know what it will bring.
You were an R&D exec, an engineer, a builder of real things. And now? You’re told to watch Wheel of Fortune and sit still. That’s nonsense. You’ve still got curiosity. You’ve still got edge. You’re finally free to mess around, screw up, and chase what made you excited in the first place. Reinvent your toaster. Obsess over headlights. Start that blog about Lego men.
No one’s stopping you now. So… why the hell not?
I used to think I needed to build something massive to matter. Publish groundbreaking research. Get recognized. Maybe even win awards. But when I look back, the people who shaped me the most—my mom and dad—never chased any of that.
They just did small things. My mom still knits mittens for people in her community. My dad used to give away carrots and potatoes from his garden. No one gave them a medal. No one wrote them into history books. But when they left, the absence was felt.
This episode is about how real impact often looks like nothing at all. It’s invisible. It’s humble. And it changes everything.
If you’re feeling like your work, your life, or your research doesn’t matter unless it’s loud, flashy, or celebrated—you need to hear this.
Because the truth is: we don’t need more geniuses. We need more people who show up, give away the extra carrots, and knit mittens.
Take care. And be that kind of person.
I believed education would unlock everything—happiness, clarity, purpose. And in some ways, it did. But the hardest part of life wasn’t solved in any classroom. The real challenge is waking up each day and doing the hard, boring, painful things that don’t feel exciting anymore. Managing your own motivation, your aches, your disillusionment—that’s the work no one teaches you.
What’s missing from the story of success isn’t more knowledge. It’s knowing how to get back up when you’re tired, discouraged, or simply numb. It’s understanding that life won’t always feel fresh or inspiring, and doing the work anyway. You don’t need to be a genius to do that—you just need to decide to try. Every day. Even when it hurts.
Most of us think money problems are solved with budgets, rules, and discipline. But the truth is, you don’t need a budget—you need a reframing.
We live in a world where marketers are paid to make us feel like we don’t have enough. They pull on every psychological trick: comparison, fear of missing out, the idea that the “good life” is always just one more purchase away. And because we can’t measure what really matters—love, compassion, stability, joy—we undervalue it. We chase the quantifiable things: bigger homes, flashier cars, the visible proof of success.
But here’s the secret: the most valuable things in life are invisible. A walk with a friend. A stable relationship. The quiet consistency of putting 10–15% into index funds, even though nobody sees it. These invisible things compound. They build stability. They make you whole in a way “stuff” never can.
If you stop playing by everyone else’s rules—if you stop chasing what can be measured and instead invest in what can’t—your life transforms. Not overnight, but day by day, one step at a time.
The game was never about buying more. It was about seeing differently.
Brilliant ideas don’t start brilliant.
They start lonely. Ugly. Scary.
The first time you share something that matters, it will be misunderstood. It will feel like a punch in the gut.
And your instinct will be to shrink. To cry. To quit.
But that moment—that heartbreak—is the cost of entry.
Every meaningful idea feels dumb before it feels right.
I study innovation. I live this life.
And I still get that ping of doubt, that wave of embarrassment, every time I propose something weird.
Even Roman numerals on bricks.
The truth is, creativity only grows when the environment makes it safe to look foolish.
Your job isn’t to look smart. It’s to create space for weird ideas to breathe.
That’s what I’m building.
That’s what I’m still learning to do.
I talk about the politics of PhD life because gossip—yes, gossip—has a purpose.
We think of gossip as petty, but in research life, it’s often how we make sense of ambiguous, uncomfortable situations no one will say out loud. It’s the quiet way someone whispers, “Here’s what’s really going on.”
The reality is that research careers are messy, political, and resource-scarce. Most of us eventually realize there’s no magic bullet. You follow the tips, you mimic the strategies, but what works for others doesn’t always work for you. I’ve been at this long enough to know: my “magic bullet” doesn’t exist.
And that’s okay.
My only real trick? Ignore as much of the politics as you can, and keep taking steps forward. Focus on becoming the kind of person who can walk away at any time—with your integrity, your health, and your financial independence intact.
Because when you can walk away, you’re actually more powerful. And you’ll work with more kindness, generosity, and freedom than any political maneuvering could ever give you.
That’s the message I try to share. Not because it’s easy. But because it’s the only way I know to keep going in a system built on ambiguity, scarcity, and—yes—gossip.
As researchers, we are trained to demand evidence before believing something. We pride ourselves on the phrase, “Show me the data.” And yet, I’m struck by how quickly we discount the human side of knowing—the intuition, tacit knowledge, and “spidey sense” that quietly guides so many of our decisions.
In my own life, I’ve learned that those gut feelings often point to something real. You try something, and it just works. You see a pattern and instinctively know what to do next. But too often, those moments get dismissed as “just anecdotal” or “just the placebo effect.” The irony is that this dismissal can blind us to real phenomena worth understanding.
Why does this matter? Because intuition isn’t magic—it’s experience speaking. Expertise is defined as the ability to recognize patterns from having done something thousands of times, even if you can’t fully explain how you know what you know. In those cases, demanding formal evidence before trusting someone’s judgment can actually make us ignore valuable knowledge.
Of course, there’s a danger here. Everyone likes to believe they’re an expert. That’s why separating genuine expertise from overconfidence is hard. Still, when someone with deep experience says, “This works,” we should pay attention—especially if the claim has persisted across contexts.
Another reason we discount intuition is that effects vary. In research, these differences are called moderators—factors that change the size or even the direction of an effect. Something might work brilliantly for one person but barely move the needle for another. Think about marijuana: for some, it’s a knockout; for others, it does nothing. Medicine often ignores these nuances, chasing an “average effect” instead of exploring why outcomes differ. This is changing with personalized medicine, which recognizes that context, genetics, and environment shape results.
The same principle applies in management and innovation. An approach that’s a breakthrough in one setting may flop in another. The fact that it doesn’t work everywhere doesn’t mean it’s useless—it means it’s context-dependent. But when we only look for universal effects, we overlook valuable local knowledge.
So how do you tell if a feeling is worth trusting? I think it comes down to two things:
1. Depth of experience – Repeated exposure to a problem builds pattern recognition that can’t be faked.
2. Deliberate reflection – Paying close attention, experimenting, and adjusting until you see what really matters.
Neither guarantees truth, but both increase the odds that your intuition is pointing to something real. The challenge, especially in research, is to notice these patterns before they disappear under layers of skepticism.
And yes, we need to weed out the “woo” from reality. There’s a lot of junk science and wishful thinking out there. But history is full of ideas that were once dismissed as nonsense—handwashing, for example—that turned out to be correct. Often, the people raising them couldn’t prove their case at first. That doesn’t mean they were wrong; it means they were ahead of the evidence.
So, maybe the next time someone says, “I know it works—I’ve seen it a hundred times,” we pause before dismissing them. We ask:
• How much experience do they have?
• Have they paid attention to patterns?
• Could the effect be real for some people, even if not for all?
Because if we’re honest, a lot of what moves the world forward starts with a hunch that doesn’t yet have a p-value attached to it.
I know I’m weird. I record podcasts while driving. I talk to strangers on the internet. I’ve poured time, money, and reputation into something that might go nowhere. It’s embarrassing. It’s terrifying. And I do it anyway.
This episode is for anyone sitting on a dream but too scared to start. I get it. I feel that same fear—every single day. I’m shy. I hate being the center of attention. I worry I’m wasting time I could spend with my kids. But still, I show up.
We live in a world filled with opportunity. Anyone can build something. Anyone can speak. But most people won’t—because someone, somewhere told them they were foolish for even trying.
If you’ve ever felt like what you want is too big, too weird, too risky, or too small to matter, I want you to hear this: you’re not alone. The fear doesn’t go away. But the only way forward is through.
You don’t need to be fearless. You just need to do it afraid.
Take care. And go be weird.
If you’re looking for a rational, financial reason to have kids, you won’t find one here. I’ve looked. I teach strategy and economics. I live in a world obsessed with optimization. And by all those measures, having children is just… a cost.
But I did it anyway. Twice.
This episode is about the truth no one wants to say out loud: there’s no economic model that justifies raising kids. It’s time-consuming, expensive, and pulls you away from work you love. And yet, somehow, it’s also the most meaningful decision I’ve ever made.
I talk about the tension between ambition and family, love and logic, joy and sacrifice. I challenge the financial frameworks we use to define “value” in life—and why they break down the moment you try to price love, time, or legacy.
This isn’t an argument for parenthood. It’s an invitation to rethink what matters.
If you’ve ever wondered why you’re doing something that doesn’t make sense on paper—but feels right in your soul—this one’s for you.
Take care. And let yourself choose joy, even when it looks like a loss.
Everyone tells you to be bold—but when you’re actually in the middle of a PhD, or building something real, all you feel is pressure.
Pressure to finish quickly.
To not mess up.
To not look like a failure.
So what do you do?
You choose the “safe” project.
You chase metrics.
You kill the weird idea that kept you up at night.
I’ve seen this story unfold a hundred times—students who could’ve done something incredible… but didn’t. Not because they lacked talent, but because they were afraid.
Afraid of what their advisor would say.
Afraid of wasting time.
Afraid of looking stupid.
And here’s the truth no one tells you: that weird, risky idea you’re avoiding? It’s probably the most valuable thing you’ve got.
The ones who do the extraordinary aren’t always the smartest. They’re the ones who follow the strange idea anyway.
Even when it looks foolish.
Even when no one else understands it.
Especially then.
If you’re in your 20s and terrified of taking a risk—this is your sign.
Do the thing you’re scared to do.
Not recklessly.
But relentlessly.
Because in 10 years, the only regret you’ll have is not doing it sooner.
Everyone around me says I’ve made it—tenure, a house, a good life. But inside the system I work in, I’m told—explicitly and implicitly—that I don’t count. That I’m invisible. That I’m failing.
Why? Because I didn’t play the game the way I was supposed to. I didn’t chase citations or prestige. I chased joy. Stability. Meaning. Love.
This isn’t just my story—it’s a quiet rebellion against a broken definition of success. If you’ve ever felt like you were doing all the right things, but still being told you’re wrong… you’re not alone.
This is a message for everyone who’s ever whispered, “What if success isn’t what they say it is?”
Take care.
Why do we feel guilty when we finally enjoy our lives — as PhDs, professors, or researchers?
There’s this unspoken rule in academia: if you take weekends off, you’re not serious. If you rest during the summer, you’re lazy. If you enjoy time with your family, you’re not really committed. And yet… the best insights always come during the pause — on the walk, in the shower, during the laughter.
This guilt? It has no logic. But we still carry it.
In this episode, I reflect on the pressure to always perform, the subtle shame baked into the culture of research, and why the most profound work often begins when we stop working. If you’ve ever felt like resting means failing — this one’s for you.
Take a breath. You’re doing okay. And if someone has a problem with that?
Screw them.
