Author Archives: engineerwhojournals

WHAT MY 23-YEAR-OLD SELF IS TRYING TO TELL ME

“Sometimes in life, you lose your focus and joy because of concentrating too much on the present happenings or events. One thing I should realise is that what I am presently doing will affect the entire course of my life.”

I found that line this morning.

Written in my handwriting. July 14th, 2012. A journal I have not opened in years.

I was 23. Final weeks at the University of Zambia. Sitting at Goma Lakes overlooking the water, writing to my future self.

That future self is me. Sitting at my dining table. Sunday morning. 6am. Before my daughter wakes. Before my wife stirs.

Fourteen years later.

And my younger self had something to say that I was not sure I wanted to hear.

The Warning I Wrote to Myself

The entry was titled: “Have a Long Term Perspective of Life.”

Bold. Underlined. The kind of title you give something when you have just figured out what matters and need to make sure you never forget.

He went on:

“On a number of occasions I have looked back at my past one year and thought about how much I would have achieved if I stuck to my goals to the very end.”

Then he listed them. The things he started but did not finish.

Forever Living Products distributor application — I smile at that one now, but at the time it felt like the key to everything. CIMA courses he let slide. Areas of life where he settled instead of pushed.

“But unfortunately, I had somehow been distracted by the minor things of life. Such as worry, putting in less than my best, procrastinating, fear, etc.”

I had to stop reading for a moment.

Because this was not written by someone failing.

This was written by someone doing reasonably well but noticing — with uncomfortable clarity — that he was not taking action on what he said mattered.

Fourteen years later, reading those words, I realized something.

I have been doing exactly what he was afraid of.

Four Things He Knew at 23

He wrote down four things he needed to remember. Four anchors to keep himself from drifting.

I read them now and they land differently than they did when he wrote them.

  1. Believe in Yourself

“I am a very intelligent and smart good looking guy but I somehow manage to undermine myself to think others are better.”

The confidence makes me smile. The honesty about self-doubt does not.

Because that part is still true to some extent.

At 23, he already saw the pattern. Assuming others had something he did not. Waiting for permission that nobody was actually withholding except himself.

Fourteen years later, I am still doing it.

  1. You Have Nothing to Lose

“Look at me, I am just a young man with no major responsibility of family… Kakompe, you have nothing to lose, nothing. Be free and do not be afraid of making mistakes.”

This one hits hardest.

Because he was right. At 23, he had nothing to lose.

And now, 14 years later, with a family and obligations and routines that work — I do have things to lose.

But somewhere in acquiring those things, I also stopped trying things.

Not because I became reckless or lazy. But because life became comfortable.

And comfort, when you stop examining it, becomes a cage you do not notice.

  1. Courage

“It is not the absence of fear, but the acting despite fear. Just act whenever you feel like acting in a particular direction.”

Courage is not confidence.

It is action despite fear.

  1. Perseverance

“Let me continue studying the books, waking up early, committing, attending relentlessly… and trying out different things until one day, it will click. Most importantly, to enjoy the journey as you go forward. Remind the future self that everyday counts.”

I am the future self he was writing to.

And I am not sure I have been listening.

Why This Stopped Me

I have dozens of these journals.

Notebooks from university. From different seasons of life I barely remember now.

For years they sat on a shelf. Closed. Waiting.

I told myself I would go through them when I had time.

But time does not arrive. You create it. Or you do not.

Recently I started opening them again. Not all at once. Just one every few weeks. Reading what my younger self was thinking. Noticing what he was paying attention to.

And what I keep finding is this:

He was asking better questions than I was asking for a long time. Before I started paying attention again.

He was asking: What do I actually want?

For years, I was asking: What needs to get done today? What gets me paid at the end of the month?

He was thinking in years.

I was thinking in months.

What He Did Not Know

My 23-year-old self was onto something.

But he also had no idea how complicated life would become.

Not in a bad way. Just in the way life always does when you go from theory to practice.

He thought the main challenge would be discipline. Sticking to goals. Not procrastinating.

He did not know that the real challenge would be simpler and harder at the same time.

That time would move faster than he expected. That years would pass in what felt like months. That he would blink and suddenly have a family, obligations, routines that work but also quietly calcify if left unexamined.

That life would give him exactly what he worked for — stability, comfort, good outcomes — and that those good things would make it harder to remember what else he wanted.

Not because they were wrong. But because they were enough.

And “enough” is where most dreams go to rest.

The Thread

If you have been reading these reflections, you have probably noticed a pattern.

How routine becomes inertia if not examined.

How life flattens when you stop creating experiences worth remembering.

How good work stays hidden if you never share it.

How you can give everything to everyone else and forget to give anything to yourself.

All of them are versions of the same question my 23-year-old self was asking at Goma Lakes:

Am I living with a long-term perspective, or am I just getting through the day?

I have been doing better lately. Paying more attention. Acting more deliberately.

But this journal entry is a reminder that the questions never stop mattering.

That staying awake requires effort.

What We Remember

We do not need to abandon everything we have built.

We do not need to quit our jobs or blow up our lives or chase every dream our younger selves had.

Some of those dreams were naive. Some were impractical. Some were exactly right for who we were then but completely wrong for who we are now.

What we need is simpler.

To remember that we once asked bigger questions. That we once thought in years, not months. That we once believed we had nothing to lose and everything to try.

Long-term thinking is not abstract. It is specific.

It is the side project you start today knowing it will take three years before anyone notices. The skill you commit to learning not because it helps this quarter but because it positions you for the next decade. The relationship you invest in slowly, knowing trust compounds over years not months.

It is planting trees whose shade you may never sit under.

Not because the outcome is guaranteed. But because ten years from now, you will either have spent that time building something that matters or you will have spent it getting through each month.

The time passes either way.

And to ask ourselves — honestly, without judgment — whether any of those questions are still worth asking now.

Not because we have to act on them.

Just because remembering what we cared about before life got comfortable is worth something.

Even if all it does is remind us that we are still allowed to care about things beyond what is immediately in front of us.

If you could hear what your younger self was thinking ten years ago — what would they remind you that you have forgotten?

Would they recognize you?

Would they be proud?

Or would they wonder — quietly, without judgment — when you stopped thinking long-term and started just getting through each month?

I do not know what your younger self would say to you.

But mine is saying something I needed to hear:

“You have more to lose now. But you also have more to give. Do not let comfort become the reason you stop asking what else is possible. Remember — everyday counts.”

He was right then.

He is still right now.

If you could hear what your younger self was thinking ten years ago — what would they remind you that you have forgotten?

THE LAST PERSON YOU TAKE CARE OF

At 75, he thought he would be resting.

Not like this.

He had done everything right. Three children. A banker. A doctor. An engineer. He paid their fees without complaint. Sent one abroad. Watched them graduate. Watched them build their own lives.

He thought he had succeeded as a father.

And he had.

But today he lives alone in Chinkuli Village in Chongwe. The career is gone. The strength is fading. The house is quiet in the way that only comes from a very long time without visitors.

His phone sits beside him most evenings. Not because he is waiting for it to ring.

Just because it rarely does.

His children are not bad people. They have their own school fees now. Their own building projects.

Which is exactly what he raised them to do.

He just never made a list for himself.

A day later, another story arrived.

A man still in the thick of it. Running three jobs simultaneously — the main job, the side hustle, the deals on the side. Chasing ichola the way a lot of us do when the school fees are due and the building project needs another phase and the family needs this and the relatives need that.

His body eventually said enough.

One week away from a stroke, the doctor told him.

But that was not the only thing unraveling. The relationship — stretched thin by years of a man who was always somewhere else — was ending. And the property they had built together, years of real sacrifice and real money, was tied up in arrangements nobody had ever properly discussed.

He walked away with far less than he put in.

Not because of malice.

Because the conversation had never happened.

Two men. Two different seasons of life.

One thread running quietly through both.

They were the last people on their own list.

The Portfolio Nobody Audits

Most of us are serious investors.

Career — deliberate. Years of studying, positioning, sacrificing.

Children — no expense spared. The best schools we can afford. Sometimes more than we can afford.

Property — every bonus accounted for. Every phase of construction followed closely.

And then there is us.

Our health. Our rest. Our plan for the season of life when the salary stops and the body finally presents the bill for everything it was quietly owed.

That portfolio — most of us manage it last. Myself included.

We tell ourselves we will get to it. After the house is done. After the children finish school. After things settle.

But things do not settle. They just move faster.

And the cost of neglecting this particular portfolio does not announce itself early.

It accumulates quietly.

Until one day it presents the full bill at once.

What Retirement Actually Looks Like

Here is something we do not talk about enough.

Retirement is not the finish line. It is a season. And like every season, it rewards whoever prepared for it.

The engineer who retires does not stop understanding systems. The banker does not stop understanding money. The doctor does not stop knowing medicine. That knowledge — built over thirty or forty years — is worth something long after the salary stops.

Imagine retiring and walking into a lecture hall at the University of Lusaka. Not because you need the income. Because you chose to be there. Passing on what took you decades to learn to people hungry for exactly that.

Or a small farm outside Lusaka. Hands in the soil. Something growing. Something yours.

These are not consolation prizes. They are what a prepared retirement looks like.

But they require groundwork. Not at sixty. Now. Slowly. Quietly. Alongside everything else.

Because if you do not plan that season, the grinding does not stop when the salary does.

It just continues — without the salary that used to make it worthwhile.

And you will find yourself working not because you chose to.

But because you have no choice.

The Conversations Most Couples Are Avoiding

I will be honest — this part is not about other people.

It is about most of us. Myself included.

Most couples are remarkable at building together. The house. The children. The future constructed side by side with genuine love and genuine effort.

But the specific conversations — the ones about the structure underneath all that building — those get quietly postponed. Not out of distrust. Just because things are good right now and it feels unnecessary.

Whose name is this property in? And why?

If something happened to one of you tomorrow — illness, incapacity, death — what does the other one actually own? What does the paperwork say, not what the intention was?

If assets are in a child’s name for convenience — which seems practical today — what happens when that child is grown, married to someone you did not choose, living a life you did not plan for?

Zambia has seen enough of these stories. Businesses built by genuine partners that ended up in court because the agreements were only ever verbal. Family properties that became battlegrounds not because anyone was evil but because nothing was ever written down when things were good.

A marriage is not a business. But what you build inside one deserves the same clarity.

Not to protect yourself from your partner.

To make sure that whatever you are building together actually belongs to both of you. That neither of you ends up exposed by something you never thought to discuss while things were still good.

Because moving through life on autopilot is costly in many areas.

Inside a relationship, the cost tends to surface at the worst possible time.

The Other Man

There is another man I want you to picture.

Same age as the one in Chinkuli. Same generation. Also gave everything to his family. Also paid school fees. Also showed up for everyone who needed him.

But somewhere in all the giving, he also gave something to himself.

Not extravagantly. Just consistently.

He saved quietly alongside everything else. He had conversations with his wife about what they owned and whose name it was in and why. He started laying groundwork — slowly, without fanfare — for what he wanted his later years to look like.

Today he walks into a lecture hall at the University of Lusaka twice a week. The students call him Professor. He does not need the stipend. He goes because thirty years of hard-won knowledge deserves somewhere to land.

On weekends, a small plot just outside town. Something growing. Something his.

He does not sit waiting for his phone to ring.

He is usually too busy to notice.

Same starting point as the man in Chinkuli.

Very different arrival.

As you live the present — paying attention to the data your own life is generating — pay attention to this blind spot too. The one that never feels urgent because there is always something more pressing today.

You are allowed to take care of yourself. Not at the expense of the people you love. Just not at the expense of yourself either.

The question is not whether you will arrive at old age. You will. The question is what you will have waiting for you when you get there — and whether you started building it today.

THE COST OF INVISIBLE PROGRESS

I have been building something for the past three months.

Not a house this time. Not a business. Something smaller. And somehow more difficult.

I have been rebuilding the habit of paying attention.

The Work No One Sees

Here is what no one knows:

Since November, I have been writing again. Not for work. Not for anyone in particular. Just writing.

Every week, I sit down and try to make sense of what I noticed. A conversation that stopped me mid-thought. A realization that arrived while driving the Lusaka-Ndola highway. A pattern I finally saw after ignoring it for years.

I post these reflections on my blog. And then I close my laptop and go back to life.

No announcements. No sharing. No “look what I wrote.”

Just the work. Quiet. Invisible.

And that invisibility started to bother me.

The Question That Would Not Leave

Last week, I wrote about living the story you want to tell.

About how my life right now—if I had to narrate it—would be remarkably short and repetitive. Wake up. Work. Home. Routine. Repeat.

Not bad. Not broken. Just flat.

And as I finished writing that piece, a question surfaced:

Am I doing the same thing with my writing that I am trying to avoid in my life?

Going through the motions. Doing the work. But keeping it hidden. Safe. Invisible.

Writing without sharing is like discovering a shortcut on your daily commute and never mentioning it to anyone else stuck in the same traffic.

You benefit. The knowledge helps you.

But the colleagues who leave work at the same time, headed in the same direction, fighting the same congestion—they never find out.

Not because you are selfish. But because it never occurs to you that what helps you might help them too.

What Sharing Actually Does

I used to think sharing required credentials.

That you needed to have “made it” first. To have something impressive to show. A title. A platform. Proof that you had earned the right to speak.

Only experts share publicly. Only people with something to teach. Only those who have arrived.

Everyone else? We stay quiet. We wait. We work in private until we are qualified enough to go public.

But I am realizing something different now.

Sharing is not about attention. It is about accountability.

When you share what you are learning, three things happen:

1. You Clarify What You Actually Know

When you keep your learning private, you can get away with fuzzy thinking. Vague insights. Half-formed ideas that feel profound but collapse under scrutiny.

Sharing demands precision. Because the moment you try to articulate something clearly, you discover how unclear it actually was in your head.

The work of making it shareable is the work of making it real.

 2. You Create Evidence of Movement

Progress in life is often invisible.

You work on yourself for weeks—reading, reflecting, adjusting. And from the outside, nothing seems different.

But when you share what you are learning, you create a trail. Evidence that you were here. That you were paying attention. That you were moving, even when no one could see it.

Three months from now, six months from now, you can look back and see: this is where I was. This is what I was thinking. This is how far I have come.

Without that trail, progress disappears. It feels like you are standing still even when you are not.

 3. You Give Others Permission to Be Themselves

The most surprising thing about sharing your process—not your polished results, but your actual messy process—is that it gives other people permission.

Permission to start before they are ready.  

Permission to be uncertain while they figure things out.  

Permission to be themselves instead of pretending to be someone they think they should be.

When someone sees you showing up consistently—not because you are an expert, not because you have it all figured out, but because you are genuinely trying—something shifts.

They think: “Maybe I do not need to have all the answers before I begin.”

And that might be more valuable than any specific thing you share.

The Resistance I Did Not Expect

For three months, I have been writing these reflections.

And for three months, I have been hitting “publish” on my blog and then doing nothing.

Not sharing on LinkedIn. Not posting on WhatsApp status. Not mentioning it to anyone.

Why?

I told myself: “The work is what matters. Not the attention.”

But that was only part of the truth.

The other part—the part I did not want to admit—was fear.

Not fear of criticism. Fear of something more subtle: Who am I to share this?

Impostor syndrome is a strange thing. I thought I had dealt with it years ago. Worked through it. Moved past it.

But it does not stay defeated. It waits. And it returns, dressed differently.

This time it showed up as humility. As wisdom. As restraint.

“Do not share yet. You are not ready. You do not have enough figured out. Wait until you know more.”

Reasonable advice. Except it is not advice. It is resistance.

There is an internal battle that happens every time you are about to do something that matters. Two voices. Two wolves, if you want to think of it that way.

One voice says: “This is important. Share it. Help others. Grow through the discomfort.”

The other voice says: “Not yet. Not good enough. Not qualified. Stay safe.”

Whichever voice you feed wins.

And for three months, I fed the wrong one.

Not intentionally. But consistently.

Here is what I am noticing: when I feed that fear in one area of my life, it starts spreading to others.

I hesitate at work. I hold back in conversations. I play small when I should step forward.

But when I choose courage in one place—even something as small as clicking “share” on an article—something shifts everywhere else.

So this is not just about sharing my writing.

This is about deciding which voice gets fed today.

The Pattern I Keep Seeing

I see this everywhere now.

The colleague who figured out how to get approvals faster at work but never shares the process with the new hires who are struggling with the same bureaucracy.

The friend who learned how to have difficult conversations with his teenage daughter—really learned, through painful trial and error—but never mentions it to other parents fighting the same battles.

The neighbor who discovered that exercising at 5am changed everything for him but keeps it to himself because “everyone already knows exercise is good for you.”

All of them—doing good work. Learning valuable lessons. Figuring things out.

But keeping it invisible.

As if the work only counts if we do it alone. In silence. Without witnesses.

As if sharing what we learned would be showing off or unnecessary.

But here is what I am learning:

The shortcut you discovered is not just for you. The lesson you learned the hard way could save someone else years. The thing that changed your life might be exactly what someone else needs to hear today.

And keeping it invisible is not humility.

Sometimes it is just fear dressed up as modesty.

 What I Am Doing Differently

Last week, I wrote about why am sharing what am learn. About the value of making thinking visible.

I finished writing it. And then I sat on it for days.

Not because I was still editing it. I was migrating my writing to a better platform—one with more flexibility, cleaner design, something that felt less limiting than where I started years ago.

But that was just another form of stalling.

My wife finally said: “Just share it. Perfection is the enemy of creation.”

She was right.

So I posted it on my blog. And then—like I have done for the past three months—I closed my laptop and went back to life.

No sharing on LinkedIn. No Facebook post. No WhatsApp status.

Just words floating in digital space that no one knew existed.

I told myself I was being humble. Letting the work speak for itself.

But really? I was hiding.

Here is the truth: when you post something and tell no one, it does not matter how good it is. It sits in a vacuum. Unread. Unfound. Invisible.

This week is different.

This one, I am sharing. With my network. With people who might actually see it.

Not because it is perfect. But because it is ready enough.

And because posting without sharing is just another way of keeping the work hidden.

The Experiment

I am trying something that used to come naturally but stopped.

For years, I journaled. Private notebooks. Reflections on what I noticed each week. Then I started sharing some of those reflections publicly on this blog.

Then I stopped both. For three years.

Not intentionally. Life got busy. I went on autopilot. The notebooks closed. The blog went silent.

Now I am back. Writing again. Reflecting again.

But this time, I am adding something: sharing with people who might actually see it.

Not because I need an audience. But because I need the accountability.

There is something about knowing someone might read what you write that forces you to think more clearly. To notice more carefully. To ask better questions.

Someone once said they write not because they have something to say, but to figure out what they think. That writing is thinking made visible.

That is what this is.

An experiment in paying closer attention to my own life. And using the discipline of sharing—even when no one is watching—to stay awake.

Not on a rigid schedule. Not with pressure to perform.

Just consistently enough that it matters.

A Question Worth Sitting With

Maybe you have your own version of this.

Not writing, necessarily. But something.

Something you have been learning. Something you have figured out. Something that helped you that might help someone else.

And you have been keeping it quiet.

Not because it is secret. But because sharing feels… unnecessary. Self-important. Like you would be adding to the noise.

Or maybe because you are waiting. Until you know more. Until you have something bigger to show. Until you are more qualified.

I am not here to tell you what to do.

But I wonder:

What if the thing you figured out—the shortcut, the lesson, the realization—is exactly what someone else is struggling with right now?

And what if they never find it because you kept it to yourself?

Not because you are selfish. But because it never occurred to you that your ordinary discovery might be someone else’s breakthrough.

Think about the last year.

What did you figure out? What clicked for you? What small thing changed everything?

Maybe it was a conversation technique that finally worked with your teenager.  

Maybe it was a morning routine that gave you your life back.  

Maybe it was a realization about work, or money, or relationships that you wish you had known five years ago.

Someone else is five years behind you on that same journey.

They are looking for exactly what you discovered.

The only question is: will they find it?

These reflections are part of my ongoing exploration of intentional living—what I call the 3D approach to success across work, relationships, and purpose. You can find more at here

 

WHY I AM SHARING WHAT I LEARN NOW

I have been journaling for most of my life.

Private notebooks. Handwritten reflections. Observations from the week. Lessons from experiences.

Then I stopped. Not intentionally. Just got busy. Life took over. Went on autopilot.

For three years, the notebooks sat closed.

Recently, I started again. And this time, I am sharing some of it publicly.

Not because I suddenly need an audience.

But because I realized something:

When you share what you are learning, you learn it twice.

The First Learning

The first learning happens in the experience itself.

You go through something. Notice a pattern. Have a realization.

If you are paying attention, you capture it. Maybe in a journal. Maybe in a note. Maybe just mentally.

That is valuable. It creates awareness.

But it is not complete learning yet.

The Second Learning

The second learning happens when you try to share it.

When you attempt to articulate what you learned clearly enough for someone else to understand, something shifts.

You cannot be vague. You cannot leave gaps. You have to think it through fully.

And in that process of making it clear for someone else, it becomes clearer to you.

That is not theory. That is what I have been experiencing these past weeks.

What Changed

In 2021, I started this blog. Shared reflections publicly for about a year.

The act of writing for others forced me to think more clearly than writing just for myself ever did.

Then mid-2022, I stopped. The blog went quiet. The journal stayed closed.

For over three years.

Late last year, I came back. Started journaling again. Then started sharing here.

And I noticed immediately: My thinking sharpened.

Not because the experiences changed. But because the act of sharing them forced me to process them more deeply.

When I wrote about data I was ignoring about myself, I had to think through exactly what patterns mattered. When I wrote about slowing down, I had to articulate what I was actually learning from burning out.

Each article made the lesson clearer to me than it was before I tried to explain it.

That is the value. Not the audience. The clarity it creates.

The Teaching Principle

There is an old principle:

If you want to truly understand something, teach it.

Not because teaching helps others (though sometimes it does).

But because teaching forces you to understand it well enough to explain it.

You cannot hide behind vague language when you are teaching. You have to be specific. Clear. Honest about what you actually learned versus what you wish you learned.

Sharing works the same way.

Writing something knowing someone else might read it forces clarity that private reflection alone does not always reach.

Why This Connects

If you have been reading the recent posts, you will see a thread:

Three years on autopilot taught me I was not paying attention.

Paying attention to data taught me patterns only become visible when you track them.

Optimizing for lifestyle instead of title taught me to focus on how I want to live, not what I want to achieve.

Living the story I want to tell taught me experiences only become stories when you document them.

And now this:

Documenting is not just for remembering. It is for learning.

When you share what you notice, you notice it more deeply.

When you articulate what you learned, you learn it more fully.

What This Looks Like

I do not know exactly where this goes.

I am exploring. Trying different things. Seeing what helps me think more clearly.

Some weeks the reflection will be written. Some weeks I might try something different.

The medium might change. The learning principle will not.

Because sharing, whether through writing or other forms of documenting is how understanding deepens.

Not just by experiencing. Not just by noticing.

But by attempting to articulate it clearly enough for someone else to understand.

That is when the learning becomes real.

What is one thing you learned last week that would become clearer if you tried to explain it to someone else?

LIVE THE STORY YOU WANT TO TELL

I came across a quote this week that stopped me mid-scroll.

It was from Vinh Giang, talking about his lessons from 2025:

“Live the story you want to tell.”

Five words. But they sat with me.

Because here is the uncomfortable truth: If I had to tell the story of my life right now, it would be remarkably short. And remarkably repetitive.

Wake up. Work. Home. Routine. Repeat.

Not bad. Not broken. Just… flat.

And flat does not make for good stories.

The Quote That Shaped How I Used to Live

Years ago, I stumbled on another quote. One that became my mantra for a season of life.

Jim Rohn said: “Life is not just the passing of time. Life is the collection of experiences and their intensity.”

That quote changed me.

It made me realize: I was not collecting experiences. I was just passing time.

So I started deliberately creating moments.

I went skydiving. Not because I needed to prove anything. But because I wanted the experience. The story.

I organized a gorge swing. Terrifying. Exhilarating. Unforgettable.

I pushed for team-building events at work—not the boring corporate kind, but actual adventures that people still talk about years later.

I helped plan family gatherings that were not just obligations but genuine celebrations.

I visited places I had only read about. Tried things I had only imagined.

And looking back now, those were some of the most memorable moments of that season.

Not the days that went according to plan. The days that interrupted the plan.

When the Monotony Crept Back In

But somewhere along the way, I stopped.

Life got busy. Work demanded more. Responsibilities piled up. Family required attention.

And slowly, quietly, I stopped creating experiences and started managing routines.

The quote faded. The intentionality disappeared.

And I settled into a rhythm that felt safe. Predictable. Manageable.

But not memorable.

Here is what I have been noticing lately: My weeks blur together.

Ask me what happened last Tuesday, and I would struggle to tell you anything specific.

Not because it was a bad day. But because it was the same as the Tuesday before it. And the one before that.

I was living. But I was not collecting.

When the Universe Emphasizes

Then I heard Vinh Giang say: “Live the story you want to tell.”

And something clicked. Or rather, re-clicked.

It was not a new idea. I had heard versions of it before. I had even lived by it once.

But quotes have this way of finding you when you need them most.

This is the power of words—whether from books, videos, or even day-to-day conversations. They make the familiar urgent. They turn the vague into actionable.

And this quote did exactly that.

It made me ask: What story am I living right now? And is it one I would want to tell?

The honest answer? It is not bad. But it could be richer.

My life is not broken. But it has become predictable. Comfortable. Safe.

And safe does not always make for compelling stories.

The Challenge I Am Setting for Myself

Seth Godin once asked a question that haunts people who hear it:

“When was the last time you did something for the first time?”

Simple question. Uncomfortable answer.

Because if you are like me, the answer is: “I cannot remember.”

Not because I lack opportunity. But because I have been choosing comfort over curiosity.

So here is what I am challenging myself to do this year:

Do things for the first time. Regularly.

And I want to be clear: This does not have to be dramatic.

It does not mean quitting my job to travel the world. Or spending money I do not have. Or upending my entire life.

It just means breaking the default.

What “First Times” Actually Look Like

Here is what I mean:

At home:

  • Instead of the same restaurant my wife and I always go to, try a new place. Even if it is just a different spot in town.
  • Cook a meal we have never attempted before. Maybe it fails. Maybe it becomes a new favourite. Either way, it is a story.
  • Plan a weekend activity we have never done. Not someday. This month.

At work:

  • Instead of approaching a problem the way I always do, try a completely different method. Even if it feels awkward at first.
  • Have a conversation with a colleague I have never really spoken to beyond the usual greetings.
  • Propose an idea I have been sitting on, rather than waiting for the “right time.”

With my platforms:

  • I have been using the same blog hosting platform for years. What if I explored upgrading to something better? Not because the current one is broken. But because trying something new might unlock capabilities I did not know I needed.
  • I have been seeing more people share through video lately. What if I experimented with that format? Not to abandon writing. But to try a different way of telling the same stories.

With opportunities:

  • Just this week, a colleague called about a couples retreat over the Easter holiday. A boat trip on the lake. Time away with other couples.

Old me? I would have said: “Sounds great. Maybe next time.”

This time? My wife and I did not hesitate. We are going.

Not because it is convenient. But because if I do not say yes to experiences now, “next time” never comes.

It Does Not Have to Be Big

Here is what I want to make clear:

Living the story you want to tell does not require grand gestures.

You do not need to skydive (though if you want to, do it).

You do not need to spend money you do not have.

You do not need to break your entire routine.

You just need to find small ways to do something for the first time.

Within your family routine:

  • Play a game you have never played with your kids
  • Ask your spouse a question you have never asked
  • Cook together instead of one person always cooking

Within your work routine:

  • Take a different route to the office
  • Suggest a new way to run a meeting
  • Learn one new skill relevant to your role

Within your own habits:

  • Read a book from a genre you normally avoid
  • Try a hobby you have been curious about but dismissed as “not for me”
  • Wake up 30 minutes earlier and use that time differently

Small. Doable. But different.

And difference creates stories.

The Year I Want to Tell About

The year has just started.

Twelve months ahead. Fifty-two weeks. Three hundred and sixty-five days.

Most of those days will be routine. That is fine. That is life.

But what if I deliberately made some of them different?

Not all of them. Just enough.

Enough that when December comes, I can look back and say:

“This was the year I tried new things. The year I created experiences. The year I lived stories worth telling.”

Not because every moment was extraordinary.

But because I was intentional about collecting moments that mattered.

The Invitation

So here is what I am asking—of myself, and of you:

When was the last time you did something for the first time?

If you cannot remember, that is your answer.

This year, live the story you want to tell.

Not someday. Not when life slows down. Not when you have more time or money or energy.

This year.

Start small. Try one new thing this month.

Then do it again next month.

And by the end of the year, you will have twelve new experiences. Twelve new stories. Twelve moments that were not just routine.

Because life is not just the passing of time.

Life is the collection of experiences and their intensity.

And the only way to collect them is to go out and create them. 

When was the last time you did something for the first time? If you have to think too hard, that is your answer. This month, create one new experience. Just one. That is how stories begin.

THE POWER OF ONE WEEK: WHAT I NOTICED AFTER BEING AWAY

I just got back from a week away.

Lusaka, then Livingstone. Work trips, business reviews, strategy sessions.

A lot packed into seven days.

And when I drove back home on the Lusaka-Ndola dual carriageway, something caught my attention that I had not noticed before.

Progress.

Visible. Undeniable. Real.

But only because I had been away for a week.

What Changed in Seven Days

The Ndola Teaching Hospital roundabout—where the dual carriageway connects with Kwacha Road and Broadway. For months, the contractor had it partly closed due to construction works. A source of major congestion and frustration every time I passed through.

This time? They opened it up.

Suddenly, smoother flow. Less chaos. Real progress.

And homes in the residential area where I stay. New constructions going up all around. For months, they looked like they were at the same level. Frozen in time. But this time, after a week away? Windows in. Roofs progressing. Movement I had not seen before.

Here is what struck me:

I see these places regularly. But I never noticed the progress.

Because when you see something every single day, the changes are too small to register.

But step away for a week? The difference becomes obvious.

The Business Units That Forgot Their Goals

During the week, I visited four different business units. Part of the year-end review and planning process.

Each team had set goals for 2026. Written them down. Had meetings about them. Discussed them at length just weeks ago.

So I asked: “What are the main goals you set for this year?”

Silence. Blank stares.

Most people could not recall. Not because they did not care. Not because the goals were not important.

But because the goals were not visible.

They were buried in documents. Filed away in emails. Somewhere in a forty-page strategy document that no one opens after the planning session ends.

And here is the uncomfortable truth:

If you cannot remember your goals, you are not working towards them. You are just working.

Busy. Active. Showing up.

But not necessarily moving in the direction you said mattered.

The Strategy Session and the Vision Board

We had our own strategy session during the week. My colleagues and I. Planning the year ahead for our business.

Brilliant ideas. Solid plan. On paper, it looked excellent.

But I have been in enough planning sessions to know: Most corporate plans are too bulky. Too detailed. Too difficult to remember.

Forty pages of strategies, objectives, key performance indicators, timelines, budgets.

Comprehensive? Yes.

Memorable? No.

And if it is not memorable, it will not be followed.

So I applied something I have done before—with good results each time.

I created a vision board. One page.

Not forty pages of text. One visual page.

Graphs showing where we are and where we want to go. Diagrams highlighting the core focus areas. Simple images representing the main goals.

No jargon. No corporate language. Just the essence.

I used technology at my disposal to help design it—inputting our key objectives and letting it generate visual representations. The result was clean, clear, and memorable.

And I shared it with the team.

Now, here is what you can do with something like this:

Put it on your phone screen saver. Stick it on your office desk. Pin it on your bathroom mirror. Somewhere you will see it every day.

Because here is what I have learnt:

What is visible gets attention. What gets attention gets worked on.

Why Vision Boards Work

There is something powerful about making goals visible.

When you see something repeatedly, your brain starts paying attention to it.

Think about when you decide to buy a certain car. Suddenly, you start noticing that exact model everywhere. It was always there—but your brain was not looking for it.

Your brain filters millions of pieces of information every day. It cannot process all of it. So it focuses on what you have told it matters.

When your goals are buried in documents, your brain treats them like background noise.

But when they are visible—on your phone screen, your desk, your mirror—your brain keeps them front of mind.

You start noticing opportunities. Resources. Ideas. Connections.

Not because they suddenly appeared. But because you are now paying attention.

That is why vision boards work. Not magic. Just focus.

The Danger of Getting Lost in Details

Most annual plans fail not because the goals are bad.

They fail because people get lost in the details.

Too many objectives. Too many initiatives. Too many KPIs.

And when everything is a priority, nothing is a priority.

Here is what I told the teams during the reviews:

“Take your forty-page plan. Now condense it. What are the three main things you must achieve this year? Not ten. Three.”

“If you accomplish those three things, will this year be a success? If yes, those are your focus areas. Everything else is secondary.”

Simplify. Focus. Make it visible.

Because you cannot execute what you cannot remember.

Progress Happens in Weeks, Not Days

This brings me back to what I noticed driving on the Lusaka-Ndola dual carriageway.

The roundabout. The houses in my residential area.

I did not see progress day by day. But week by week? Undeniable.

And that is how most meaningful progress works.

You work today. You show up. You put in effort.

Tomorrow? It does not look like anything changed.

Next day? Same.

Day after day, it feels like you are running in place.

But step back after a week? After a month? Progress becomes visible.

There is a story about bamboo that illustrates this perfectly.

A Chinese bamboo tree is planted. You water it. Care for it. Fertilize it.

For five years, you see almost nothing. Maybe a tiny shoot. But mostly, nothing above ground.

Then, in the fifth year, the bamboo grows 80 to 90 feet—about 24 to 27 metres—in just five to six weeks.

Twenty-four to twenty-seven metres. In less than two months.

But it was not just weeks of growth.

It was five years of root development you could not see, followed by explosive visible growth.

Most people give up in year two. Year three. Because they do not see results.

They do not realize: The work is happening. The roots are forming. The progress is real—just not visible yet.

What This Means for Your Goals

You set goals at the start of the year. Maybe you wrote them down. Maybe you were excited about them.

But now, a few weeks in, they are fading.

Not because you do not care. But because they are not visible anymore.

Here is what to do:

1. Simplify your goals to three main things

Not ten. Not fifteen. Three.

What are the three most important outcomes you want this year?

Write them down. One sentence each.

2. Make them visible

Create your own one-page vision board.

  • Draw it by hand if you want
  • Use technology at your disposal to help design it
  • Use images that represent each goal
  • Keep it simple and clear

Then put it where you will see it every day:

  • Phone lock screen or wallpaper
  • Desk at work
  • Bathroom mirror
  • Car dashboard
  • Refrigerator door

Somewhere you cannot avoid seeing it.

3. Review weekly, not just yearly

Set a recurring reminder. Every Sunday evening or Monday morning.

Look at your goals. Ask yourself:

“Did I move towards these this week? Even slightly?”

Not “Did I achieve them?” Just “Did I move towards them?”

Because progress happens in small, consistent steps. Not dramatic leaps.

4. Trust the process when you cannot see progress

Some days will feel like nothing is changing.

That is normal.

The bamboo spent five years looking dead. But roots were forming the entire time.

Your consistency today is building foundations you cannot see yet.

Keep going.

The Week Ahead

This week, I am doing two things differently:

First: I am putting my three main goals for 2026 on a single page. Visuals. Simple language. And I am making it my phone wallpaper.

Second: I am setting a weekly review. Every Sunday evening. Fifteen minutes. Just to check: Did I move towards what matters this week?

Not perfect execution. Just movement.

Because that is all progress requires.

Small steps. Repeated. Week after week.

And one day, you look up—and realize you have covered more ground than you thought possible.

Just like the Ndola Teaching Hospital roundabout that suddenly opened up. The houses in my residential area that suddenly have roofs.

The progress was always happening. You just could not see it day by day.

What are your three main goals for 2026? Can you state them right now without checking your notes? If not, it is time to make them visible.

I am noticing a pattern: we tend to overstate what we can achieve in the short term while understating the power of time and compounding in the long term. There is something called the valley of disappointment—that period where effort feels invisible and results seem distant. That is a topic for another day. But for now, just know: the work you are doing today is forming roots you cannot see yet.

THE DATA YOU ARE IGNORING ABOUT YOURSELF

 I sat through our company’s annual planning conference last week.

The marketing person was presenting. Screen full of charts. Numbers. Analytics.

Where people came from. Which countries visited our online platforms. Which posts got the most engagement. Which content drove action. Which ones were ignored.

There was a pattern.

Clear. Undeniable. Right there in the data.

And I watched my colleagues lean forward. Taking notes. Asking questions. Making decisions based on what the numbers were showing.

Then I drove home and realized something uncomfortable:

We track our business obsessively. But we barely pay attention to ourselves.

The Quote That Would Not Leave Me Alone

There is a saying in business: “Data is the new oil.”

Or another version: “Data is the lifeblood of business.”

Companies spend millions collecting it. Analysing it. Using it to make decisions.

Which product to launch. Which market to enter. Which strategy to double down on. Which one to abandon.

They do not guess. They do not rely on feelings alone.

They look at the data. Then they decide.

And it works. Businesses that use data well grow. Businesses that ignore it struggle.

I have heard this concept before. Multiple times. Nodded along. Made sense.

But sitting in that conference room, something finally clicked:

If data is vital for business decisions, why am I making the most important decisions in MY life without any data at all?

The Data Set You Already Have

Here is what I mean.

You are generating data every single day. About yourself.

What drains you. What energises you.

When you are most productive. When you are just going through motions.

What makes you give up. What keeps you going.

Which relationships add to your life. Which ones quietly take from you.

When you feel clear. When you feel foggy.

All of this is data.

Not complicated. Not requiring fancy systems or apps.

Just patterns. Waiting to be noticed.

But most of us never look at it.

We just react. Day after day. Making the same decisions. Getting the same results. Wondering why nothing changes.

What Happens When You Start Paying Attention

Let me give you an example.

Someone keeps saying they want to save money. “This year, I will be disciplined with my finances.”

Month after month, nothing changes. The money still disappears.

Then they decide to actually look at the pattern.

Where does the money actually go?

Not where they think it should go. Where it actually disappears.

And here is what the data shows:

Friday evenings. After a long week. Exhausted from work.

They stop at Shoprite or Levy on the way home. Not for planned groceries. Just browsing. “Let me pick up a few things.”

K500 gone. Sometimes more.

It does not feel like much in the moment. But Friday after Friday, that is K2,000 per month. K24,000 per year.

That is the data.

So instead of continuing to say “I need to be disciplined” and continuing to fail, they adjust:

Avoid the shops on Friday evenings. Go home directly. Shop on Saturday morning with a list.

Not because Friday shopping is evil. But because the data showed: That is when unconscious spending happens.

Small shift. Based on reality. Not willpower.

Another Example: Energy and People

Here is another pattern I noticed when I started paying attention.

There are certain people—family, friends, colleagues—who, after spending time with them, I feel lighter. Clearer. More myself.

And there are others who, after just thirty minutes, I feel drained. Tired. Like something was taken from me.

I am not talking about bad people. Just people whose energy does not align with mine.

For years, I ignored this data.

“It is just in my head. I am being selfish. I should spend time with everyone equally.”

But the pattern kept showing up.

After time with Person A: energised, clear-headed, motivated.

After time with Person B: exhausted, foggy, needing to recover.

Once I saw the pattern clearly, I made a decision:

Protect time with Person A. Limit time with Person B.

Not because Person B is bad. But because the data showed me which relationships fuel me and which ones drain me.

And my energy is limited. I need to invest it where it compounds, not where it disappears.

One More: Work and Focus

Last example.

I always thought I was most productive in the afternoon. That is what I told myself.

But when I actually paid attention—tracked when I did my best thinking, when I wrote clearly, when I solved problems well—the data showed something different.

Mornings. Specifically 6am to 9am.

After that? I am still working. Still busy. But the quality drops.

So now, instead of treating all hours equally, I protect those morning hours.

That is when I write. When I think deeply. When I tackle the hard problems.

Afternoons? Meetings. Admin. Things that do not require peak mental energy.

Same amount of work. Better results. Because I aligned my actions with the data.

How to Start Tracking Your Own Data

You do not need apps. You do not need complicated systems.

You just need to start paying attention.

Here is how:

1. Notice patterns in your energy

Track this for one week:

What activities leave you feeling alive? Which ones leave you drained?

Not what you think should energise you. What actually does.

Write it down. End of each day. Just notes.

By end of the week, you will see patterns.

2. Notice patterns in your follow-through

Think about the goals you have set before.

Which ones did you actually do? Which ones did you always abandon?

What was different about the ones that worked?

Time of day? Who you did them with? How you structured them?

The data is there. You just have to look at it.

3. Notice patterns in your relationships

After spending time with different people, check in with yourself:

How do I feel right now? More energised or more drained?

Clearer or more confused?

Motivated or discouraged?

Track it. Not to judge people. But to know where to invest your limited time.

4. Notice patterns in your productivity

When do you actually do your best work?

Not when you plan to. When you actually do.

What time of day? What environment? What conditions?

Then design your life around that data. Not around what sounds good.

Why This Matters More Than You Think

Businesses that ignore data eventually fail.

They make decisions based on assumptions. Feelings. What worked before.

And when the market changes, they are caught off guard.

Your life is no different.

If you keep making decisions without looking at your own patterns—what actually works for you, what drains you, when you thrive, when you struggle—you will keep getting the same results.

Not because you are not trying hard enough.

But because you are not using the data you already have.

The Connection to Last Week

Last week, I wrote about burning out four days into the year.

Trying to do everything at once. Ignoring the warning signs. Collapsing.

That was me ignoring my own data.

The data was there. My body was telling me: “This is too much. Slow down.”

But I did not listen. I kept pushing.

And I paid for it.

This week, I am doing something different.

I am paying attention.

Not just to what I want to be true. But to what is actually true.

And that data—the honest, uncomfortable, undeniable patterns—is showing me how to build a life that actually works.

Not a life that looks good on paper. A life that I can sustain.

One Step at a Time

You do not have to track everything.

Just pick one area. Career. Health. Relationships. Energy. Whatever feels most urgent.

And for the next week, just pay attention.

Notice the patterns.

Write them down if it helps. Or just be aware.

And then, next week, make one small adjustment based on what the data showed you.

Not a massive overhaul. Just one shift.

Because that is how you build a life that works. One data point at a time.

What is one pattern you have been ignoring about yourself? What would change if you actually paid attention to it this week?

FOUR DAYS IN: I AM ALREADY BURNING OUT

It is the first weekend of 2026.

Four days into the new year.

And I am already exhausted.

Not physically tired.

Mentally drained.

I started the year the way most of us do—with energy, plans, and that familiar voice saying: “This is it. This is the year. Go hard.”

So I did.

The construction project I mentioned? Started planning immediately. The exercise routine? Hit it hard from January first. The new business idea? Began mapping it out aggressively. The time with family? Trying to bepresent everywhere, all at once.

Four days in, and I can already feel it.

The harder I push, the faster I am heading towards collapse.

The Pattern I Keep Repeating

This is not my first January.

I have done this before. Multiple times.

Start strong. Push hard. Try to change everything at once.

By mid-January, I am burnt out. By February, I have quietly given up. By March, I am back to exactly where Istarted—just more disappointed in myself.

And I keep thinking: “Maybe I just need to push harder next time.”

But what if that is exactly backwards?

What if the problem is not that I do not push hard enough—but that I push too hard, too fast, and burn out before anything takes root?

What I Am Learning Right Now

I had a moment yesterday.

I was sitting outside, trying to plan the week ahead. Writing down all the things I want to accomplish. All theprojects I want to move forward. All the habits I want to build.

And I looked at the list and thought: “This is insane. No one can sustain this.”

Not because the goals are bad. But because I am trying to sprint a marathon.

Here is what I am realizing:

The harder you try at the beginning, the harder you fall.

Not always. But often enough that it is worth paying attention to.

Why We Burn Out in January

January has this energy.

New year. Fresh start. Clean slate.

And we treat it like a reset button—like somehow December 31st to January 1st erased all our limitations, ourcapacity, our need for rest.

So we load up:

Gym every day. New diet. Side business. Better relationships. Read more. Save more. Build more.

All. At. Once.

And for a week, maybe two, the adrenaline carries us.

But adrenaline runs out.

And when it does, we are left with the same body, the same brain, the same limited hours in the day that we hadin December.

Except now we are exhausted. Disappointed. And quietly convinced we failed again.

But we did not fail. We just tried to run before we learnt to walk consistently.

What I Am Doing Differently (Starting Today)

I am slowing down.

Not giving up. Not abandoning the goals. Just pacing myself.

The construction project. The exercise routine. The business idea. The intentional family time.

They are all still there. Still important.

But instead of trying to move all of them forward at once this week, I am choosing to take one small step ineach area—and then rest.

Not ten steps. Not maximum effort. Just enough to keep moving without collapsing.

Because this is not a sprint. It is not even a race.

It is a long game.

And the only way to play the long game is to still be standing when it matters.

Not because I lack ambition. But because I have learnt—the hard way—that most people give up not because they lack motivation, but because they exhaust themselves at the beginning.

One Day at a Time

I know this sounds like a cliché.

“Take it one day at a time.”

We have all heard it. We nod when people say it.

But do we actually do it?

Or do we treat the first week of January like we need to make up for all of last year in seven days?

Here is what I am learning:

One day at a time does not mean one goal per year. It means one action per day.

Not ten actions. Not “change everything.” Just one deliberate thing today that moves me forward.

Tomorrow I will do one more thing.

And the day after that, one more.

That is how patterns build. Not in explosive starts. In quiet, repeated steps.

To Everyone Chasing Something This Year

If you are going hard right now—gym, money, business, relationships, health—all the best.

Truly.

But I want to say something that no one else will:

It is okay to slow down.

In fact, it might be smarter to slow down.

Because the race is not won in the first week. It is won in week 12. Week 24. Week 40.

And you cannot get there if you burn out in week 2.

So if you are already feeling the strain, if you are already wondering how long you can keep this up, if you arealready exhausted—

Slow down now. Before you collapse.

Take it one day at a time. Not as a weakness. As strategy.

Choose one thing today. Do it. Rest.

Choose one thing tomorrow. Do it. Rest.

Repeat.

That is it.

Not sexy. Not Instagram-worthy. But sustainable.

What Happened Yesterday

Yesterday was Sunday.

I had planned to write and publish this week’s blog post. It was on my list. Part of the rhythm I am trying torebuild.

But I also wanted to push forward on the construction project. And map out the business idea. And do somephysical movement. And spend intentional time with my wife.

All on Sunday.

I started early. Grinding. Moving from one thing to the next. Telling myself: “Just finish the important things,then you can rest.”

By late afternoon, my body gave up.

Not dramatically. Just… stopped.

I had felt the exhaustion building earlier in the day. That warning signal. But I ignored it. Kept pushing. “Just abit more. Almost done.”

Except I was not almost done.

And when I finally sat down to write the blog post—the one thing I had committed to publish on Sunday—I hadnothing left.

No energy. No clarity. No words.

The blog did not get written. The day ended with me exhausted and frustrated.

That is when it hit me: I cannot keep doing this.

Not because I lack discipline. But because I am trying to do everything at once, and it is not sustainable.

So I am writing this now. Monday. A day late.

Not as planned. But as reality.

And maybe that is the lesson.

What I Am Choosing Today

Today, I am choosing to write this post.

That is my one thing for today.

Not write the post AND finalize the construction plan AND work out AND map the business AND have a deepconversation with my wife.

Just this. Right here. Right now.

Tomorrow I will choose one more thing.

And the day after that, one more.

Because I would rather build slowly and actually arrive, than sprint hard and collapse halfway.


If you are already exhausted four days into 2026, you are not weak. You are not failing. You are justpushing too hard too soon. Slow down. The year is long. Pace yourself.

What is the ONE thing you will do today—not ten things, just one? 

A DIFFERENT KIND OF YEAR-END: SITTING STILL AS 2025 TURNS TO 2026

The garden. The quiet Sunday. The drink beside me. This is the moment the year-end reflection finally had room to breathe.

I am writing this from an unusual place.

Not my usual desk inside. Not hunched over my laptop at some odd hour when the house is finally quiet.

I am sitting outside in our garden on a sunny Sunday afternoon, a glass of mango juice beside me, a gentle breeze reminding me that I am actually here. Present. Still.

And that is the unusual part.

For the first time in a very long time, I am home during this transition from one year to the next.

The Festive Period I Did Not Plan

Normally, this time of year is motion. Travel with family. Visiting relatives. Moving from one place to another. Coming home only after the New Year has already started, exhausted from the obligations and celebrations and constant movement.

It is not a bad thing. Family matters. Traditions matter.

But this year, circumstances; a combination of family situations and work commitments kept me here. At home. In one place. As 2025 winds down and 2026 waits just around the corner.

And something unexpected happened.

I got to sit still.

The Empty House and the Full Quiet

Our daughter went to visit her grandparents for a few days, which gave my wife and me some rare time to ourselves.

There is this funny irony about toddlers: when they are with you, they are demanding, wonderfully, exhaustingly demanding. You find yourself yearning for just a few hours of peace. A break. Some breathing room.

And then the moment they leave, the house feels impossibly empty.

All you think about is them. The warmth they bring. The chaos that somehow makes a home feel alive.

But in that quiet emptiness, something valuable emerged: space to reflect.

Not rushed reflection. Not “I should probably think about my year” reflection squeezed between activities.

Real, unhurried, sitting-in-the-garden-on-a-Sunday-afternoon reflection.

The Questions That Finally Had Room to Breathe

Last week, I wrote about the questions we avoid asking before the year ends. Questions about what 2025 quietly taught us. What drained us. What worked. What we are carrying forward by default rather than by choice.

This week, this rare, still week at home, I finally sat with those questions.

Not to tick a box. Not to produce content.

But because I actually had the space to listen to what they were asking.

And in that stillness, I began planning for 2026. Not in the usual way. Not with the usual goals.

Because of one sentence that changed everything.

The Quote That Redirected My 2026

I came across a line recently that stopped me mid-scroll:

“Optimize for your desired lifestyle, not your desired title.”

It was in James Clear’s newsletter—specifically this edition—one of the few I actually read consistently.

I read that sentence again. And again.

And I realized: I have been doing it backwards.

The Trap of Title-Focused Goals

Think about how most of us approach our annual goals.

We say things like:

  • “I want to get promoted to Senior Manager.”
  • “I want to grow my business to seven figures.”
  • “I want to be recognized as an industry leader.”
  • “I want to own a bigger house, drive a better car, have a more impressive title.”

There is nothing inherently wrong with these goals. Ambition is not a vice. Growth is not shallow.

But here is what Clear’s quote made me confront:

We chase titles without asking if we even want to live the life that comes with them.

The Senior Manager position might come with more stress, less time with your daughter, evenings consumed by emails, weekends swallowed by “urgent” projects.

The seven-figure business might demand 80-hour weeks, constant travel, relationships strained by your absence.

The bigger house might mean a longer commute, higher expenses, less financial margin for the things you actually enjoy.

We optimize for status. For labels. For what society calls success.

And then we arrive, exhausted, stretched, disconnected and wonder why the achievement feels hollow.

What Optimizing for Lifestyle Actually Means

Clear’s insight is simple but radical:

Start with how you want to live. Then work backwards to find a path that gets you there.

Not: “What title do I want?”

But: “What does a day in my desired life actually look like?”

For example:

  • Do you want to lecture at a university one day? Start guest speaking now, even if it is just once a quarter.
  • Do you want to write a book? Start writing weekly, even blog posts to build the muscle.
  • Do you want to live on a farm when you retire? Start learning about sustainable agriculture, visit farms, connect with that world now.
  • Do you want more time with family? Design your career around flexibility, not just salary.
  • Do you want to travel extensively? Build skills that allow remote work or consulting.

The question is not “What impressive thing can I achieve?”

The question is “What life do I actually want to live and what small steps can I take towards it now?”

How This Changed My 2026 Planning

Sitting in my garden this week, I did something different.

Instead of asking “What do I want to accomplish in 2026?” I asked:

“What do I want my life to feel like in 2026? And in 2030? And beyond?”

I pictured myself not with a bigger title, but with a different rhythm. More mornings like this one; unhurried, present, able to think. More time building things that matter to me, not just things that look good on a CV. More capacity to be fully there when my daughter needs me, when my wife needs me, when I need myself.

And then I asked: “What decisions would get me closer to that life?”

Suddenly, my 2026 goals shifted.

Some remained: Yes, I still want to take care of my physical health (exercise more consistently). Yes, I still want to improve my communication skills (especially verbal: I have relied too heavily on writing). Yes, I want to invest more intentionally in my family.

But new priorities emerged:

  • Starting another construction project, not because it impresses anyone but because I enjoy envisioning something and then watching it come to life exactly as planned.
  • Going on a road trip with my wife. It has been far too long.
  • Launching a new project outside my comfort zone, but one that aligns with the life I want to live five years from now, not just the title I might want next year.

These are not resume goals. They are life goals.

And that is the difference.

The Invitation for Your 2026

As you sit on the edge of this new year, I want to offer you the same question that has been sitting with me:

Are you optimizing for a title, or for a lifestyle?

Are your 2026 goals taking you towards the life you actually want to live, or towards a version of success that might leave you exhausted, isolated, and wondering why you are not happier?

There is no judgment here. Just an invitation to pause and ask.

Because the painful truth is this: You can achieve every goal on your list and still feel like you are living the wrong life.

But if you start with the life you want—the rhythm, the relationships, the quiet satisfactions—and build your goals around that?

You might arrive somewhere that actually feels like home.

My Wish for You

As 2025 closes and 2026 opens, I wish you clarity about what you are actually chasing.

I wish you the courage to optimize for your desired lifestyle, not just your desired title.

And I wish you a year where, when you look back twelve months from now, you recognize yourself in the life you have built.

Not because it looked good. But because it felt true.

Here is to 2026. May it be the year we stop chasing labels and start living deliberately.

What does your desired lifestyle actually look like? And what is one small step you can take towards it this week?

 

 

BEFORE 2025 ENDS: THE QUIET QUESTIONS WE AVOID ASKING

It’s the second-last weekend of the year.

I noticed it almost by accident—scrolling through my calendar, trying to work out where the weeks went. That strange stretch of days where nothing feels urgent anymore, yet everything feels unfinished.

The year has not ended, but it is already mentally over.

And I realised something unsettling: I was already thinking about 2026 without properly closing 2025.

Plans were forming. Ideas were resurfacing. Resolutions were quietly lining up.

But this year—the one I actually lived—had not been reviewed.

Why We Rush Past This Moment

This is usually the point where we fast-forward.

We tell ourselves, “Let’s just reset in January.”

We promise to “do things differently next year.”

We assume a change in calendar will somehow correct what we never examined.

I have done this before. Many times.

And I have learnt—sometimes the hard way—that momentum without awareness only accelerates drift.

The danger is not that the year went fast.

The danger is that it went fast without being understood.

The Pattern I Keep Seeing

As an engineer, I know we don’t deploy new systems blindly.

Before a new version goes live, we check logs, review failures, analyse performance, identify bottlenecks.

We don’t just reset. We diagnose first.

But in life, we often skip this step entirely.

We prefer resets without audits. Hope without data. Motivation without insight.

We rush to “Version Next Year” without ever checking the error logs of the current one.

And then we’re surprised when the same issues reappear—just with new dates.

The Discomfort I Have Been Sitting With

As this year winds down, I have felt a subtle unease.

Not dramatic. Not loud.

Just a quiet sense that 2025 has been one of the hardest years of our lives. My wife and I have walked through challenges I would not wish on anyone—health setbacks, financial strain, losses that still sit heavy in our chests. There were days when faith was the only thing holding us together, and God has seen us through what felt like an impossible season.

Yet in the same year, we moved into our new home. We have watched our daughter grow in ways that fill us with quiet joy. And after three years of silence, I returned to this blog—to sharing lessons, to processing life through reflection and writing again.

There have been real wins—moments of grace we barely paused to acknowledge before the next challenge arrived.

And that is the unease: This year has been both the hardest and the most sacred.

Some things were tolerated longer than they should have been. Some lessons were learnt but not captured. Some blessings were real, but barely honoured before moving on.

I have lived through a season where autopilot nearly carried me for years. And even this difficult year, with all its weight, risks becoming just another blur if I do not pause to understand it.

So this time, I do not want a rushed ending.

I want clarity.

The Questions Worth Asking

Not as a checklist. Not to judge yourself. But to see clearly—especially in years that hold both pain and grace.

Here are the questions I am sitting with—slowly:

  • What did this year quietly teach me that I almost missed?
  • What worked—genuinely worked—that I barely paused to appreciate?
  • Where did I grow, even if it did not look impressive?
  • What did I avoid addressing, hoping time would fix it?
  • What am I carrying into 2026 by default, not by choice?
  • What grief have I not yet honoured?
  • What joy did I overlook because I was too focused on what went wrong?

These questions do not demand immediate answers.

They demand honesty.

What I Am Holding Onto

I have realised something simple—and uncomfortable:

You do not need a new year. You need clear awareness.

Especially in hard years. Perhaps most in hard years.

A new calendar does not correct unexamined patterns. A fresh start does not replace reflection. And rushing past pain does not heal it—it only postpones the reckoning.

Without awareness, January is just December with better marketing.

But with awareness—even late in the year, even after the hardest season—direction can change. Healing can begin. Gratitude can surface for what was preserved, not just grief for what was lost.

A Simple End-of-Year Practice

Before this year fully closes, I am taking one quiet sitting.

No pressure. No perfection. Just asking:

  • What stayed with me emotionally this year—and why?
  • What cost me more energy than it returned?
  • What gave me life that I did not schedule enough of?
  • What truth about myself became clearer—even if I resisted it?
  • What pattern do I not want to unconsciously repeat?
  • What deserves intentional continuation in 2026?
  • What pain am I still carrying that needs acknowledgment?
  • What grace did I receive that I have not yet thanked God for?

That is it.

Not to rush forward—but to close properly.

This year does not need to end loudly.

It needs to end honestly.

What is this year still trying to teach you—quietly—before it lets you go?