I used to believe in magical thinking—the idea that if I just worked with the right person, picked the right hot topic, or followed some “research success formula,” it would all come together.

But it doesn’t work that way.

What actually works?

Grinding. Rejection. Isolation. Picking yourself back up. Again and again.

It’s not glamorous—but it’s real.

I’ve accepted that no one’s coming to the rescue. So I’m trying to build something instead—a small platform called r3ciprocity.com. It helps researchers get feedback, build confidence, and stay motivated in a system that’s honestly stacked against them.

The idea is simple:

• Make research feel a little less lonely.

• Help people keep going.

• Give them tools so they don’t quit too soon.

But I can’t build this alone.

If you’ve ever felt stuck, burned out, overlooked, or like you were doing everything “right” and still falling behind—this is for you.

If you believe academia should do better by its people, please share this.

Let the presidents and deans see that we’re not asking for shortcuts—we’re asking for support.

We don’t need magical thinking.

We need better systems.

And we need each other.

Thanks for reading.

And if you’re still showing up every day—even when it’s hard—you’re already the hero in your story.

When I was younger, I thought if I just went far enough—got the degrees, did the work, built something real—I’d finally feel like I understood the world.

But the truth?

I’ve never felt more foolish than I do now.

The more I learn, the less I know.

The deeper I go, the more I wonder if I’m just doing it all wrong.

I’ve spent 8 years building R3ciprocity—a platform to help researchers create nearly non-rejectable research papers. I show up every day. Rain or shine. Quietly. Consistently.

And still—I question everything.

People ignore it.

Some laugh.

Some say I’m wasting my time.

And, honestly, some days I believe them.

But I keep going.

Not because I know it will work.

Not because I feel confident.

But because getting back up is the work.

This feeling—of making a fool of yourself and trying anyway?

It’s not failure.

It’s what building anything real feels like.

And if you’re stuck in that middle zone—feeling lost, doubting yourself, wondering if anyone cares:

You’re not alone.

You’re not broken.

You’re not behind.

You’re just in it.

So am I.

And tomorrow, we try again.

Yeah, so I’m always terrified of telling people the truth… because most people don’t give a blankety blank. Most people — many people — try to scam you. They will try to pull you down.

You will bump into 1,000 people. 950 will give you the dead look. 20 will try to take you down. 10 might want to help. One will actually help. That’s the game.

And you? You still get up and try. You still say, “I don’t have time. I don’t have resources. I don’t know what to do. I am a complete fool.” And then you do it again.

You tell people what you’re doing. They don’t care. They give you that total dead look. And a small group? They get upset — because they’ve benefited from sketchy behavior.

But you keep going. You say, “This is going to be the day everything changes.” And it never is. But you do it again anyway.

That is the story. That is the work. That is the world.

Welcome to reality.

Take care and have a wonderful day.

I’ve long thought that the biggest barrier to innovation isn’t funding or resources—it’s the fear of looking foolish. This feeling stops people from trying new things, from taking risks, and from pursuing ideas that might actually change the game. It’s a mystery why we let this fear control us, but it’s a universal experience. If you’ve ever held back because you didn’t want to look silly or make a mistake, you’re not alone. The truth is, every breakthrough comes from stepping into discomfort, from trying things that feel awkward and uncertain. The best ideas don’t come from playing it safe—they come from being willing to be weird, to be different, and to put in the work even when it feels messy. So, if you want to innovate, embrace the awkwardness. Be willing to fail. Keep pushing forward until something clicks—because that’s how real progress happens.

I grew up in a family where the default was just love. It wasn’t perfect — there was a lot of messed-up stuff — but no matter what, people were there for you. There was a deep respect for family and a deep respect for unconditional love.

I often think about how different life would be without that. A lot of people never get coached on right or wrong. But in our house, the default was you don’t harm other people. You build people up.

As I get older, I realize more and more how lucky I was. Despite the struggles, the default was love — and that made all the difference.

Why don’t we invest in our future selves? Whether it’s saving money, exercising, learning, or showing up for people we love, we often avoid what matters most—because we don’t respect the person we’re going to become. In this honest reflection, I talk about what it means to live differently today so that your future self can thrive. It’s not about being perfect—it’s about practicing quiet, daily acts of care for someone you haven’t met yet: future you.

There’s this message that frustrates the bananas out of me—when people say, “I made it, so can you.” It sounds nice, but it hides a deeper truth: most of what happens in life comes down to dumb butt luck. The country you’re born in, the parents you have, the people who give you a break they probably shouldn’t—it’s all chance.

We try to copy what others do, thinking best practices will lead us there. But when you actually try it, you realize: this is dumb—it doesn’t apply to me. Everyone’s story is different. Your path won’t look like mine. It might be harder, longer, slower—or maybe even faster. But that’s not the point.

The only thing I know that works? Get back up. Repeat. Over and over and over again. Keep going—not because it’s fair, or because it guarantees success—but because repetition and delusional optimism are the only real tools we have.

And maybe, just maybe, something happens when you do.

The Prayer of Saint Francis isn’t just a spiritual message—it’s a blueprint for how to lead, influence, and build something meaningful in business. “Where there is hatred, let me sow love…” That’s not weakness. That’s the foundation of lasting influence. Real leadership isn’t about control—it’s about presence, service, and building others up. Whether you’re running a company, managing a team, or just trying to make it through the research game, this prayer teaches the hardest, most important lesson of all: give more than you take. That’s how real leaders are made.

If you’ve ever felt like a mess in academia—like you’re supposed to be confident, polished, and certain, but inside you’re wrestling with doubt, contradiction, and confusion—this one’s for you.

I talk about how I’ve spent years trying to build something real with the R3ciprocity Project. I’ve done it in public. I’ve done it without a roadmap. And I’ve done it while constantly second-guessing whether I’m “doing it right.”

Over time, I stopped trying to impress people. I stopped believing the cheap talk. I started watching what people actually do. And I gave myself permission to say, “Screw the world,” when I needed to.

This episode is about letting go of the pressure to have it all figured out—and learning that not knowing is not a weakness. It’s the start of becoming yourself. If you’re in the middle of it—confused, stuck, or feeling off-script—you’re not alone. This is what growth looks like.

I used to care what everyone thought. I wanted to be liked. I wanted to impress. But years of building the Reciprocity Project—putting in the work when no one believed in it—taught me something deeper.

People say a lot. But if you watch their eyes, their body, the tension in their face—you’ll see the truth. Most of it is just cheap talk.

So I stopped listening to the noise and started believing in myself. Not because it was easy. Not because I had it all figured out. But because no one else was going to do it for me.

If you don’t feel that warm, real, supportive energy around you—walk away. Do your thing anyway. You’ll be surprised how far you can go when you stop trying to convince people and start taking steps forward.

We get it wrong—over and over again.

We chase the exciting, the flashy, the dream jobs we see on TV and TikTok.

Entrepreneurs, influencers, movie stars, pro athletes. The few that make it look easy.

But we rarely ask: what’s the probability of actually succeeding?

I’ve been thinking about this a lot.

As someone who’s built something unconventional, I know how seductive the dream can be.

But I also know how important it is to run the numbers.

If you multiply the likelihood of success with the actual return, you start to see the truth:

boring, predictable careers usually win.

Plumbers, nurses, corporate sales reps, mechanics—they’re often the ones with stable incomes and clear paths.

And if you’re strategic? If you keep learning, keep building, keep stacking skills—the upside is enormous.

Before you chase the hype, run a basic expected value calculation.

The return on boring is surprisingly high.

It just takes work, humility, and patience.

But over a lifetime, it adds up—quietly, steadily, and powerfully.

Doing the right actions that were result in good outcomes doesn’t always result in good outcomes.

We think if we just try harder, think more, or help more, things will work out. But the truth is—we can’t control much. I’ve had to learn that over and over again. Even with good intentions, even when I do everything “right,” things don’t go the way I thought they would.

We believe we’re in control of ourselves, of others, of the world. But real life doesn’t work that way. It’s messy, uncertain, and full of unexpected outcomes. Most of what we think we understand—especially as academics—is squishy. We explain 10%, but 90% is unexplained.

So I’ve learned to step back. Stay in my tiny world. Be humble. Walk forward anyway. Even if I look like the bumbling fool, I get back up and keep going. That’s the best we can do—accept the world as it is, and keep showing up.

How do you become a legitimate professor without getting an education? It’s an interesting problem. The only way is if you worked backwards and came up with a major discovery so important that people can’t look at the world the same way. But even then, legitimacy is squishy. You’d always be discounted by some.

Yes, it’s possible to make intellectual contributions without formal education, but it’s extraordinarily difficult. You don’t have mentors, guidance, or a path. The truth is, most people follow the route—PhD, publications, tenure—because it’s recognizable.

There are exceptions—people like the inventor of Ozempic or someone like MrBeast, but those paths are highly unusual. Unless you have extraordinary resources, create a lab, and produce real discoveries in the public domain, you’ll face an uphill battle. For most, the challenge isn’t brilliance—it’s legitimacy, and that’s hard to earn without the traditional path.

The more that I understand how the sausage is made, the more disillusioned I get with it. I used to have this sort of envisioned idea that if I simply just worked and I did a good job, I treated people nicely, I did everything that I was supposed to do, that it would work out. That was very naive. It’s often not what you thought it would be. The process is not what you think it is.

There is more to the story. There’s a tremendous amount of loneliness. You could be a very nice, well-intentioned person, trying to do your best—but it very often will not work out for you. There is very little rhyme or reason. Many things are outside of your control.

What people often present in the scientific game is not what happens. The stories that are told—there are stories, they’re narratives. The best way to understand science is more through a narrative lens. It is often vastly unfair and nonsensical. The idea that things are orderly, scientific, free of bias—it’s just complete nonsense.

The only thing that you can do is to accept the craziness of it all. Stop believing in this sort of “the more that you put in, the better off you get out of it” kind of idea. It’s narrative. It’s chance. It’s silly, goofy things that happen.

The only way that I know to deal with it is to dissociate every day a little bit—maybe it’s a lot. Figure out a way to remove yourself from all of it. Walk forward every day.

Fear is powerful—but it’s often used as a tool for manipulation. In this deeply honest message, we explore why fear is so primal, how it shapes our actions, and how bad actors—from the media to people close to us—exploit it to control behavior. But you have a choice.

Like firefighters, judges, and leaders in high-stress roles, you can pause. You can think clearly. You can take one calm step forward.

This reflection is a reminder that real strength is quiet, intentional, and grounded in principle. Each small action you take toward your goals chips away at fear’s grip. You don’t need to do everything today—just one thing. Hope is the antidote. And as Annie says, “The sun will come out tomorrow.”

Walk forward. The game isn’t over.

I grew up in a working-class family—blue-collar through and through. Now I live in a world full of academics, PhDs, and prestige. And to be honest, I don’t feel like I fit in anywhere.

Both sides have their own kind of snobbery. On one side, being “too educated” makes you the outsider. On the other, if you act like a normal human—go to your kid’s baseball game, show up at a PTA meeting, take time to just live—it’s seen as a waste of time.

There are unspoken rules about how you’re supposed to act, what success looks like, and who belongs. And most days, I feel like I’m doing a bad job at playing both roles.

But here’s what I’ve learned: most people are just figuring things out. Nobody really has it all together. And the more we pretend we do, the more we lose what really matters—connection, curiosity, and just being human.

There’s a pressure to “perform” that is deeply ingrained in research culture.

A norm of climbing the ladder, being cutthroat, doing more with less. But I’ve come to see how detached this is from reality.

Very detached.

I grew up in a very average, blue-collar family.

Now, I’m in a different place. I’ve made it, at least on paper.

But here’s what I’ve learned: the things that make me happiest have no financial value.

Going for walks.

Coloring with my kids.

Saying hi to colleagues in the hallway.

And the things that make me miserable?

They’re almost always tied to “performance” and “measurement.”

There’s this constant voice saying, “You must justify your worth.”

But I can’t. I’ve tried.

I can’t say my actions on any given day are “productive.”

Saying “hi” is just not.

And that is not a weakness. That’s the truth of being a researcher.

I’ve experienced a lot of failure. I’ve studied it, too.

And failure has taught me to detach from metrics.

It taught me to say, “Screw you—I’m good enough without proving it to anyone.”

This isn’t about giving up. It’s about living fully.

It’s equally good to take time off. It’s equally good to have tea with someone you love.

The problem isn’t you—it’s the narrow definition of success we’ve been taught to chase.

If you’re struggling in academia, know this: You are not alone.

And you are not weak.

You are doing the right things.