Grief is a funny thing. I know that’s an odd way to put it, but it’s true. Sometimes it feels like you’ve made peace with it, like you’ve found solid ground again. And then other times, it pulls you right back into this quagmire of sadness, confusion, and even anger.
It has been 13 years since I lost a friend to suicide in the summer of 2012. I keep thinking about how I didn’t realize the last time I saw him would be the last time I would ever see him alive. We lived together, ate together, shared countless conversations about life, about the future. I wish he were still here to see how far we’ve come, to witness the possibilities that seemed so far away back then, especially after everything we went through. To see the heights we’ve attained from where we started.
And I won’t lie. Sometimes I feel angry. Really angry. Angry that he left. Angry that he didn’t reach out. Angry that he didn’t let the people who cared about him carry some of the weight he was carrying alone. It’s the kind of anger that isn’t loud, but it lingers. The kind that sits with you when you think about all the life that could have been lived.
At the same time, I know I will never truly understand what was going through his mind. What made leaving seem like the only way out. That mystery still haunts me. It probably always will.
Life moves on, as it always does. Some people have probably forgotten. That is the nature of time. But I haven’t. Every year around this time, I remember. And I miss him.
Loss is complicated. Life is hard to grasp sometimes.
I still don’t understand him not being here.
I don’t think I ever will.
This really spoke to me. That shift in our mid-20s often feels like stepping into a vast, silent space after years of noise and structure. We grew up with a clear path laid out; school, grades, the next step always waiting. Then suddenly, it’s just us, and the weight of our choices.
But I think it’s important to say that “it gets better” can sometimes be a reflection of privilege. For many, life doesn’t necessarily become easier or more certain. It becomes something we learn to carry. The struggles don’t always go away. They change shape. Some people find clarity, others live their whole lives in a kind of search.
And that’s not failure. That’s being human.
I’ve met people in their 60s who still quietly wonder what they want to be when they grow up. Maybe the point isn’t to arrive, but to keep becoming. To make peace with the questions. To find beauty in the not knowing.
It might not always get better in the way we expect, but we grow. In resilience. In grace. In how we hold the uncertainty. And sometimes, that’s enough.
If you examine this, I’d bet the actual number is probably anywhere between 2-3x what is being stated. There is a deeper root cause beyond just drug addiction —It’s tied to unemployment, lack of opportunities, and the insane pressure to “make it” in a society that doesn’t always give young people the tools to succeed.
When there’s no clear path forward—no jobs, no support, no hope, just constant stress—people look for an escape. This isn’t just a drug problem; it’s a hopelessness problem. People need a reason to believe in a future.
I was discussing the concept of “change” with a friend a few weeks ago—what it takes to truly enact change, the stance one often has to take, and the reality that sometimes, doing what is right means going against what is legal.
This isn’t an easy thing to grapple with. Laws shape our societies, defining what is allowed and what isn’t. But history has shown us, time and time again, that what is legal isn’t always moral.
Laws are time-bound. They shift as political powers change, as economic interests dictate, and as social movements push forward. A hundred years ago, women couldn’t vote in many places. A few decades ago, segregation was still enforced by law. Slavery was once considered legally sound.
But morality? Morality, if we are honest with ourselves, isn’t dictated by what is written in legal codes. It follows a natural order—a sense of justice, fairness, and dignity that doesn’t change with the times.
Think about it: Apartheid was legal in South Africa and Jim Crow laws were legal in the U.S. Even today, there are laws in many parts of the world that strip people of their rights, their freedoms, and their dignity. Yet, history doesn’t judge morality by legality. We judge it by something deeper—something that transcends written laws and reflects our collective conscience.
Some of the most celebrated figures in history understood this deeply. They weren’t just activists—they were moral visionaries. They recognized that following the law isn’t the same as doing what is right. To enact change, they had to defy unjust laws. They had to challenge the status quo. And they did it because they knew that morality demands action, even when laws stand in the way.
This is an uncomfortable truth—change doesn’t happen because people obey unjust laws. Change happens because people challenge them.
We’ve been doing mental exercises, and our current take is this: Legality is temporary. Morality is timeless.
So why do we keep creating laws that contradict what we know to be timeless?
Hmmm… food for thought.
@Sheiskingx Thank you! It sounds like you’re making great progress, and that’s something to be proud of. Resting and being gentle with yourself is a practice, and it’s okay to take it one step at a time. Little by little adds up in a big way—keep going, you’re doing amazing!
In a recent conversation with @mwseibel, he said something that I can’t stop thinking about:
“Startups aim to kill or maim the Goliath, but the biggest lie they tell themselves is they can play the game and win.”
It hit hard because, for example, in the HR Tech space where we play, giants like Workday dominate by bundling analytics directly into their ecosystems. These integrated tools are cost-effective, simple, and already connected to everything else customers need. For standalone tools, this creates a huge challenge—not just in competing but in justifying why we even exist.
And then there’s the “focus on a niche” advice you hear all the time. It works—for a while. Niches give you traction and clarity early on, but they can also box you in. Worse, giants can swoop in, copy what you’re doing, and swallow your niche whole.
The real issue is the ecosystem effect. Integrated tools aren’t just features—they’re habits, workflows, and cost-savers baked into how businesses operate. To disrupt that, you need to offer something truly, undeniably different. It can’t just be a better version of what already exists; it has to be something the giants can’t or won’t do.
So here I am, thinking about what it really means to change the rules of the game rather than trying to play it. It’s not enough to build something that’s good. It has to be transformational, adaptable, and impossible to ignore.
I am curious how other Founders approach this; do you lean into niches or fight to build something broader from day one?
Finding calm in chaos often feels like searching for a fragile thread of light in a stormy sky, but it is in that search that growth begins. Chaos, whether external or internal, has a way of exposing the places we’ve avoided—those wounds we’ve left unattended because they seemed too raw or inconvenient to face. At work, this might be the difficult conversation we keep postponing, the fear of failure that quietly governs our decisions, or the imposter syndrome we mask with overachievement. Yet, in the turbulence, if we dare to pause and let the noise settle, we often find that what we feared most was never as insurmountable as it appeared. The process of leaning into the discomfort, of letting ourselves truly feel the ache we’ve been sidestepping, often unearths truths we didn’t know we needed.
It’s strange how pain, when met with openness, becomes a pathway to clarity. In suffering, there’s a kind of honesty that emerges—stripped of pretense and artifice, leaving only what is real. The tears shed over a missed opportunity or the exhaustion from a relentless grind at work often bring an unexpected moment of stillness where we see things as they are, not as we fear them to be. And in that stillness, healing begins. On the other side of pain, there’s often wisdom: a deeper understanding of ourselves, a sharper vision of what matters, and a renewed sense of purpose. The calm we find in chaos isn’t the absence of noise but the ability to stand firm in its center, to trust that clarity will come, and to recognize that even in the suffering, there’s a spark of transformation waiting to unfold.
I’ve been thinking a lot about the Red Button Paradox over the last 6 to 9 months. It’s this idea that sometimes, the most powerful choices we face aren’t about what we do—they’re about how we handle the temptation to act.
The paradox is simple yet profound: there’s a red button in front of you. Pressing it will change everything, but at a cost. Not pressing it keeps things as they are, but you’re left with the constant weight of “what if.” The button doesn’t just represent choice; it represents power, responsibility, and the psychological burden of knowing it’s always there.
What’s struck me is how this plays out in so many areas of life. In leadership, it could be the decision to take a bold risk that could transform your company—or destroy it. In relationships, it’s saying or doing something you can’t take back, knowing it might alter everything. In innovation, it’s pushing boundaries, knowing success and failure both come with consequences.
What I’ve realized is this: the Red Button Paradox isn’t about whether you press the button or not. It’s about how you live with the tension it creates. True wisdom lies in balancing the temptation to act with the responsibility of understanding the consequences.
In a world filled with red-button decisions, it’s not just the outcomes that define us, but the integrity of our process and the clarity of our intent. Sometimes, managing the tension without letting it define you is the hardest—and most important—thing you can do.
@asemota “Once men turned their thinking over to machines in the hope that this would set them free. But that only permitted other men with machines to enslave them…”
Agreed! That is one of the major issues in our society. Eldership is often tied to age and may come with experience and wisdom, though not always, and it should not be equated with leadership. Leadership requires active engagement, decision-making, and the ability to inspire and guide���qualities that do not inherently come with age. Our cultural norms often conflate the two; leadership is a skillset involving vision, communication, and strategy that must be developed (key word). Elders may offer valuable perspective but may lack the desire or ability to lead effectively (which is what we are seeing currently). Mistaking eldership for leadership can create misplaced expectations and prevent more capable leaders from emerging.
@iambrookeleigh_ We hold on because the familiar feels safe, even when it no longer serves us. Letting go means facing the unknown, with its fears of loss and change. But true growth only comes when we release what’s holding us back, trusting in the potential of what’s yet to come.
@thelexandraa Because the warmth of the shower can trigger dopamine release, enhancing creativity. Also, the relaxed, distraction-free environment allows the mind to wander; the change in environment and the subconscious processing of problems leads your brain connects ideas in unexpected ways
@seyedele Bros! Na hunger cause am! Sometimes when person hungry for long dem go begin talk all kinds of rubbish! The sad part be say some people go believe am! Smh! 🤦🏿♂️