The Keanu Way

I’ve always admired Keanu Reeves. Not just because he’s in some of my favorite films. Not because he’s famous. But because of how he carries himself when he doesn’t have to. That quiet, simple, humble, grounded energy, even when the world is watching, even when life has been cruel. That’s what made me stop and really take notice.

The more I read about him, the more I realized, this guy has been through hell. Loss, hard years, being underestimated, being misunderstood, all of it. And yet, he walks like someone who’s not trying to prove anything to anyone. He rides the subway. He stands in line. He keeps his life simple. He doesn’t talk about his pain, and he doesn’t wear his success like a crown.

I’ve always felt that pull, the need to show I’m right. To speak up when someone disrespects me. To correct someone when they try to push me down. And I’ll be honest, I still struggle with it. I still lose my cool sometimes. And the moment it happens, I regret it. Every single time. Because I know better. Because I don’t want to be that guy.

I’ve never liked showing off. Even when I’ve done things I’m proud of, I keep them quiet. I don’t name-drop. I don’t flex. I don’t say “I know this person” or “I’ve done that project” because it just doesn’t feel right. It feels fake. It feels like insecurity wearing a suit. And I hate that. I want to be the guy who gets things done, walks away, and lets the work speak for itself. Like Keanu.

But it’s hard. It’s hard when someone’s being rude. When someone tries to measure you by how you look, how you talk, or what you wear. I don’t wear suits. I don’t try to impress. I still dress the way I did in school, plain, simple, comfortable. Because that’s who I am. I never changed that part of me. And I don’t want to.

But ego… ego’s tricky. It sneaks up when someone crosses a line. It whispers, “Say something. Show them who you are.” And some days, I listen. Some days, I react. Some days, I raise my voice, even when I don’t need to. And every time I do, I feel smaller, not bigger.

The truth is, I’m still learning how to hold on to calm. Still learning how to let people’s noise pass through me instead of pulling me in. Still learning how to walk away without carrying their energy with me, it's hard. And Keanu, without even knowing it, keeps reminding me that humility is not weakness. That being silent isn’t surrender. That being kind, even when you don’t have to be, is a kind of strength most people will never understand.

That’s who I want to be. Not the right one in the room. Just the one who doesn’t need the room.

They made an offer no one could refuse!

Puzo, Coppola, Evans, Ruddy

Caan, Brando, Pacino, Cazale

Anyone who loves The Godfather should definitely watch The Offer. It's a brilliant behind-the-scenes story that adds even more depth to the classic.

The Roar and the Silence

I grew up in a house where cars were more than just machines. They were part of the family. Like the dogs in the yard, they were always around, needing care, attention, sometimes causing trouble, but always bringing joy. Fixing cars with my father was probably the most consistent quality time we shared. We didn’t need to talk much. The work itself was the conversation. Learning, without even knowing I was learning. That’s how I learned what love looks like, not in words, but in effort.

Cars have always been my thing. I always believed in the magic of internal combustion engines, big, loud, gas-guzzling. The kind of car that makes you feel something the moment you turn the key. A proper engine makes you feel connected. You start the car, and it talks back to you. You feel every vibration, every hesitation, every surge. That connection is hard to explain, but once you’ve felt it, you never forget it.

I never liked EVs. I thought they were boring. Soulless. Quiet in the wrong way. No smell, no sound, no soul. But then on a recent company trip to Bhutan, something changed.

I was driven around in a BYD E6 EV through the mountain roads. Nothing fancy. Just a practical, nimble electric car. But while the big SUVs were losing traction, revving too hard, and slipping around, this EV just quietly and confidently moved. Smooth. No drama. It handled everything without needing to prove anything. That’s when it clicked.

EVs are like smartphones. They’re fast, clean, and efficient. Fewer moving parts. You don’t have to warm them up or worry about blowing a head gasket. You plug them in, they charge, and they're ready to go. Like using an iPhone, no instructions are needed; it just works.

Internal combustion cars, though, they’re like mechanical watches. A Rolex. An Omega. They don’t tell time any better than a phone, but they carry history. Craftsmanship. Personality. You care for them. You don’t throw them away when something goes wrong. You take them to someone who understands how they work.

That’s how I see it now. EVs are for daily life. Get from A to B, don’t worry about maintenance, no oil changes, no noise. Perfect for the everyday grind. But ICE cars, those are for the soul. You don’t drive them because you have to. You drive them because you want to feel alive.

So here’s where I’ve landed. I’ll probably get an EV for daily use. Something quiet, clean, and low maintenance. Something I don’t have to worry about when life is already too full. But I’ll always keep those old ICE cars. The kind you can open up and get lost in. The kind that makes you look back after you park.

Because as much as I understand the purpose of electric cars now, I still believe in the magic of combustion. And I still believe that machines can have a soul. Just ask Jezza.

Trust is the Strategy

In IT projects, we talk endlessly about tools, frameworks, timelines, and efficiency. But the more I’ve seen, the clearer it becomes that none of it really works without trust. Trust is the strategy that keeps a project moving. Without it, you can bring in senior managers, even C-level executives, and still nothing changes; the cracks remain.

With juniors, it’s natural to expect some inefficiency. They’re learning, they’ll stumble, and with guidance, they grow. That’s manageable. But when trust starts slipping with seniors, it’s a different story. At that point, the issue isn’t efficiency anymore; it’s belief. If you’re questioning the intent, competence, or commitment of people who’ve been in the trenches for years, you’re essentially shaking the foundation of the team. Oversight doesn’t solve that. In fact, it often makes things worse.

I’ve seen how this plays out when the people dealing directly with the customer start to feel “we can push more.” Customers will always want more; that’s expected. The real challenge begins when internal teams lose faith in their own delivery colleagues. Instead of managing expectations, they push harder. Suddenly, the delivery team is stuck in defense mode, spending more energy proving they’re working hard than actually moving the project forward. That’s when progress stalls, not because of a lack of skill, but because trust has broken down.

So how do you build it back? It’s not through tighter control or more escalations. Trust is built when leaders choose to assume competence first, instead of assuming failure. It grows when effort is recognized and not brushed aside, even in difficult times. It strengthens when people can speak openly about blockers without fear of being blamed. It shows up when leaders protect their teams from unrealistic demands and educate customers about what’s truly possible. And it’s reinforced in the small things, celebrating small wins, being consistent, and standing by each other when things get tough.

It’s also a two-way street. Teams need to be transparent and accountable so customer-facing colleagues know they can rely on them. Managers need to communicate honestly with both sides, bridging the gap instead of widening it. And customers, too, will trust more when they feel they’re being dealt with honestly and consistently, even if the answer is sometimes “not now.”

In the end, project management is less about timelines and reports and more about creating an environment where people genuinely believe in each other. When trust is strong, juniors learn faster, seniors deliver better, and customers respect boundaries. When trust is weak, no amount of oversight or process will hold the project together.

I know I might sound like an optimist, maybe even like I’m romanticizing something soft and abstract, but after a long career, this is what I’ve come to believe. I used to be a pretty shrewd project manager, convinced that tighter control, sharper processes, and constant follow-up were the only way to get things done. My seniors would talk about trust, and I’d shrug it off. Now, 22 years later, I catch myself saying the exact same thing they once told me. And if a lesson stays with you that long, passed down through experience, then there must be truth in it, don't you think?

Rethinking Fast-Tracked Leadership

Let’s be honest, the world has a shortage of leaders. These days, the moment a company spots someone who looks smart, confident, or even a bit cocky, the reflex is the same: “Make him a leader.” If a young employee starts asking for a raise, the easiest way to justify it is to hand them a title, pile on additional responsibilities, and hope for the best. It feels like a shortcut - fill the leadership gap, keep them motivated, and move on. That’s not leadership development, that’s gambling.

Confidence is not equal to capability. Being confident or outspoken is not the same as being capable of leading people. Leadership requires emotional intelligence, patience, and the ability to lift others up. A three or four-year career professional rarely has the maturity to carry that weight.

Leadership isn’t a salary band. One of the worst habits is using leadership titles to justify higher pay. The signal this sends is toxic. Leadership equals money, not responsibility. People start chasing roles for the wrong reasons, and teams end up reporting to “leaders” who lack the skills to lead.

Skipping the growth curve breaks people. There’s a natural order to things, to learn, to stumble, to grow, and eventually to lead. When we rush someone straight into leadership, we deny them the space to make mistakes and build resilience. Suddenly, they’re responsible for others when they’re still figuring out how to manage themselves. That’s not development, that’s sabotage.

Experience still matters. In our rush, we’ve started undervaluing it. Yes, newer leaders today grow fast, faster than ever before. With endless information at their fingertips, constant content to learn from, and the acceleration of AI, they can pick up frameworks, strategies, and skills in months that used to take years. But there’s a difference between knowledge and wisdom. Experience is where judgment, perspective, and empathy are born. A leader who has experienced both failure and success develops a steadiness that no amount of early confidence or quick learning can replace. It’s the scar tissue of real-world decisions, the resilience built under pressure, and the humility gained from mistakes that truly shape leadership. We forget this at our own risk.

True leadership isn’t about being the smartest person in the room. It’s about making everyone else better. And that can’t be hacked or rushed. It takes time, humility, and experience. If we really want better leaders, we need to stop looking for shortcuts and start respecting the journey.

The Struggle Within

I’m 44, and most days, I feel old, tired, like I’m stuck somewhere between holding it all together and wondering what the hell the point of it even is anymore. Music has always been part of my life, and over time, it changed as I changed. Once, it was pure fire, anger, adrenaline. Metallica blasting in my ears while I stood with my school garage band, convinced we were untouchable. That sound made me feel infinite. Then life hit, responsibilities, family, work, the heavy weight of being the guy people count on. The fire dimmed. My playlists shifted to Pink Floyd. Their sound wasn’t anger, it was thought. It matched the questions in my head. Heavy, slow, searching. Staring at the sky, wondering if there was any meaning at all, it fit. But lately, without even meaning to, I’ve gone back to Metallica. And I keep asking myself, why? At this age, when I should be craving peace, why am I reaching for chaos again?

Because music isn’t just sound. It’s a mirror.

When I crank up Metallica now, I don’t just hear riffs, I hear ghosts. I hear the 14-year-old me still screaming, refusing to be buried under years of fatigue and responsibility. I hear the garage band that thought the world was theirs. I hear freedom in every distorted note. Pink Floyd feels like lying on your back staring at the stars, trying to figure out what it all means. Metallica feels like grabbing the wheel before you crash and screaming into the storm. One makes me think. The other makes me move. And I realize I need both. But here’s the thing, Metallica doesn’t sound the same at 44 as it did at 14. Back then, it was rebellion for rebellion’s sake. Now it’s therapy. Every riff pulls out the things I don’t say, the burnout, the depression, the frustration, the exhaustion of being the guy who always has to have the answers. It’s not noise anymore. It’s medicine.

This isn’t only nostalgia. This is survival.

Because deep down, my soul refuses to just grow quiet and fade into routine. Metallica wakes up the fighter in me, the one who still wants to kick down walls, scream at the sky, and live. And maybe that’s the meaning I’ve been searching for. Not to choose calm over chaos. Not to bury one version of me for the other. Maybe that’s what 44 really is. Not settling into one self, but to carry them both, the kid with the guitar, and the man with the scars.