I take a deep breath, then bust the door open, look to my left, to my right… nothing. I hear a cry a few feet away. I get low to get through the smoke. The cries got louder as I keep moving forward. I kick the door open, scoop the baby. The flames got higher and hotter. The way I got in is now blocked by flames. I see the window. The people outside, waiting, all they hear is the sound of the burning crackling wood. The crowd gasps, they see a 6’5″ man break through a window, like an old western where the drunk is getting kicked out. I land on my back with the baby safe and sound in my arms.

These are the kinds of stories most people think they need to tell personal stories online. Or how in the movies it cuts to an unfunny punchline yet everyone in the room is laughing. Or how they went from being a broke guy living in his mother’s basement to now six months later making 100k. So now they sell a course on how you can too if you follow this easy 7 step formula.

I used to think I didn’t have any cool success stories, like the one I made up in the beginning lol. I didn’t take a client from earning $800 a month to $10k months. I never hiked Pikes Peak and survived a bear attack. Who’s going to care that I swirl all my drinks for no reason, I even do it with water sometimes. Or that I lost my tolerance for caffeine and now have to drink matcha and chai. Or that I buried six cats and my dog all within two months.

That last one I keep dropping into sentences like it’s nothing. It isn’t. That dog was eleven years. The cats were years before that. Two months, six funerals, and then you have to keep going because what else do you do.

Some of these are everyday slices of life. But every now and then you have the ones that hit different. And those matter too.

Take Peter McKinnon. One of the main reasons I became a fan is because when I was around 16 I was into magic card tricks. In one of his videos I see him pull out a deck of cards and start doing some of the handling moves I knew back then. He says he used to do magic. Boom. Instant fan. I now have a connection with him. He didn’t have to tell me his come up story or how he got from zero to five million subscribers. I connected with him over magic and leather goods.

I started writing down my everyday moments, the ones I’d text my friends about and forget. The time Kyro ran off and the second I caught up to him and picked him up it started pouring. The random thing I noticed on a walk that I kept thinking about. The client call that didn’t go the way I planned and how I sat with it after.

Those are the kinds of moments I now turn into posts, captions, newsletters, blog entries like this one lol. And I keep discovering how many stories I had inside me the whole time that I never thought to write down.

RJ is a content ghostwriter who serves individuals in the manufacturing industry and helps them write their online content for platforms like LinkedIn, Threads, and Substack. He also helps them build their emails sequences for example if someone signs up for a freebie (lead magnet) they will get a series of emails. Those are the one’s RJ writes for them.

And in today’s episode, I talk with RJ to learn a little about the difference between copywriting and ghostwriting, if there is any, and if someone is interested in become a ghostwriter what books does he recommended and how should someone get started.

We also inevitably touch on AI and its role with content writing and can or will it replace content writers.

I hope you enjoy todays episode as much as I did and make sure to follow RJ on instagram here https://www.instagram.com/reyesrjt

If you want a more guided way to start writing and telling your own stories, the 5 Day Story Challenge walks you through it: 5 Day Story Challenge

In this episode I share a copywriting technique to tell a story and lead your audience to a page, video or thread.

Most business owners have a sameness problem, not a content problem. Free 5-day email challenge, one email a day, five storytelling frameworks to help you sound like you instead of everyone else.

Free 5 Day Email Challenge

Since the beginning of the year, nothing has gone my way. I’m not usually pessimistic, but this has been a tough start. My business is slow, I’ve gained weight, and I watched my dog die in front of me.

I know I have nothing to truly complain about. I’m alive, I’m healthy, I’m not homeless. The fact that I have a keyboard to write this on and a website to post it to is a blessing. But this weekend was one to remember.

Two months ago I applied to MIU for a Master of Fine Arts in Creative Writing. I never thought I’d love writing this much, enough to want a degree in it. There was one problem: the school required a 20 to 25 page writing portfolio, and I didn’t have one.

Almost everything I’d written up to that point had AI’s hands in it. It helped me turn raw ideas into something that sounded the way I’d always wanted to write. That felt good, for a while. But I leaned on it too much, and I couldn’t submit a portfolio I hadn’t really written.

So I decided to start from scratch. Best and worst idea I’ve ever had.

I began in late May. By mid-June I was trying to spin too many plates at once, the portfolio, content, a new business model, meetings, all of it. The more I thought about it, the more I realized I wasn’t spinning any of those plates. I was just balancing them, barely.

I almost quit. I told myself I’d wait and apply next round.

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Then I watched an interview with Ocean Vuong. I haven’t read his work yet, but the way he talked about writing, how much he clearly loved it, pulled something back open in me. I sat down and got to work.

I had five messy rough drafts. Taking that break gave me enough distance to see that one story was actually two, hiding inside the same draft. I split it, cut what didn’t belong, and within a week I had a 21 page portfolio.

Hitting submit made me nervous as hell. I felt like a home cook about to plate something for a five-star Michelin chef, except in this case the chef was the program director.

I submitted it Wednesday evening. Thursday afternoon, she emailed asking to meet the next day at 2.

“I really enjoyed your writing,” she said.

I felt like a contestant hearing Gordon Ramsay say he liked the dish.

She walked me through the residency schedule and a workshop next year. While she talked, one thought kept cutting through: did I get in?

“Any questions for me?”

“Yeah. Did I get in?”

“Not yet. It needs admissions approval, but I see no problem on my end.”

At 5 p.m. that same day, an email said a decision had been made. I opened it on my phone, didn’t even bother walking to my computer. Clicked View Decision. White screen. Two seconds that felt like ten minutes.

Then confetti, and these words:

Congratulations, we are thrilled to inform you of your acceptance to the MFA in Creative Writing.

My portfolio, written in a week, got me into graduate school for something I’ve loved for four years.

I used to feel like an imposter calling myself a writer. My bachelor’s is in graphic design, not English, and I still sometimes forget what an adjective is. But I know I have a passion for storytelling, and I think it shows in my writing. Now I have proof, from a chef whose opinion I respect.

I hate that it took someone else seeing me as a writer before I felt like one. But whatever works, works.

Entering my official writer era. Wish me luck.

Most people use a page to say what could have been said in a sentence.

In school we’re taught to write as many words as possible to get a good grade. Somewhere along the way, we were conditioned to believe that longer is better. People assume that the more you can write about a subject, the more you must know about it.

I think the opposite is true.

If you can make something complicated simple, you probably understand it better than someone who needs three pages to explain it.

For example:

“What’s an em dash?”

“Well… it’s like a line that’s used a lot in writing, and ChatGPT started using it a lot, so now when people see one they think it was written by Ai. But really, it’s like,have you ever wanted to create a pause for effect? Yeah, well that’s when you use an em dash.”

That was a mouthful.

It could have been…

“It’s a long dash, similar to a hyphen, that’s used to create a pause in a sentence.”

Simple. To the point.

A writer can fill pages with fluff and say absolutely nothing, or they can say everything in a single sentence.

We have to stop thinking longer is better when the truth is, a sentence that is too short, is better than a sentence that is too long.

Brevity is about removing everything that weakens the idea.

Don’t write more.

Say more.

Do I belong here? The weight of the boxes made me ask myself this while I was unloading the U-Haul. This was the hottest April I’ve seen. It’s as if Mother Nature said, “nah, you don’t need a spring this year.” I was standing in the living room, holding this box, questioning my life, thinking, which room do I want to take.

I had to live in my mother’s house because I need to wait for the lease to end for the current tenant living in my house. Which is why I had to contemplate which room I was taking. I had two rooms to choose from. One had two windows and the other only had one. Normally this isn’t an issue because I love natural light, so the choice is usually easier than this. The only thing is that the room with two windows used to be my grandparent’s room, it felt odd moving in there. This isn’t something I never thought about before moving.

I was born in San Antonio, TX and lived there until I was 3 years old. Long story short, my dad wasn’t the best, so my mother moved us out of SA to my grandparents’ home when I was about 3 years old to the humble little town of Eagle Pass, TX. I then moved out of Eagle Pass when I was 21 back to San Antonio. I was so happy moving to the city I was born in and to my vacation spot. When I was a child, my mother would ask, “where do you want to go for summer vacation?” I would always say San Antonio. On the moving day, I thought, “I’m finally moving out of here and I hope I never have to come back.” So, when I saw the sign I said, “here we go again,” it was a punch in the gut to my ego.

There’s a stigma when someone comes back to Eagle Pass. Whenever you bump into someone you knew in high school, they usually stare at you, waiting for you to tell them what happened and why you couldn’t make it on “outside” or why you “had” to come back. I could already hear the questions and feel the judgment as soon as I saw the sign. But now moving back at 35, things are different.

The last time I was in my grandparent’s room, they were still alive. I can still smell the musty and musky scent. Looking at the room now, I thought, how strange that my grandparents had separate beds. I didn’t think anything of it when I was younger, but now I’m curious as to why they had it that way. I also thought, what if their ghosts are in this room? Is it disrespectful to stay here?

I place my box in my grandparents’ room. It’s mine now.

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I can’t believe how much time has passed since my grandparents passed away. I began thinking about how fragile the memory is. I have forgotten so much of my grandparents. Standing in that room, so many memories felt like they “unlocked.” The room is just empty and cold even though the temperature was 94 degrees. The sense that they’re gone, and how I didn’t think about them or remember them much which got me thinking, how will I be remembered?

There was this quote I read that made a huge impact on me and how I want to be remembered even after my “three” deaths. “There are three deaths. The first is when the body ceases to function. The second is when the body is consigned to the grave. The third is that moment, sometime in the future, when your name is spoken for the last time.” By David Eagleman. How can I be remembered after the last person who knows my name dies?

At the beginning of 2024, I lost my job in San Antonio. My savings dried up, and I had applied to 70+ places, none got back to me. The ones that did get back to me were to “regrettably inform” me that they decided not to move forward with my application. I got so good at spotting rejection letters, I didn’t even need to open them anymore. I could tell with the preview text on Gmail that they were not hiring me. Not only that, but I had to move in with my mother and ask for her help financially. That went on for a year. That murdered my ego. It was necessary.

In Feb 2025 my mother makes an offer I can’t refuse. She said, “what if we move back to Eagle Pass, I’ll gift you one of the rental properties, help pay some debt off with the money from the sale of the house.” “So, you’re saying I can be back in Eagle Pass, debt free in my own house? Say less!” I can go from being homeless to homeowner just by moving back? I’m going back better than I ever was. If I didn’t murder my ego, I would still be living in San Antonio with my debt and in my mother’s house.

That’s the full circle moment as to why I’m back in Eagle Pass. To leave a city where people will forget about me soon, to a place where I was forgotten when I first left. But not truly. Someone in San Antonio will hear, see or smell something that reminds them of me. And when I bump into someone I knew from Eagle Pass, they’ll remember the high school, tall, quiet, band nerd, emo kid. And they’ll make new memories of the person I am today who is still tall, has a beard now, tattoos, who is working on becoming a writer, cinematographer and storyteller. Time to create new memories and forget some.

I’ve noticed I seem to place more value on material things because it has a price tag, the higher the price tag, the more I perceive it to be of higher value. What I wish I learned earlier on is that the opposite is true, the things we get for free in life, are the most valuable in the world. My family, body, friends, love, and most importantly my mind and memories. How grateful I am to remember my first kiss, first time my dad bought me a cake with my name on it, when my mom went to my first high school drumline performance. With my memories I get to play my “mind movies” like I’m back in the 90’s watching a movie I rented from Blockbuster.

To help me with this, I discovered journaling. I used to think there’s no point to having a journal. I can remember all of my thoughts and experiences, so why would I need to write them down. So, I thought. It wasn’t until I saw a video which gave me an interesting take on journaling. She’s in her late 70’s and she was advising the crowd to start writing in a journal. She’s beginning to lose her memory. She said that reading back her journals helps her relive those moments and thoughts. Then it made me think about photos, they are a memory of what we looked like, but a journal is a memory of what we thought about. I started to think, what if I had a journal from my dad who passed away when I was nine years old. How amazing would it have been to read his thoughts and ideas. To get an insight on who he was to himself internally. So, I made the decision to start a journal. To record my thoughts and memories for when I get older and have a difficult time remembering. To also leave behind my thoughts, ideas and memories to my future kids and family. To have a conversation with me even when I’m gone. Also, so that I can live on in the pages. This is how I will be remembered after the last person who knows my name is gone.

He was just there, under my hand, warm and breathing. And then he wasn’t.

Not gone exactly. But his head dropped, the way a water hose drops after losing it pressure. Lifelessly. Is the word I would use to describe how he looked. His neck just gave out, and his head fell on the floor, and for about two seconds everything went quiet in my head.

I started yelling. Shaking him. “Kyro… Kyro!” Two shakes, maybe three, and then he lifted his head and looked at me, the way dogs look when you’ve interrupted a perfectly good nap, he was annoyed and confused, but completely fine.

I hugged him. I kissed him on top of his head. “Don’t do that again, stupid.”

He’s a border collie mix, black and white, medium-sized with fur that’s a little too fluffy for the Texas heat. He turned eleven in December of 2025. I read somewhere that border collies live anywhere from ten to twelve years. I haven’t been able to forget that little fact since.

“I’m not going to the shelter to get a dog. I want to be clear about that. I just want to look.” At least that was the plan. Just to look.

He was in a kennel when I first saw him and that was it, love at first sight. I asked to do a walk with him, and they brought us out into one of those small yards behind shelter, just the two of us. I petted him, and he flipped on over his back so I could rub his belly and I thought, yeah. Okay. He’s coming home with me.

I started the adoption paperwork that same day.

That was in San Antonio, Texas, when he was a one-year-old, and I thought I had all the time in the world to give him the life I had already built in my head. A yard big enough for him to run in. Only wet food. All the toys he wanted. Freedom from the fleas that have been winning the war against us for most of his life. I kept losing the war.

Now we’re in a 312 square foot house in my mother’s backyard in Eagle Pass, Texas. When he was younger, he used to jump onto the bed with little to no effort. The first time I saw him try and fail, he hit his chest against the corner of the mattress. He backed up and didn’t try again. I felt something shift in my chest; I didn’t have a name for yet. It wasn’t sadness exactly. It was the recognition of something I hadn’t wanted to accept yet.

He’s slower now. Getting up takes him a moment. The fleas got bad enough that he lost some hair near his rear end. I would feel embarrassed to take him on walks to the park, which I know was just guilt wearing a different hat. And we don’t walk around the block anymore since the last time we did, he came back home with ticks.

Watching him navigate all of this reminds me of watching my grandparents near the end of their lives. The way they moved slowly, like the world had gotten heavier and their bodies were struggling with it. That slowness that wasn’t laziness, more so the cost of having been alive for a long time. I didn’t know how to watch them then. I’m not sure that I know how to watch Kyro now. But I’m making myself watch because I know I’ll regret the costs of looking away.

Unlike like my grandparents who lived in another city, Kyro and I live together so I get to be there for his end of days. It’s both fortunate and unfortunate. I don’t want him to die alone without me there, but I also don’t want my last memory of him dying in front of me.

I struggle to make ends meet. How can I give him the life I dreamt of when I can only keep us afloat? And the worst part of is, I’m running out of time, he can pass away at any minute. How am I supposed to live with the fact that I won’t be able to take him on walks or see him run in a bigger yard? Or somewhere that is free from fleas so that he no longer has to suffer their wrath.

“Kyro, let’s go papa.” He takes his head out from underneath the coffee table. He struggled to stand. It reminded me of when I would help my grandpa by grabbing on to his hand and lifting him off the bed. It was almost the same pace too. He took a step and fell to his face. He tried and fell again. He went for the 3rd, I put my hand on his head and said stop. I put him on his side and stretched his legs out. I didn’t realize it at the time, but he was lying on his leg for about 3 hours. It fell asleep. My little man failed and fell in a way I’ve never seen before. Like a superhero falling weak… My superhero who was there in my darkest moments like when my ex-girlfriend had an ectopic pregnancy, he never left my side while I had that dark cloud holding me down.

“Kyro come here!” He’d come running to me without hesitation. Sit, stay, he did all of them. The only thing we never got down was fetch. He’d chase the ball, come near me, and drop it somewhere random and wait for me to throw it again. It drove me crazy.

Every stuff toy I gave him, he would have all of the stuffing all over the room. The last one I got him was Lamb Chop. He was so good at finding the squeakers. Another thing about him was his favorite thing in the world was belly rubs. If you met him, he’ll have to pet on head for a moment and then he’d fall straight on his back for belly rubs. Kyro was the worst guard dog in the world. He would start crying if a stranger didn’t some say hi to him and pet him. If someone broke into my house, he’d welcome them with a wagging tail.

On the morning of June 14th, 2026. “Kyro, let’s go outside papa.” It’s around 10 am and I’m running late. He gets up slower than usual. He started limping from his back legs. They wouldn’t keep up. His head was swinging side to side in a way I’ve never seen. We get to the kitchen, and I give him his favorite, wieners, he kills them. He holds it in his mouth for a second, then I see it roll on the floor. I couldn’t believe he just dropped it.

An hour later, I finished a zoom meeting and we go outside. This time he got up faster and had a little pep in his step again. I was so relieved. I had a difficult time paying attention in the meeting I thought my dog was starting the phases of dying.

At 8:41 pm, I start praying Maghreb. In the middle of the prayer, I hear Kyro panting heavy, I thought he was thirsty, but his water bowl is full. His panting gets heavier; I’m on the floor doing the last of the prayer we lock eyes and I just knew what was coming. “No… it can’t be… he was just ok.” I rush and end the prayer. His panting slowed down they started to be spaced out. “Ugh, what a relief.” He stopped; everything was ok. This “sign” was scarier than the first one with the wiener.

“It’s ok Kyro, you scared me again! You gotta stop that ok?” His body spasmed, almost like he was doing an ab crunch. “Kyro?” Another spasm. “Kyro what’s wrong?” Another spasm. I put him on his side from lying on his belly. And another. “Papa no please, I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry I couldn’t do better.” The last one. “Kyro, I’m sorry… I love you papa.”

What was supposed to be a quick prayer turned into my burying my best friend at 11 at night. Nothing prepared me for carrying his lifeless body. I didn’t even know where to start. I wasn’t expecting his head to be so limp, I adjusted my grip and accidentally hit his head on the floor. A distinct sound I’ll never un-hear. As I’m about to place him in the grave, I lose grip and drop him, people say it sounds like a bag of potatoes, I never heard a bag drop, all I heard was my best friend hit his grave. I couldn’t see anything with how wet my glasses were, it wasn’t rain that was falling. I stand over his grave for a second before I put the dirt in. Then I toss Lamp Chop in with him, just as he left it, dirty and chewed up. He didn’t get to take out the squeakers yet, I’m sure he will in heaven. “Goodbye Kyro, I’ll miss you so much.”

I thought I would be ok. I was already grieving his loss when I read, he would only live up to 10 to 12 years. I was mentally prepared that he would leave the world soon. There’s one thing I didn’t think I would have to prepare for.

When our pets die, we expect to miss them, no doubts about that. What caught me off guard was the rituals I didn’t notice while he was alive. No more “Kyro, let’s go outside papa,” no more opening the door to let him in, stepping over him to use the restroom, calling his name to come get food. Now I see the empty spot where he would lay next to me, his leash hasn’t moved, his dog food bag is halfway full. I didn’t anticipate how big the hole his absence would leave.

Every morning I still wake up expecting to let him outside.

I get out of bed to go open the door. Then I remember, there isn’t anyone waiting at the door.

Let me ask you something simple. What do you actually know?

Not what you think you know. Not what you were told. What do you genuinely, without a doubt, know to be true?

It sounds like an easy question until you sit with it for a moment. Then it starts to get slippery.

Philosophers have been wrestling with this for centuries, and the most widely accepted answer comes from a theory called JTB, which stands for Justified True Belief. The idea is straightforward: to truly know something, you need three things. You have to believe it. It has to be true. And you need a good reason for believing it, not just a gut feeling or a lucky guess.

Think of it like a jury. A verdict is not just about what the jury thinks happened. It has to be true, and it has to be supported by real evidence. Belief alone is not enough. Neither is truth without justification.

There are also different flavors of knowledge worth knowing about. There is knowledge through direct experience, like knowing what coffee tastes like. There is practical knowledge, like knowing how to ride a bike. And there is propositional knowledge, knowing that something is true, like knowing that 2+2=4. Most of what we call knowledge is some combination of all three.

Then there is the question of where knowledge even comes from. Rationalists would say reason. Descartes summed it up with his famous line: “I think, therefore I am.” If you can think, you can reason your way to truth. Empiricists push back and say no, knowledge comes from experience. You learn by observing, touching, tasting, living. Both camps have a point, which is probably why most of us land somewhere in the middle.

Now here is where it gets interesting.

A philosopher named Edmund Gettier came along in 1963 and quietly broke everything.

Imagine you are driving and you see a white fluffy animal on a hill in the distance. Based on the shape, the color, and every sheep you have ever seen, you conclude there is a sheep on that hill. You know it. Then you get closer and realize it is actually a dog. A white fluffy dog that looked exactly like a sheep from far away.

So did you know there was a sheep? You believed it. You had good reasons to believe it. But it was not true.

Gettier called this a problem, and it is a good one. Because it suggests that justified true belief might not be enough. You can check all three boxes and still be wrong. You can be completely confident in something that turns out to be false.

Here is another way to think about it. When you had your first child, you learned that a pregnancy takes nine months. That was your knowledge. Solid, justified, true. Now imagine science updated that understanding. Suddenly what you knew is no longer accurate. Does that mean you never really knew it?

This is what makes knowledge such a strange thing. It feels permanent. It feels like once you know something, you know it. But knowledge can expire. It can be wrong from the start without you realizing it. It can be justified and still miss the truth entirely.

So what is knowledge?

It is our best attempt at understanding reality. A combination of belief, truth, and justification that we use to make sense of the world around us. It is not perfect. It is not permanent. But it is the closest thing we have to solid ground.

The real question Gettier left us with is not just what knowledge is. It is whether we can ever truly be certain we have it.

I would love to know what you think. Drop a comment and let’s figure this out together.

We usually treat this as a logic puzzle for ancient history, but lately, I’ve realized I am the experiment. I am the ship. As the ship’s wooden planks rotted, they replaced each piece one by one with new, stronger timber. Overtime, not a single original piece remained.

Now the question is... is it still the same ship? And if you took all the old, rotting planks and built a second boat, which one would be the “real” ship of Theseus?

This is a fun exercise I enjoy talking about, but lately, I’ve been looking in the mirror and wondering... Am I currently sailing a ship made of new wood?

It sparked a question in me: could I be my own version of the Ship of Theseus? About 3 months ago from posting this, I had long hair that went a little past my shoulders and 5/8th of an inch ear gauges. Fast forward to now. I have a 4 guard all over with a taper and I’ve removed my plugs, now my ears are closing. I’ve also gone back to my black outfit comfort zone. My mother’s friend said I now look like a young adult. My silhouette changed from a mushroom cloud on my shoulders to now seeing my head shape. I no longer worry about whether I brought a hair tie and I touch my head more often. A lot did change but... did I change?

Well my physicality did. I no longer take forever in showers and to dry my hair. I don’t have to clean my ears and gauges the way I used to. And whatever outfits I pick I’ll be safe because black, grey and white are easy to combine. But I’m still me right? I still like writing, photography, and design. That didn’t go away because I changed my appearance. But could it?

A small disclaimer before I state my idea. This is simply my own thought experiment. Could I find articles and data on this? Yes. But one, that takes the fun out of making my own thoughts. Two, I want to write as if you and I are speaking, so feel free to leave comments and discuss with me.

What if we took a feminine woman and completely changed her appearance? Give her a combover. Swap her wardrobe for men’s clothing. Put men’s glasses on her face, even if she doesn’t need them. Would she stay the same feminine woman? Or would her own appearance be enough to start questioning herself and start believing it to be true? Would other people treating her as a man contribute to her own psyche and have her start believing she’s a man? Or at the very least start acting like one?

So in that regard, did me cutting my long hair off and taking out my gauges change me? Or did I change, thus making me remove those things? I would like to know what you think. But in short I think it is possible. If the woman were to cut her hair short, dress like a man and be treated as such, she wouldn’t be as feminine and would start to embody masculine traits.

So if you believe what I’ve said, physical changes don’t stay on the surface. They alter your behavior, your routine, and how others treat you. That shift feeds back into how you think and see yourself. When external change shifts how you see yourself, something real has changed. Not only your appearance. So the line between physical change and identity change is blurrier than we think. The Ship of Theseus applies to people as much as it does to boats.

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Ok now let’s give this a name. There are two ideas at play here. Materialism and mereology. Materialism in short is the idea that we are the sum of our parts. When those parts change, the hair, the weight, the clothes, the materials that make us up are different. So by definition the person must be different too. Mereology asks us to look at the transition. At what point does a collection of changes become a change in the whole? Is identity found in the individual planks of our habits and appearance? Or does our identity exist as a whole, regardless of what the parts are doing?

Now some would say: no, your core identity stays fixed. Growing or cutting your hair doesn’t make you a different person. But the piece asks: are you sure? Because if enough external changes pile up and reshape your psychology, the line between surface change and identity change gets blurry fast.

And another important question. Is there a threshold where accumulated change becomes a new person? Or is identity simply a story we tell ourselves to feel like the same person over time?

I would love to know what you think and have a healthy and productive discussion about this.

The incident that changed my life must have happened around 1997, on a morning school bus ride. I used to watch other kids do this all the time, so of course I had to try it too. But something happened on that ride that I had no idea would still be affecting me well into my 30s.

Was it a near death experience? No. A life-changing amount of money? Also no, lol.

I wore sandals to school. And as soon as I sat down I heard, “you have really long toes.”

That was it. I never wore sandals again.

Was it as dramatic as I had fun making it sound? Not really. But it genuinely was a life-altering experience, and here’s why.

Even now in my 30s, I recently bought a pair just to wear around the house. But outside? Never. Maybe the beach, and that’s still a HARD maybe. The drive-thru window gets a a cameo every now and then, but that’s about it!

I tell you that story because I grew up hearing “sticks and stones may break my bones but words can never hurt me.” And sure, there’s some truth to it. But I’ve come to believe words can absolutely break your mind and your heart. Think about the moment the love of your life calls you and says “it’s over, I’m with someone else now.” That cuts deeper than any stick ever could. Words have driven people to their lowest points. They carry real weight.

That same weight is exactly what makes words so powerful in the other direction too. “I have a dream.” Four words that most people on earth would recognize instantly. Words that didn’t just inspire a speech, they helped inspire a movement.

And the words you say to yourself? Just as powerful, maybe more so.

Earl Nightingale put it perfectly in The Strangest Secret. I’ll link it below because it’s worth your time. He compared the mind to fertile soil. Plant a poisonous seed or a healthy one, and the soil doesn’t judge. It just grows whatever you give it, equally and abundantly. Your mind works the same way. Feed it negativity long enough and that’s the only crop you’ll harvest.

That’s why, as much as people love to roll their eyes at them, positive affirmations actually matter. Are they a magic fix? No. But they’re how you make sure you’re planting the right seeds consistently.

Words tell your story. They sell your ideas. They connect you to other people. The way you arrange them is like a composer arranging notes, the same raw material, but the order changes everything. Certain books have been banned throughout history not because of the paper they were printed on, but because of the ideas the words carried. That’s how much power they hold.

So consider this a reminder. Your words, spoken or written, said to others or whispered to yourself, are more powerful than you probably give them credit for. Choose them wisely, make your thoughts heard, and speak your truth.

You have people a choice, sit alone in a room with your thoughts for 15 minutes, or press a button that will deliver a mild electric shock? Can you handle the 15 minutes with your thoughts?

Researchers wanted to find this out. They conducted a study where people are placed in a room alone with their thoughts for 15 minutes. No phone, book, no music. Simply uninterrupted thoughts. The researches did give them something, a button that delivered an electric shock. Here’s the catch… before the session, everyone had already felt the shock. They rated it as unpleasant. Some said they’d actually pay to avoid experiencing it again.

Then they were left alone with their thoughts. 67% of the men and a 25% of the women shocked themselves anyway. One participant hit the button 190 times!

Let that sink in. People who had just said they would pay to avoid this shock preferred it to 15 minutes of silence. Not because the shock got better. Because the quiet got worse.

We’ve gone to great lengths to find “things” that help us avoid our own minds. Social media. Doom scrolling at 2am. The algorithm feeds us content to keep you in a loop of just-one-more. We’ve become experts at running from the one thing we can never truly escape.

Here’s what’s strange about that, the things we run hardest from our bodies, our minds, our relationships are also the things money can’t replace. You can’t buy back your health after YEARS of ignoring it. You can’t purchase a sharper mind after years of feeding it junk. You can’t wire someone the money to make up for the years you didn’t call.

These things were given to us for free. And we treat them like they’re disposable. This is why I keep coming back to reading and writing, not as hobbies, not as self-improvement checkboxes, but as maintenance. As the basic upkeep of the most valuable thing I have.

When you read, you’re practicing something that’s quietly becoming rare… sustained attention. Following a complex thought all the way to its conclusion instead of bouncing to the next thing. Building the mental muscles that make it possible to actually sit with yourself.

When you write, you find out what you actually think. The act of putting words to something releases it. The messy, half-formed stuff floating around in your head starts to take shape. You stop being a passenger in your own mind. These aren’t luxuries. They’re how you take care of yourself.

Back to that experiment. The reason 25%-65% of people chose pain over fifteen minutes of quiet isn’t that they were weak or broken. It’s that they were out of practice. They’d spent so long outsourcing their attention that being alone with their own thoughts felt genuinely threatening.

That’s where I was. And here’s what I’ve learned from stopping the discomfort you feel when you finally get quiet isn’t a sign that something is wrong with you. It’s simply everything you’ve been avoiding, rising to the surface. Some of it’s uncomfortable. Some of it is stuff you actually need to sit with.

But on the other side of that discomfort is something worth having. Clarity. The ability to be present in your life instead of perpetually escaping it.

You don’t need to start with 15 minutes. Start with five. Sit somewhere quiet. No phone, no music, no background noise.

Just notice what comes up.

The researchers who ran that study thought people would enjoy the quiet time. They were surprised by the results. But maybe they shouldn’t have been, we’ve made silence so unfamiliar that it feels like a punishment.

It isn’t. It’s just you.

And you’re worth sitting with.

You Don’t Have to Pick Just One

“So what do you do?” One of the storytelling group members asked me this, and I had a loooong pause.

Not because I don’t do anything. Because I do too many things.

I’m a writer who doesn’t want to be an author. A graphic designer with a bachelor’s degree but I don’t feel good enough to claim. A photographer with 13 years of experience who stepped away from it. A self study philosopher. A storyteller without a clear medium.

“I do a lot,” I finally said. “And I love it all.”

The problem is, I can’t figure out which one should be my business. Or if I even have to pick.

The Weekly Shuffle

This is what my weeks look like:

Monday, I’m deep in a design project, thinking in grids and color theory.

Wednesday, I’m writing, trying to figure out what I actually think about something.

Friday, I’m editing photos from a shoot I did months ago.

Saturday, I’m reading philosophy and journaling about epistemology.

Sunday, doing my homework for my masters in communication.

It’s like cycling through high school class periods. English, art, photography, philosophy. Except there’s no bell to tell me when to switch, and no one’s handing out a diploma at the end.

People keep telling me to pick one thing. “You need a niche.” “What do you want to be known for?” “Focus on what you’re best at.”

But what if what makes me valuable is the intersection? What if the thing that makes me me is that I refuse to be just one thing?

The Renaissance Man Problem

I think about Leonardo da Vinci. We remember him for the Mona Lisa. But he was also an inventor, engineer, scientist, and writer. His notebooks are filled with sketches of flying machines next to studies of human anatomy next to philosophical writings.

He didn’t pick one thing. He was a Renaissance man, someone whose genius came from combining disciplines, not isolating them.

I’m not saying I’ll master all these fields like da Vinci did. But his willingness to pursue multiple interests at once, that’s what I’m after.

We don’t have a word for that anymore. Or maybe we do, but it sounds less impressive: Generalist. A Jack of all trades, master of none.

But here’s the full saying most people forget: “Jack of all trades, master of none, but oftentimes better than master of one.”

We Still Need Specialists (But Not ONLY Specialists)

I’m not saying specialization is bad. The world needs specialists. We need heart surgeons who’ve spent years mastering open heart surgery. We need engineers who know everything about one type of bridge.

But we also need people who see relationships across fields. People who can write and design. Who understand philosophy and storytelling. Who notice patterns that specialists miss because they’re looking too closely at one thing.

Perhaps the struggle isn’t that I can’t pick one thing. Maybe the struggle is that I’m trying to fit into a framework that was never built for people like me. Maybe I don’t need to escape frameworks entirely, I just need a different one. One built for people who refuse to be just one thing.

Collaborating Identities

Here’s what I’m learning to accept. I don’t have to choose between being a writer or a designer or a photographer or a philosopher. I can be all of them. Not perfectly. Not expertly in every single one. But authentically.

Because the truth is, my design work is better because I understand storytelling. My writing is stronger because I think visually. My philosophy practice deepens because I try to photograph ideas.

They’re not competing identities. They’re collaborating ones.

Maybe They’re All Real

If you’re reading this and you also feel like you’re cycling through different versions of yourself, trying to figure out which one is “real” maybe they all are.

Maybe you don’t have to pick your English class or your art class or your math class. Maybe you’re allowed to be someone who needs all of them to make sense of the world.

The Renaissance didn’t happen because people specialized. It happened because people refused to limit themselves to one field.

I’m not saying I’m da Vinci. But I am saying I’m done apologizing for not being just one thing.

And if that makes me harder to categorize, good. The best things usually are.

Next time someone asks what I do, I’ll tell them the truth: everything.

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It’s 1895. You’re on your horse riding with a buddy. You then see a motor wagon at a distance. Your buddy says, “That motor wagon can never be as fast or haul as much as a horse can. They won’t take off.”

131 years later, it’s 2026, your buddy says, “AI creations will never be as good as humans.”

Same thing is happening, just in a different time period. But why did I bring up the motor wagon? Because if we look at how far cars have come since 1895, those people couldn’t have ever imagined that cars would be faster than a horse. Or that the Ford F-150 would be a thing that can haul more than they could ever imagine. Or could have ever fathomed 18-wheelers carrying houses across the land.

I have a hunch that AI will do and be the same. We keep judging AI by its capabilities that we are currently aware of. We can’t foresee the “F-150” of AI, like you and your buddy couldn’t foresee it back in 1895, talking smack about the motor wagon.

Ok, so why do I even bring all this up? I say we need to be more humble with our predictions of what AI can or can’t do in the future. People remember the start. When AI couldn’t make hands. They believe that flaw will set the base for future updates. But now not only can it make hands better, it can talk, create realistic images and video. It can mimic voices so accurately that there’s a real risk of someone getting your voice and likeness. Someone can call your grandma and ask for ransom money because they look and sound exactly like you. That’s a scary reality. What I’ve done with my mother is set up a code word, like a home alarm system.

So why does this matter? Who cares if we can’t foresee the next version?

People now say AI will never write a Pulitzer Prize novel. They say it will never make an Emmy-worthy film. They say it will never make a Grammy-winning song. But what if that confidence is simply you on a horse in 1895, dismissing the motor wagon?

What if in 10 years, AI does win a Pulitzer? What if the “F-150 of AI” isn’t just better tools but AI that thinks, creates, and collaborates in ways we literally cannot imagine right now?

If that happens and you weren’t prepared, if you dismissed it as impossible, you won’t just be wrong, you’ll be left behind.

There’s a quote from Seneca that hits home with this

I take this as, the punches we don’t see coming hit harder than the ones we do see. So we need to start getting ready for the punches, instead of everyone TALKING about how they won’t come. Those people will get hit the hardest.

This is why I’ve started learning how to use AI. And not just the LLMs. Making images, video, writing, music, and even apps. I don’t want to be the next Toys”R”Us. And it’s not that Amazon took them out. It’s that they didn’t want to adapt and they stayed “tried and true,” and then lost to online shopping. Don’t be Blockbuster either lol.

So be a little more humble with your predictions. Start learning how to use AI so that IF the equivalent of the F-150 happens with AI, the blow won’t hit as hard because you were ready for it.

Don’t be the buddy on the horse in 1895, so sure of yourself that you miss the 18-wheeler coming. Be humble. Be curious. Be ready.

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Hear me out on this reading goal thing.

Two years ago, I set a goal to read 36 books.

I fell off completely. Didn’t even finish the year reading.

This year, I told myself I’d be more “realistic.”
I set the goal to 24 books.

I fell off AGAIN.

And this time, I started doing something embarrassing.

I was looking for my “shortest books” on Goodreads. All because I wanted to say I hit my goal.

I started skimming books I didn’t care about. Treating pages like obstacles instead of invitations.

All so I could check a box.

That’s when it finally clicked.

I’m spending money on books I’m not reading. I’ve got last year’s unread pile and this year’s unread pile. And I’m stressed about a goal that’s supposed to be fun.

Somewhere along the way, reading stopped being reading. It became performative.

So I tried something different.

I set my goal to one book a month for the rest of the year.
Only twelve books.

That’s it.

And something strange happened.

With almost no pressure, I read five books in two months.

Not because I am disciplined.
Not because I optimized my routine.
But because I actually wanted to read again.

Here’s the part that messed with my head.

If your goal is one book and you read five, you’re at 500% of your goal. That feels incredible.

But if your goal is ten books and you read five? You’re at 50%.

It’s the same amount of reading. Completely different emotional experience.

One feels like momentum. The other feels like failure.

That’s when I realized most goals don’t measure reality. They shape how we feel about reality.

And feeling behind is one of the fastest ways to stop doing the thing you say you care about.

So yeah this is what I’m doing in 2027.

Setting the bar stupid low.

Not because I’m lazy.
Not because I don’t value reading.
But because I want to enjoy it again.

Books aren’t a checklist. They’re conversations. And conversations die the moment you rush through them to say you had them.

If reading has started to feel heavy, maybe it’s not because you don’t love books anymore.

Maybe your goal is just too loud.

Try lowering it. See what happens when the pressure disappears.

You will be surprised by how much you read when you stop trying to prove that you read.

I struggle with calling myself a writer.

I am not a formal writer. I am not an academic one either. Even though I’m starting master’s program I’m starting soon, I hesitate to call myself a “writer”

But I love writing.

I love thinking on paper and screens. Writing helps me clarify what I am actually thinking. Most of the time, I am not writing to anyone. I am writing with myself.

Marcus Aurelius did this in Meditations. He was not writing for publication. He was thinking, and the work survived.

Even now, as I write this, I am not imagining readers. I am translating what is in my head onto the screen. The audience comes later, if at all.

Rick Rubin puts it simply:

“ The audience comes last. I’m not making it for them. I’m making it for me. ”

That is how I work.

The first draft is for me. No pressure. No performance. Simply clarity.

Only in the editing do I think about my one true fan. The single person who might need to hear this. That shift helps without turning the work into something hollow. I am not writing for an imaginary audience that may never show up.

That is what the title means.

Do not write for an imaginary audience before writing for yourself.
Write for yourself first.

There are exceptions. If you know exactly who you are speaking to, and you know what they need and why, then write to them . That is not imaginary. That is intentional.

This applies to more than writing. Video. Design. Music. Any form of making.

Create from clarity first. Then let others follow.

The real reason I care about this is simple. I want people thinking more.

Not optimizing. Not performing. Not outsourcing their thoughts.

Writing is not about sounding smart. It is about knowing what you think before asking anyone else to care.

We all make moral decisions every day. Should you tell a white lie to spare someone’s feelings? Is it worth sacrificing one person’s interests for the benefit of many? These aren’t just philosophical puzzles; they are real dilemmas that shape how we move through the world.

In my college “Intro to Philosophy” course, I was handed a classic ultimatum: Utilitarianism or Deontology. I had to pick a side and defend it. I chose Utilitarianism.

As an artist and designer, I’m used to looking at the “big picture” and seeing how every element in a layout contributes to the final result. Maybe that’s why Utilitarianism clicked for me. It is the “big picture” of ethics. Here is the case for why I still think it’s our best framework for living.

What Is Utilitarianism, Anyway?

At its core, utilitarianism is beautifully simple: actions are ethical when they maximize pleasure (happiness) and minimize suffering. Think of it as a moral cost-benefit analysis where we’re always trying to create the greatest good for the greatest number of people.

Consider a real-world example: free public college education. Some private institutions might see decreased enrollment, but for the overall benefit to society, millions of people gain access to higher education. That increase in collective “pleasure” and opportunity is utilitarian thinking in action.

The Greatest Happiness Principle

To understand this, you have to meet John Stuart Mill. He was a 19th-century philosopher and civil servant who believed individual freedom is the engine of human progress. As the architect of modern liberty, he argued that “actions are right in proportion as they tend to promote happiness.”

But Mill added a twist: He didn’t think all happiness was created equal. He made a crucial distinction between higher and lower pleasures, famously stating:

“It is better to be a human being dissatisfied than a pig satisfied; better to be Socrates dissatisfied than a fool satisfied.”

What does this mean practically? Binge-watching reality TV might give you immediate gratification (a lower pleasure), but wrestling with a challenging book or a deep conversation offers something more substantial (a higher pleasure). As a philosopher and a creator, I see this everywhere. The effort of “doing the work” is often a struggle, but the quality of that happiness is far deeper than the ease of mindless consumption.

Two Flavors: The Moment vs. The Map

Utilitarianism actually comes in two main varieties:

• Act Utilitarianism: Evaluates each action in the moment. A doctor might justify a “white lie” to a patient if it leads to a better immediate outcome in that specific case.

• Rule Utilitarianism: Focuses on following rules that generally produce the best results. That same doctor would tell the truth because “always be honest” is a rule that maintains trust in the medical system long-term.

Think about a friend asking for feedback on a project. Act Utilitarianism might suggest a kind lie for immediate positive vibes. Rule Utilitarianism would advocate for honesty, because truthful friends are more valuable to society in the long run.

Addressing the Critics

I know what you’re thinking: How do you actually measure happiness? Critics argue that you can’t put a number on joy. They point to the “organ harvesting” dilemma: Would it be ethical to kill one healthy person to save five sick people? (Note: No one is actually advocating for that).

While these “math” problems are messy, philosopher Peter Singer points out that we shouldn’t let extreme hypotheticals blind us to the real-world successes. Look at public health decisions during a pandemic; utilitarian thinking helped officials make calculations that saved millions of lives.

Why I Think It Wins

After years of thinking about this, I still believe Utilitarianism provides our best ethical framework for a few reasons:

1. It’s Practical: It gives us a method for making decisions in a complex world rather than getting lost in abstract “thou shalt nots.”

1. It’s Impartial: Everyone’s happiness counts equally. There are no special treatments or arbitrary hierarchies.

1. It’s Adaptable: Whether we’re talking about climate policy or how we treat our neighbors, the framework scales.

In an era of polarization, we need frameworks that are both principled and practical. Utilitarianism isn’t just a college assignment for me; it is a reminder that our goal should always be to leave the world with a little more light and a little less pain.

What do you think? Does maximizing happiness for the greatest number resonate with you, or do you see a fatal flaw in this approach? Let’s talk about it in the comments.

This post draws on ideas from John Stuart Mill’s “Utilitarianism,” the Internet Encyclopedia of Philosophy, conversations with Peter Singer, and Solomon & Higgins’ “The Big Questions.”

Nobody cares about what you have to say. That’s only if you don’t care about what you have to say either.

When I write and create, I tell myself I’m competing with Netflix. They have most people’s attention.

I remember when Stranger Things dropped and everyone was talking about it. I’m sure millions of people were binging episode after episode. Then I thought about my content sitting there, waiting for someone to click. How could I possibly get people to choose my writing over that?

It was intimidating at first. Because it’s not just Netflix. It’s Hulu. YouTube. TikTok. Every other creator in your space. The entire attention economy is fighting for the same eyeballs you need.

No wonder content creators obsess over hooks. No wonder everyone’s screaming “STOP SCROLLING” in the first three seconds. We’re not competing with each other anymore. We’re competing with everything.

The Shift That Changed Everything

For a moment, I fell into that trap too. Learning about hooks. Chasing clicks. Treating attention like strategy rather than something you earn.

But then something clicked. I realized my personal brand wasn’t about grabbing attention. It was about sharing things actually worth talking about. Not taking people’s time for granted.

So I changed my approach. I wanted to make better, more substantial content. Nothing meaningless. Everything helpful in some shape or form. Mostly through storytelling.

Because here’s what I learned: story is what makes content not meaningless.

A song without story is just noise. A movie without story is just moving pictures. Story is THE content. Story gives it meaning.

That’s your actual advantage over Netflix. They have budget and algorithms, sure. But you have something they can’t manufacture at scale: genuine stakes, real transformation, specific expertise that comes from living through your experience.

What “Mattering” Actually Means

When I say post content that matters, I don’t simply mean valuable information. The internet is drowning in valuable information. Tips. Hacks. Listicles. AI-generated advice that technically answers questions in seconds, but leaves you feeling empty.

Content that matters does at least one of these things: gives a lesson, solves a problem, offers hard-won advice, shows someone how to do something they’re struggling with.

But here’s the key. It has to be substantial. More substantial than dancing videos, clickbait, rage bait, AI slop. It’s content created with the genuine intent to help someone, not just capture their attention for three seconds before they swipe.

I learned this from Kieran Drew, a creator who launched my online writing journey. He started on Twitter, recently started on LinkedIn, now runs a newsletter and a course where I learned how to write for social media. What made his content cut through everything else?

His writing style and approach. He taught me how to make good hooks from what I’d already written. How to write stories in a format that helped me not overthink, like writing about who I was before something, who I became after, and the bridge between them.

It wasn’t just information. It was a story with a structure that made the information stick.

The Market Decides What’s Good

Here’s the uncomfortable truth: you can’t really know if your content is good. The market decides.

If you’re getting views but no engagement (no follows, likes, comments), that’s a signal. If you’re getting no views at all, that’s an even bigger one.

Sometimes it’s the algorithm. Social platforms are interest-based now, so your content might be about something your current followers simply aren’t interested in. But sometimes, and this is a genuine possibility we all need to face, the content itself is bad. And that’s ok, you now have data on what not to do. Move on and try something else. It’s not the end.

It doesn’t mean you’re a bad creator. It might be because you haven’t found the right story yet. You haven’t made it matter to the specific person who needs to hear it.

Who Are You Writing For?

This is the question that changes everything.

For example, how I’m writing this: it’s for you. The creator who’s frustrated. Who’s posting and posting and wondering why they’re not getting the views they expected. Who’s competing with Netflix and losing.

When you look at your posts, are they meaningless or valuable for others? Not for “everyone.” For someone specific.

The tighter you define your reader, the more powerful your writing becomes. Writing for everyone means writing for no one.

I’m still figuring this out myself. Right now I’m treating my Substack almost like a personal blog where I can post outside my usual niche. Stories, lessons, philosophy that wouldn’t resonate with my other accounts. I’m testing whether my interest in philosophy is real or just shiny object syndrome.

My test is simple: if I’m still interested after six months to a year, it’s legitimate. That’s how I’ve approached storytelling and writing. I’m three years in, heading into my fourth year. That’s how I know it’s real. Philosophy is going on two years but not consecutively.

Make People Care About What You Have to Say

Here’s what it comes down to: you can’t make people care by yelling louder. You can’t trick them into caring with a clever hook if there’s nothing behind it.

You make people care by caring deeply yourself. By doing the work to find the story. By being so specific and genuine that the right person stops scrolling not because you demanded it, but because they felt seen.

Netflix has the budget. The algorithm. The entire infrastructure of attention.

But you have something they’ll never have: the ability to look one person in the eye (digitally speaking) and say exactly what they needed to hear, exactly when they needed to hear it.

That’s not competing with Netflix. That’s doing something Netflix can’t do.

So stop trying to beat them at their game. Play yours instead.

P.S. I use ai to generate images for fun and I use ai to check my spelling, grammar, punctuation basically like Grammarly, but all writing is my own and my own thoughts. I want to be transparent which is why I will always disclose what the image was made with or where it was from.

Will it be good? Who’s going to read it? Why would they care?

These thoughts stopped me every time. I’d open my laptop with the best intentions, crack my knuckles, and then… nothing. The white screen always won, and I’d close the tab, promising myself I’d try again tomorrow.

Tomorrow never came.

I didn’t have a writing problem. I had a fear problem.

The Random Recommendation That Changed Everything

It wasn’t until I saw a friend I follow on X talk about a course she’d bought on sale. She was so excited, so naturally it peaked my interest lol.

I was curious. The course was about writing online.

I’d never thought something like that existed. Courses for writing online? I thought you upload your essays and papers and that’s it, never something for socials. I’d never even heard of the creator, but something about my friend’s excitement made me pay attention.

She wasn’t someone who got excited about random things. So when she posted about this course, I found myself clicking the link.

I blindly signed up because I trusted her judgment more than my own doubts. And let’s be honest here… I’m a sucker for deals lol.

The Permission I Didn’t Know I Needed

That course taught me something I wish I knew years ago: I don’t have to make every post a masterpiece.

The instructor, Kieran Drew, talked about “small bets,” little posts that test ideas without the pressure of being perfect. He shared examples of successful writers who built audiences by sharing incomplete thoughts, daily observations, and works-in-progress ll on X (twitter)!

I’d been treating every potential post like it needed to be my magnum opus. Meanwhile, the writers I actually enjoyed reading were sharing messy, human moments.

Some of the best lessons are in the small moments, the ones I used to think were “too boring” to share. That conversation with a coworker that sparked an insight. The mistake I made on a project and what it taught me. The book passage that made me stop and think.

The way you tell a story is often more important than the story itself.

What I Learned About My Real Enemy

As it turns out, it’s not that I was “scared” or ”intimidated” by the blank screen, it was that my expectations were wrong, which turned into overwhelm.

I’d been sitting down to write thinking that I have to say something profound, original, and polished. No wonder my cursor just blinked at me, I was expecting to write Pulitzer Prize pieces every time I wrote.

When I let myself write like I talk (simple, human, and curious), ideas started flowing.

That post about struggling with creative direction? I wrote it like I was texting a friend who asked how work was going.

The piece about learning to take feedback? I pretended I was explaining it to someone over coffee.

What I once called writer’s block was really just me trying too hard to impress people who probably weren’t even paying attention.

Starting Doesn’t Require Perfection

Sometimes all you need to start is permission.

For me, that came from a friend’s recommendation and a course that gave me a framework for thinking differently about online writing. But permission can come from anywhere a conversation, a book, a single sentence that shifts your perspective.

The course not only taught me how to write, it also taught me to begin.

It showed me that the gap between having ideas and sharing them isn’t talent it’s courage. And courage, unlike talent, is something you can practice.

So if you’re staring at your own blank page, wondering if your thoughts are worth sharing, here’s what I wish someone had told me sooner:

Start small. Share the ordinary moments that taught you something. Write like you’re talking to a friend. Let yourself be incomplete.

The cursor will stop blinking at you when you stop trying to be perfect.

What’s keeping you from hitting publish? Sometimes the thing that feels too small to share is exactly what someone else needs to hear.

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Every lesson plan required citations. Every claim needed evidence. If a student asked a question I couldn't answer with absolute certainty, I learned to say "Let me research that and get back to you" rather than think out loud.

It was good training for the classroom. But it became a curse that follows me everywhere—even now as a designer and writer.

The Paralysis of Proof

When I sit down to share something online, I freeze.

Last month, I spent three hours writing a single paragraph about creative processes. Not because the writing was hard, but because I kept stopping to verify every observation. Is this really how most writers work? Do I have data to back this up? What if someone disagrees?

I feel the need to validate every thought, fact-check every idea, and make sure I "earn" the right to say anything. That teacher training kicks in, demanding I transform every personal insight into a research paper.

That conditioning slows me down. While others publish daily, I'm still in my Google Docs, adding footnotes to feelings.

The Hidden Gift

But here's the thing it's also a blessing.

Because when I finally hit publish, I know I'm not talking out of thin air. I've done the work. I've tested my ideas against reality, tried them in my own projects, and lived with the consequences.

My posts might take longer to write, but they're not hollow. They come from somewhere real.

The problem isn't the research habit itself. It's where I learned to apply it.

The Real Problem with Perfectionism

This mindset half curse, half gift taught me something crucial about creating online.

Perfectionism isn't about wanting to be great. It's about fear of being misunderstood.

In the classroom, being wrong had consequences. A student might fail a test because of my mistake. Parents might complain. Administrators might question my competence.

But online? The stakes are different. The internet doesn't punish you for being wrong it punishes you for being boring.

And yet, here I was, treating every blog post like a dissertation defense.

What I Learned from Not Overthinking

The best posts I've ever written are the ones I didn't overthink.

There was one I published about feeling stuck in my design career. I wrote it in 20 minutes, barely edited it, and hit publish before I could second-guess myself. No research. No citations. Just honest confusion about my next steps.

It got more engagement than anything I'd spent weeks perfecting.

People didn't share it because I had all the answers. They shared it because I was willing to admit I didn't.

The internet doesn't reward those who are always right. It rewards those who are honest, human, and willing to show their process including the messy, uncertain parts.

Learning to Unlearn

So I'm teaching myself to unlearn.

To speak up even when I'm not 100% sure. To share observations before they're fully formed. To trust that thinking out loud might be more valuable than thinking in private.

This doesn't mean abandoning rigor entirely. My teaching background still serves me it helps me spot weak arguments and pushes me to test my ideas. But I'm learning when to apply those standards and when to let them go.

Because the truth is, creativity doesn't come from proving you're right. It comes from exploring what you don't know.

And sometimes, the most helpful thing you can share isn't an answer it's a better question.

What conditioning from your past work is holding back your creative work today? I'd love to hear about it in the comments.

Let’s say you’re an only child.

From birth to growing up, you believe this to be true. You have no reason to doubt it. But let’s say in your mid-30s, your parents reveal a dark secret:

This is an odd example (one that happened in my family, so it came to mind first), but it shows something important. You believed you were an only child, but that belief wasn’t actually knowledge. You were wrong, but you had no way of knowing you were wrong.

A less heavy example: the word “plethora.” We use it confidently, but do you know exactly what quantity it means? Over a hundred? A thousand? Most of us think we know what it means, but we’re actually guessing based on context. (For the record, it means “an excessive amount” or “overabundance,” but specifically too much of something.)

These examples show that we often think we know things when we actually don’t.

So how do we know that we know what we know?

Philosophers have debated this question for thousands of years, and I don’t have the answer.

But in my personal opinion, simply knowing that I don’t know everything is humbling, freeing, and worth embracing.

I know that if I touch fire, it’ll burn me because it’s hot. I also know that 1+1=2. These are two different ways of knowing things, but that’s for another day.

Here’s something interesting though: in arithmetic, 1+1 always equals 2. But if you grab one piece of playdough and another piece of playdough and mush them together, you now have 1 piece of playdough.

Yes, it’s double the size, but it’s still one piece. This shows that how we know things depends on what framework we’re using. Numbers follow different rules than physical objects.

And here’s the thing: not knowing that 1+1 can equal 1 in certain contexts isn’t affecting my life in any way. I still know that 1+1=2 in math, and that’s all I need to know for now. It’s okay that I don’t know what I don’t know. It’s also okay that what I currently know could be wrong, or could change, because most things in life do change. It’s the only constant in life.

Why does all this even matter? What’s the point?

To get you to start thinking that you might not know what you think you know. So when you see something on TikTok that’s presented as correct, be open to the fact that it could be wrong. This even applies to what you hear from other people.

Find the source, get credible information, and discover the truth through your own research instead of blindly believing everything you see, read, or hear.