Honest takes on leadership, startups, people, and what happens when the plan meets reality.
I put my phone in the living room every night for thirty days. What I didn't expect was how loud the silence inside my chest could get.
I spent weeks setting up AI to handle the repetitive stuff. Some of it worked. Some of it spectacularly didn't. Here's what actually stuck.
There's a version of courage that isn't loud. It's the kind that shows up when you walk into a room where you're clearly the least qualified person, and stay anyway.
I committed to writing something every day for thirty days. I thought it would make me a better writer. It mostly just made me more honest.
Not a story about work-life balance. A story about what happened to my relationship with ambition after I had something more important to come home to.
Not about minimalism. About the specific things — habits, relationships, identities — I quietly stopped carrying, and what it felt like when they were gone.
Years of reading, highlighting, summarising — and almost none of it stuck. The failure was useful. It forced me to change how I learn entirely.
I kept telling myself I was fine with stopping. Then I noticed how much energy I spent convincing myself of that.
I believe in standards. I also believe in people who are still learning to meet them. Holding both at the same time turns out to be the whole job.
I thought I was helping. I still think I was helping. I also think it's possible to be right and still owe someone an apology.
Every time someone calls me 'sếp' or 'boss,' something in me flinches slightly. I've been trying to figure out why.
The meeting ends. Everyone agrees. Then in the corridor afterward, the real conversation starts. I've been in too many of those corridors.
I can make decisions for a team, manage conflict, hold a direction under pressure. Public speaking still makes me want to cancel my calendar and move to a different city.
