A final piece of advice from Holly Butcher - written the day before she passed away from cancer at just 27:
“It’s a strange thing knowing you’re going to die young.
At 26, I thought I had time…
To fall in love.
Start a family.
Grow old.
But cancer doesn’t care about plans.
Now, I understand how fragile life really is. Every single day is a gift, not a guarantee.
I’m not writing this to scare you. I’m writing to remind you: really live.
Stop stressing over little things. Be kind to your body- move it, nourish it, stop criticizing it. One day you’ll wish you had appreciated it.
Go outside.
Look at the sky.
Feel the sun.
Just be.
Spend less time chasing “stuff” - more time making memories. Don’t skip moments with people you love.
Laugh more.
Write a note.
Tell someone you love them.
Complain less.
Give more.
Helping others brings more joy than anything you can buy.
Be present.
Put your phone down.
Show up - really show up.
You don’t need to have it all figured out. You don’t need a perfect body, or a perfect life.
Just follow what makes your heart light up. Say no to what drains you. Make changes when you need to.
And please - donate blood. I wouldn’t have had that extra year without it. And that year gave me memories I’ll hold close… forever.
Thank you for reading this.
Live your life well.
And maybe… we’ll meet again someday.”
Holly 🩷
Repost & share Holly’s important advice. ❤️
Most of our lives are quietly spent chasing external validation, approval from strangers, institutions, audiences, and abstractions, because it feels measurable, visible, and rewarding.
In contrast, the people closest to us, parents, partners, children, friends, offer no scoreboard. Their presence becomes familiar, predictable, and therefore dangerously easy to take for granted. We assume time is abundant, affection is permanent, and opportunities to show care will always return.
So we postpone effort at home while exhausting ourselves proving worth elsewhere. Only when someone leaves, through distance, silence, or death, does the illusion break. Then the imbalance becomes painfully clear: how much energy we spent being admired, and how little we invested in being present, and that regret doesn't leave you after that.
In Interstellar (2014), every tick you hear on the water planet’s soundtrack happens every 1.25 seconds, with each one marking a full day passing on Earth. One of Nolan and Hans Zimmer’s smartest details. https://t.co/6SIWv33A2G
Last quarter I rolled out Microsoft Copilot to 4,000 employees.
$30 per seat per month.
$1.4 million annually.
I called it "digital transformation."
The board loved that phrase.
They approved it in eleven minutes.
No one asked what it would actually do.
Including me.
I told everyone it would "10x productivity."
That's not a real number.
But it sounds like one.
HR asked how we'd measure the 10x.
I said we'd "leverage analytics dashboards."
They stopped asking.
Three months later I checked the usage reports.
47 people had opened it.
12 had used it more than once.
One of them was me.
I used it to summarize an email I could have read in 30 seconds.
It took 45 seconds.
Plus the time it took to fix the hallucinations.
But I called it a "pilot success."
Success means the pilot didn't visibly fail.
The CFO asked about ROI.
I showed him a graph.
The graph went up and to the right.
It measured "AI enablement."
I made that metric up.
He nodded approvingly.
We're "AI-enabled" now.
I don't know what that means.
But it's in our investor deck.
A senior developer asked why we didn't use Claude or ChatGPT.
I said we needed "enterprise-grade security."
He asked what that meant.
I said "compliance."
He asked which compliance.
I said "all of them."
He looked skeptical.
I scheduled him for a "career development conversation."
He stopped asking questions.
Microsoft sent a case study team.
They wanted to feature us as a success story.
I told them we "saved 40,000 hours."
I calculated that number by multiplying employees by a number I made up.
They didn't verify it.
They never do.
Now we're on Microsoft's website.
"Global enterprise achieves 40,000 hours of productivity gains with Copilot."
The CEO shared it on LinkedIn.
He got 3,000 likes.
He's never used Copilot.
None of the executives have.
We have an exemption.
"Strategic focus requires minimal digital distraction."
I wrote that policy.
The licenses renew next month.
I'm requesting an expansion.
5,000 more seats.
We haven't used the first 4,000.
But this time we'll "drive adoption."
Adoption means mandatory training.
Training means a 45-minute webinar no one watches.
But completion will be tracked.
Completion is a metric.
Metrics go in dashboards.
Dashboards go in board presentations.
Board presentations get me promoted.
I'll be SVP by Q3.
I still don't know what Copilot does.
But I know what it's for.
It's for showing we're "investing in AI."
Investment means spending.
Spending means commitment.
Commitment means we're serious about the future.
The future is whatever I say it is.
As long as the graph goes up and to the right.
26 weapons grade parenting tips:
1/ Give them a "heads up," 5 minutes until bedtime, 10 minutes before leaving the playground
2/ Look at the world more through their eyes
3/ Don’t discipline like an angry madman. Stay calm and firm, model how you want THEM to resolve conflict
4/ Let them argue their case respectfully. Teaches negotiation and critical thinking
5/ Skip the long lectures
6/ Use natural consequences: forgot homework? Let them explain it to the teacher. Forgot their lunch? They'll figure it out
7/ Be consistent and follow through. "We are leaving the playground if you don't stop..."
8/ Make "How can I help?" part of YOUR vocabulary. It builds reliability
9/ Share your unseen efforts: hustling for work, hitting the gym. Actions speak louder than words but when they can’t see it, TELL THEM
10/ Teach accountability by modeling it yourself: “I was wrong. sorry”
11/ Create family traditions like weekly movie nights, Sunday pancakes, whatever works
12/ More game nights
13/ Take an interest in their interests: video games, books, sports... do it with them.
14/ Hike together. Nature slows time and generates gratitude
15/ Build something. LEGO, puzzles, a fort, the Amazon delivery box
16/ Teach them skills: tie knots, start a fire, read a map
17/ Introduce chess or checkers. Start early
18/ Let them plan a family outing or navigate you there (they can get you through the airport)
19/ Always greet your wife with love. That moment sets the tone for the family
20/ Share some challenges (age appropriate)
21/ Respect their privacy. Knock before entering their room
22/ Teach the value of money early: "wants vs. needs," compounding, saving, etc
23/ Let them see you sweat
24/ Teach them to cook. Start small: eggs, pancakes, cookies. Embrace the mess
25/ No screens at meals ever
26/ Prioritize movement as a UNIT: family walks, workouts, hikes, dance-offs- whatever gets the everyone in synch
My AI investment thesis is that every AI application startup is likely to be crushed by rapid expansion of the foundational model providers.
App functionality will be added to the foundational models' offerings, because the big players aren't slow incumbents (it is wrong to apply the analogy of "fast startup, slow incumbent" here), they are just big. Far more so than with any other prior new technology, there is a massive and fast-moving wave that obsoletes every new app almost as fast as it can be invented. There is almost no time to build a company and scale it.
There are two ways AI application startup founders can make money:
- Make a flash-in-the-pan app that generates a ton of cash and bank the cash (my estimate is that you have about 12-18 months cashflow generation)
- Make a good enough app that you get acquired by one of the big players for sufficient equity
The situation is highly unstable - we don't know if it's going to crash or go to the moon but both scenarios make it very unlikely that any AI application startup will independently become a generational supercompany (baseline odds are low to begin with).
The best odds are finding an application niche in a highly specialized field with extremely unique and specific data barriers, ideally ones relating to real atoms (hardware or world-related) data and not software/finance.
This footage from inside the eye of Category 5 Hurricane Melissa might be the most jaw-dropping video ever captured of a hurricane’s eye, showcasing the infamous “stadium effect."
Rest in peace, Patricia Routledge 🙏🏻
In memory of her, I encourage everyone to read these words of hers from February last year.
Whether young or old, you're bound to get something out of it.
*****
"I’ll be turning 95 this coming Monday. In my younger years, I was often filled with worry — worry that I wasn’t quite good enough, that no one would cast me again, that I wouldn’t live up to my mother’s hopes. But these days begin in peace, and end in gratitude.
My life didn’t quite take shape until my forties. I had worked steadily — on provincial stages, in radio plays, in West End productions — but I often felt adrift, as though I was searching for a home within myself that I hadn’t quite found.
At 50, I accepted a television role that many would later associate me with — Hyacinth Bucket, of Keeping Up Appearances. I thought it would be a small part in a little series. I never imagined that it would take me into people’s living rooms and hearts around the world. And truthfully, that role taught me to accept my own quirks. It healed something in me.
At 60, I began learning Italian — not for work, but so I could sing opera in its native language. I also learned how to live alone without feeling lonely. I read poetry aloud each evening, not to perfect my diction, but to quiet my soul.
At 70, I returned to the Shakespearean stage — something I once believed I had aged out of. But this time, I had nothing to prove. I stood on those boards with stillness, and audiences felt that. I was no longer performing. I was simply being.
At 80, I took up watercolour painting. I painted flowers from my garden, old hats from my youth, and faces I remembered from the London Underground. Each painting was a quiet memory made visible.
Now, at 95, I write letters by hand. I’m learning to bake rye bread. I still breathe deeply every morning. I still adore laughter — though I no longer try to make anyone laugh. I love the quiet more than ever.
I’m writing this to tell you something simple:
Growing older is not the closing act. It can be the most exquisite chapter — if you let yourself bloom again.
Let these years ahead be your TREASURE YEARS.
You don’t need to be famous. You don’t need to be flawless.
You only need to show up — fully — for the life that is still yours.
With love and gentleness,
Patricia Routledge
*****
Once more, rest in peace. 🤍
This man gives water to a porcupine overwhelmed by thirst. If everyone takes even one chance to be kind to others, we all will live in a better world. 🙏