I get these waves.
Waves of fear. Of doubt. At least once or twice a day.
Why am I doing this?
Why am I so public about something I don’t even understand myself?
I don’t want to mess up anyone’s life.
What if someone hears this and does something terrible because they misunderstood me?
What if I’m screwing it all up?
I feel like a buffoon most of the time.
A giant mess, walking around pretending to know.
Sometimes I think I might be the hero in my own life.
But mostly… I don’t.
I’m 46. And I still feel like the insecure kid on that dirt road — Ryczko Road — where nothing made sense.
None of this goes away.
The more I do this, the more doubt I have.
The more faith I need — and I’m not even a faith-kind-of-person.
But I’ve learned: you’ll never really know.
And that fear never disappears.
You just learn to live with it.
Take care.
I have seen a lot of people—especially in academia—try to ban ChatGPT outright. But the world doesn’t work like that. Banning tools like this doesn’t teach students how to live in a messy, shifting world—it just teaches them guilt and silence. I grew up in a strict household, so I get the instinct. But I also know what happens when people are told something is morally wrong: they hide. They feel shame. And they don’t know how to talk about it when they slip.
This episode is about building something better. Not rigid rules—but real conversations about how tools can be both powerful and flawed. We need to teach people how to think, how to ask questions, and how to live honestly inside a world that’s constantly changing. And that’s a much harder—but more human—lesson than just saying “don’t.”
So what if you work on something for two, three, five years…
You write the dissertation.
You build the app.
You post the idea.
And no one looks.
Your advisor doesn’t read it.
Your peers don’t respond.
The internet gives you five views and one pity like.
This is not a bug in research.
This is the game.
Dissertations go unread.
Projects die in inboxes.
New ideas get met with condescension, silence, or worse—indifference.
But you’re not trying to reach the world.
You’re looking for one person—
Someone playful enough to engage, curious enough to see potential.
Most people won’t.
They’ll never move a finger.
It’s not malice—it’s just how it is.
The work is in finding that spark.
One out of ten million.
That’s how momentum starts.
Ignore the rest.
Reframe the silence as signal.
Look for the spark.
Keep going—quietly, persistently—until it catches.
It won’t take a year.
It might take a decade.
Maybe more.
But those of us who build know the truth:
That’s the work.
This is just a one-minute thought—but it might change how you see yourself.
We’re told to be humble.
But the truth is, no one gets far without a little arrogance.
You need to believe you can do it—
Even when others doubt you.
Even when you doubt yourself.
At the same time, that belief can’t turn into self-importance.
You also have to listen. Stay open. Learn fast.
It’s not about choosing one or the other.
The people who go furthest?
They hold both: a quiet arrogance and a grounded humility.
I have a PhD. I’m a professor.
And still—some days, I can’t keep up.
There are emails I haven’t answered. People I haven’t followed up with. Promises I meant to keep but couldn’t.
Not because I don’t care. But because I’m human.
I wrestle with guilt. With fear. With the thought: “What will they think of me?”
I’ve always been shy, and when people take me seriously, it still scares me a little.
But I’m learning—slowly—to let go.
If they judge me, that’s on them.
If I’m doing the best I can with what I’ve got, that’s enough.
Academia doesn’t always make space for that truth—but I will.
Today, I’m choosing to take a breath. To notice the beauty around me.
And to remind myself: I’m doing okay.
So are you.
What If You Picked the Wrong Career—And Can’t Fix It?
I think about this almost every day. I am sure you do, my friend.
What if I picked the wrong career?
What if I can’t undo it?
I’m a professor.
I have a PhD—with 15 years of experience.
But most days, I still ask: What the hell am I doing here?
This isn’t what I imagined.
I feel typecast.
Trapped.
Like I can’t change direction because the world already decided who I am.
I’m an old man.
But here’s the truth: those boundaries—those roles we think are fixed—they’re mostly made up.
Nobody really knows what they’re doing when they start.
You just figure it out as you go.
And when I see a 72-year-old training to be a lifeguard after 40 years as a programmer at my swimming pool (true story), I’m reminded: it’s never too late to start again.
If you’re stuck, forgive yourself.
I hear people say, “You just didn’t do your homework.”
F that. No one knows what they’re getting into. You figure it out as you go.
Say “screw it” to the expectations.
Try the thing. Muck around.
You don’t need permission. Just start.
And when people judge you? Build a boundary in your head.
Politely Say SCREW YOU. Keep moving.
That’s what I’m doing.
And if you’re a PhD who feels this way—know you’re not alone.
You didn’t mess it up.
You’re just living a story that’s still being written.
This is for every PhD who quietly wonders: “What if I chose wrong?”
If you need someone to hear this, share it!
I’m Still Not Over My PhD — 15 Years Later
It’s been almost 15 years since I ended my PhD. I graduated in 2011.
And if I’m being honest, I’m still not over it.
I came in strong—undergrad and master’s at one of the best engineering schools in the world. The first in my family to get an university degree told me I was no slouch.
I thought I’d accelerate through a top business school, graduate in four years, and be on my way.
Perhaps being a business professor or management consultant.
But that’s not what happened.
What happened was… grief, confusion, silence, rejection.
Two years of wandering at the beginning of my PhD program, trying to find mentors and figuring out me.
I eventually found extraordinary mentors that pushed me every day and were often there to listen to lement.
A job market that punished my pedigree— Canadian schools just don’t have the same cache in the market.
I can’t tell you the number of times I heard:
Waterloo what?
Ivey who?
I didn’t know about the US academic market, so I never applied to those programs. I WAS living my dream schools.
Endless ambiguity and crushing self-doubt.
I nearly quit. Perhaps, more than once.
I had a newborn one the way and a toddler. I was ready to work in a factory for nearly minimum wage if one more door closed.
Then, one opened at one institution. I’ve been here ever since.
But the scars linger.
The questions.
The bitterness.
The confusion over why some thrive and others feel like they never quite click.
Even today.
And the deep, unshakable sense that I had to figure it out alone.
That’s why I built the R3ciprocity Project—to help fix this broken system. I’ve spent embarrassingly amounts of money and time trying to build this platform because of it.
I get the same rejection. The same silence.
But, I keep going forward because I know that this is important.
I get the private messages and nods.
If you’re in it right now and struggling, you’re not weak.
I can tell you the majority of the professors out there feel the same way that I do.
You just don’t see it.
You’re not alone.
You’re living through what most of us never talk about.
Keep going.
We’re living through the biggest information shift in 100 years—and no one’s prepared. Institutions are stuck. Algorithms reward chaos. But there’s hope in something no one talks about: being a thoughtful, average, flawed, and kind person who still shows up every day. In a world built for extremes, the future belongs to those who build slow, human, and real.
There are days I feel like I’ve done nothing important since high school. Like the best is behind me—and I’m just slowly fading.
And I know I’m not the only one.
Even as a professor of innovation, I wrestle daily with the quiet fear that I’m falling short of who I’m “supposed” to be. The shame of wanting recognition. The guilt of not doing enough. The fear that others will take advantage of my vulnerability.
But here’s what I’ve learned:
You don’t need to fix it all. You just need to do one small thing today. Then do it again tomorrow. And the next day.
If you’ve ever felt stuck, unseen, or like you’re slipping backwards—this is for you.
You’re not broken. You’re human. And you’re not alone.
In academia, recognition isn’t just a nice bonus. It is the reward system. If people don’t notice your work, you don’t get the job, the promotion, the funding. But if you seek recognition too openly? You risk looking awkward, insecure, or self-absorbed.
It’s a strange paradox: we are judged by how much others defer to our judgment. But to earn that deference, others must be paying attention. And to get attention, we’re expected to self-promote—often in ways that feel deeply uncomfortable.
For me, this isn’t just professional discomfort. It’s personal shame.
I grew up in a Roman Catholic family where humility was everything. So when I see others promoting themselves online, or when I do it myself, I feel a wave of guilt. I think of all the people who might feel worse because of what I posted. I reflect on my own insecurities. I wonder if I’m good enough. And then I go quiet again.
But the truth is: silence doesn’t always serve us. And neither does shame.
If you feel uncomfortable with self-promotion, you’re not alone.
If you secretly crave recognition and hate yourself for it, you’re not alone.
This is the messy middle we live in.
There’s no right answer—only the daily effort to be honest with yourself, and maybe kind to others trying to figure it out too.
In academia, one of the biggest red flags I’ve learned to recognize is when someone proudly says they “outwork everyone.” It sounds admirable—until you realize it often signals transactional thinking, competition over collaboration, and a mindset that leaves no room for empathy or building something bigger than yourself.
Research is not a race. And outworking others isn’t the goal. The goal is to build something that lasts, something meaningful—with people who care just as much as you do.
If you’re trying to create anything truly new—especially in research or academia—you can’t do it alone. You need trust. You need support. You need people who show up for each other.
The ones who win at that game? They don’t say “I outwork everyone.”
They say: “Let’s build this together.”
Let me know if this resonates—or if you’ve seen this kind of mindset, too.
You’re not going to like this—but I’ve come to believe it’s true:
We’re not teaching people empathy.
Not in business school.
Not in PhD programs.
Not in most classrooms.
We’re teaching performance.
Frameworks.
Strategy.
Execution.
But not how to read a room.
Not how to ask:
“How is this person actually feeling right now?”
Or: “How do I show up in a way that helps, not harms?”
I used to think empathy was soft.
I now believe it’s the core skill that makes or breaks your success—
in research, in business, and in life.
The thing is… I’m naturally empathetic.
And for a long time, I assumed everyone else was too.
That people were good.
That they meant well.
That if I showed up with kindness, it would be returned.
That was wrong. Painfully wrong.
Empathy doesn’t work on everyone.
Some people take advantage of it.
Some people weaponize your kindness.
And the more you give, the more they take.
But that doesn’t mean you give up on empathy.
It means you learn to use it wisely.
Empathy is not weakness.
It’s not being a doormat.
It’s not endlessly giving.
It’s knowing when to give.
And when to walk away.
In my house, we talk about feelings.
We ask, “How do you think they felt?”
And I’ve seen the difference that makes with my kids.
A little empathy changes everything:
How you teach.
How you parent.
How you lead.
How you breathe in a room that doesn’t fully accept you.
But here’s the catch:
Empathy only works if you also protect yourself.
So if you’re the kind of person who gives…
Who senses everything…
Who gets crushed when you’re ignored or dismissed—
This is your permission:
You are not wrong. You are not soft. You are not naive.
You’re reading the world at a deeper level.
Just make sure you don’t burn out trying to fix it.
Empathy is your superpower.
But like all power, it needs boundaries.
At some point, you realize the climb they promised was never real. Maybe there isn’t a ladder. Maybe there’s no pinnacle.
You start to feel a shift—where you stop buying into this dream of “moving on up” and start accepting the world as it actually is. That doesn’t mean you give up. It means you embrace modesty. Simplicity. The birds and the bees. The tingly feeling when you realize: I’m doing OK.
It’s not about climbing anymore. It’s about finding peace with where you are and who you are. And when that happens—strangely—everything begins to change.
People will tell you it should be easier. They’ll say you’re doing it wrong. But until they actually stand up and do it themselves, they haven’t got a clue.
The truth is: it’s way frigging harder than you think it is. You will make mistakes. You will feel embarrassed. You will doubt yourself every single day. But your job is to keep going, to try your best, and realize that we all universally suck at this.
You have as good a shot as anybody else. Forget their noise. Get up. Try. Be willing to look foolish. That’s the only way anything real ever happens.
Ignore what other people expect of you. Reinvest everything into things that go up in value. That’s it. The trick is doing it for 30, 40, 50 years—even when nobody understands, even when it looks foolish. Get the boring degree. Drive the boring car. Make the ambiguous choices. Invest in yourself. In your family. In your future. You won’t see the payoff right away, but that’s the point. Keep doing it. Day in. Day out. That’s how it works.
I get it — I’ve felt it too. I grew up far from academic circles. I was the first in my family to go away, and it always felt like everyone else was just more polished, more confident, more… something. But after years in academia and building the R3ciprocity Project, I’ve learned that what looks like arrogance is often just insecurity, stress, and isolation. Most of us are introverts forced into strange performances. You’ll meet some kind ones, and some who act like they’ve made it. Just remember: everybody puts their pants on the same way. If you’ve ever felt small or out of place around someone with a PhD — you’re not alone. You are enough. You’re gonna be okay. Keep walking into those rooms and forgiving yourself when it feels awkward. You’re doing better than you think.
Nobody cares. You have to get to the moment where that’s just your thing. You walk past them. You say, “Whatever.” You don’t listen. You just keep going forward every day. Most people are deeply compliant. They’re in the here and now. They don’t get it. But you do. You’ve been humiliated. You’ve been broken. You’ve been ignored. And yet, you’re still going.
This isn’t about applause. This is about doing something for the greater good. It’s grinding. It’s expensive. It’s lonely. But if you’re still moving, still building, still saying, “I love myself for doing it,” then you’re doing something right.
Practice smiling from the heart. Practice wonder. And remember: every day, it’s a little bit of not listening. And every day, you get better at it.
I’m 45. I’m in the middle right now. I feel like I plateaued ten years ago, but I’m still moving up.” In this episode, I talk honestly about aging, the struggle with aging parents, and why I’ll never resonate with my mom. I share what it’s like to care too much, to realize that the roles have reversed, and to feel like your parents—your superheroes—no longer understand you. I open up about generational gaps, acceptance, walking as the happy pill, and the hard truth that “you can’t help people who don’t want help.” This is about learning to step back, love others as they are, and love yourself more.
I’ve been doing this for a long time—and I keep asking the same question:
Why do so many people disappear from academic research?
We tell ourselves it’s about intelligence. That people drop out because they weren’t smart enough.
But I think that’s a cop-out.
What I’ve actually seen is this: people leave because they don’t feel supported.
Yes, it takes grit.
Yes, it takes personal drive.
But the thing that keeps people going—year after year, failure after failure—is community.
And that’s exactly what’s missing for so many PhDs and researchers.
We burn people out.
We isolate them.
We make the process so cold and transactional that it breaks the spirit of even the brightest minds.
But what if we changed that?
What if the academic journey didn’t just leave people bitter and alone, but helped them feel loved, seen, and supported along the way?
That’s what I’m building with the Reciprocity Project.
It’s not perfect, but it’s a step toward something better—toward keeping more of us in the game for the long haul.
Because research doesn’t just need brilliance. It needs people who feel like they belong.
Someone reached out to me recently. They were interested in working together—but it became clear they hadn’t taken the time to really understand what I’m building.
This isn’t about ego. It’s about depth.
We’re taught to move fast, to skim, to pitch before we listen. But real innovation—like real relationships—requires a deeper dive.
Before we build something new, ask:
What already exists? What’s been solved? What’s working beneath the surface?
Most systems, ideas, and platforms are held together by years of invisible learning. When you ignore that, you don’t move faster—you end up starting from scratch and repeating old mistakes.
I’m not looking for quick wins or surface-level partnerships.
I’m looking for people who want to knead the dough slowly, fold in the right flavors, and build something that lasts.
If someone asks you to slow down and understand—don’t take it as resistance.
Take it as a chance to do meaningful work.
