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.

Wishful Thinking with a Deadline

In over 20 years of building software, I’ve seen a wide range of project styles. Some projects are well-planned, some are chaotic, and then there’s the most common style of all, wishful thinking with a deadline. It usually goes like this:

• Start with vague requirements. The initial brief is so high-level that it could describe ten different products. Details? “We’ll figure them out later.”
• Discover the product while building it. As development progresses, new “must-have” ideas keep popping up. Scope changes aren’t an occasional thing; they’re a way of life.
• Hold developers to an impossible standard. They’re told to fully understand the business domain, fair enough, except the people giving the requirements often don’t understand the full picture themselves.
• Lecture about quality. In the final stretch, after the requirements have shape-shifted a dozen times, we suddenly talk about “quality” like it’s been our north star all along. As if you can throw darts at a moving target and still hit the bullseye.
• Blame the builders. When the product feels rushed or messy, the finger points at the development team. The process that created the chaos? Rarely questioned.

It’s a strange paradox; we demand precision from the people developing, yet we tolerate uncertainty from the people defining the requirements. We expect quality, stability, and polish from a process that is anything but stable.

I’ve always believed great software comes from clarity, stability, and disciplined execution. Without those, it’s not really software development; it’s just wishful thinking with a deadline. A product born from improvisation, released on schedule because the calendar says so, not because it’s ready.

So here’s a thought: stop pretending quality can magically appear at the end. Quality starts where the conversation starts. If the vision is clear, the requirements are solid, and changes are intentional rather than chaotic, the development team can actually deliver something great.

To all, my intention isn’t about assigning fault. It’s about getting everyone in software to face the same truth. Otherwise, we’ll keep adding chaos to a scrum board, calling it “agile,” and pretending velocity equals progress.

The Airbag Generation

Back in the 80s, a car was basically a metal box with an engine. If you hit something, you knew you hit it. There was no gentle poof of an airbag to catch you, no computer telling you to brake, no beep-beep warning because you were drifting out of your lane. You paid attention because you had no choice. Mistakes hurt, literally.

Now, a modern car can survive a crash better than most people can survive criticism. There’s an airbag for your knees, your head, your side, maybe even one for your self-esteem. The whole thing is designed to make you feel invincible. And we’ve done the exact same thing to life.

We’ve padded the world from every angle. Schools redesign tests so nobody “fails,” because apparently the word failure is offensive. Sports days have no winners and losers, just “participants,” because losing might dent little Timmy’s self-esteem. Workplaces replace honest feedback with “positive framing” so no one feels bad about doing a bad job. We’ve airbagged reality.

But here’s the cruel joke: the real world hasn’t changed. It’s still competitive. It’s still unfair. It still chews up people who think life owes them a soft landing. In the 80s, you knew you were in a dangerous machine, and you acted accordingly. Now, people think they can slam headfirst into the wall and walk away without a scratch, because so far, they’ve never been allowed to crash for real.

And while we’re at it, can we stop telling everyone they’re destined for greatness? They’re not. Not everyone will be a leader, a billionaire, or someone history will remember. Some will live small, quiet lives, and there’s nothing wrong with that. But selling the fantasy of inevitable greatness only makes the crash harder when reality kicks in. You don’t need to be extraordinary to live a good, meaningful life. You just need to be ready for the bumps in the road.

Look around. The moment someone faces real rejection, they collapse. The first setback? Total meltdown. No resilience, no grit, just outrage that the world didn’t deploy the airbag on time. We’ve traded strength for comfort, and comfort for fragility.

I’m not saying we should go back to when seatbelts were optional and life was a demolition derby. But maybe, just maybe, we could stop wrapping everyone in bubble wrap and start teaching them to actually drive. Because in life, just like in the 80s, you don’t get infinite airbags. Sometimes you crash. Sometimes it hurts. And that’s the point.

And honestly, did you ever hear your father or grandfather complain about life being hard? They didn’t have the luxury. Life was the road, full of potholes and blind turns, and you drove it as best you could. No one promised a smooth ride. They kept going, not because it was comfortable, but because quitting wasn’t an option.

Work-Life Balance vs Growth

You want to grow? Then get ready to work. There’s no shortcut, no “hack,” no perfect work-life balance that magically leads to success. Growth, real growth, comes from pushing yourself beyond the usual, beyond what’s comfortable. These days, I hear a lot of noise about work-life balance. Don't get me wrong, rest matters, and burnout is real, but if you’re constantly treating “work-life balance” like a human right rather than a privilege you earn, then maybe it's not growth you're after, maybe it’s comfort, and comfort rarely leads to greatness.

We’ve romanticized the idea of balance so much that now, the moment work gets a little hard, people throw their hands up like, “This is toxic!” No, it’s not toxic. It’s effort, and effort is uncomfortable. Growth is not convenient. Think about athletes. The ones who win, do they train only when they feel like it? Do they work only 9 to 5? They wake up early, eat with discipline, train hard, and sleep like it’s their job. They structure their entire lives around improvement, and that’s just for a chance at a medal.

In our world, business, tech, entrepreneurship, whatever, it’s no different. If you want to grow, you have to push your limits. That means long nights, uncomfortable meetings, taking responsibility when things go south, and learning on the fly. Every single minute counts. Every distraction you entertain is a minute lost.

Let me give you an example. I’ve seen senior developers who clock in at 10:30, leave by 6, and spend more time checking notifications than checking their own code quality. On the flip side, I’ve seen juniors who stayed back to watch seniors debug, asked questions, picked up extra reading, and practiced on weekends. Fast forward a year, guess who’s leading a team and who’s still "waiting to be recognized"? Success doesn’t chase anyone. It shows up for those who show up first and leave last, who make themselves useful, who don’t see extra work as a burden but as an opportunity.

Work-life balance isn’t the enemy, but it's not the goal either. Balance is not about working less. It's about being in control. If you're in your 30s and trying to “balance” like someone in their 50s, you're robbing your future self. Get uncomfortable now, use this time to build, to hustle, to learn like crazy. Yes, take care of your health. Spend time with loved ones. But don’t confuse balance with laziness, or boundaries with avoidance. If you're not where you want to be, then more balance isn’t the answer; more effort is.

Use your 20s to build, your 30s to scale, your 40s to lead, your 50s to breathe, and your 60s to enjoy what you’ve built. But if you're already prioritizing breathing before building or scaling, you’re just exhaling your potential.

Balance is earned after you've built something worth balancing.

There are only two kinds of people in the world

I was watching Vir Das: Fool Volume on Netflix the other night, hilarious, and in the middle of all the jokes, he drops this line:

“There are only two kinds of people in the world, assholes, and people who deal with assholes.”

I laughed, then paused, then rewound, then just sat there staring at the screen like... that’s uncomfortably accurate.

If I’m being honest, I’ve been the first kind. I used to be the asshole. Not because I wanted to hurt anyone or be toxic or whatever, but I thought being blunt, quick, and always “right” meant I was being smart. I thought I was being efficient, but looking back, I was just being difficult, impatient, sharp in all the wrong ways.

But life has a way of softening your edges. It throws people in your path who don’t react, don’t fight, don’t get rattled. People who don’t play the game. They just smile, say what needs to be said, and get on with it, while you’re still fuming in the corner. That’s when I realized the real power isn’t in being loud or fast. It’s in knowing how to deal with people who are, you know...

Over time, I changed. I started learning how to handle the first kind instead of being one. I became more patient, more grounded, less reactive, and honestly, life got a bit easier, less drama, better relationships, fewer mental spirals at night.

But, and this is important, every once in a while, someone shows up who’s not just your regular everyday asshole, they’re a moronic asshole, and when that happens, I feel the old me creeping in. The version of me that doesn’t want to breathe and count to ten. The one who wants to go straight to war. So yeah, I slip, I lose it, I go back to square one.

And maybe that’s just how it is. Maybe we don’t permanently become the second kind of person. Maybe we just try to spend more time there than we used to, because at the end of the day, growth isn’t linear. You don’t magically become a better person and stay there forever. You evolve, you relapse, you reflect, and you try again.

So yeah, maybe Vir Das is right, but maybe it’s not black and white. Maybe most of us are just trying to spend less time being the asshole and more time figuring out how to deal with them, even when one of them is us.

The Iceman: A GOAT Without Multiple Titles

When people talk about the greatest Formula 1 drivers of all time, names like Senna, Fangio, Lauda, Prost, Schumacher, Hamilton, and Vettel always come up. And fair enough, their numbers speak for themselves. But for me, there’s another name that always deserves a seat at that table, even if his stats don’t scream “GOAT.”

That name is Kimi Räikkönen, the Iceman. Cool, calm, ridiculously fast, and criminally underrated.

On pure driving talent, Kimi could go toe-to-toe with any world champion. His car control, his feel for the road, and his ability to pull out unbelievable performances with minimal fuss made him one of a kind. And yes, he did win a title in 2007, but honestly, he deserved more.

Wrong Time, Wrong Team

A big part of why Kimi didn’t rack up more championships comes down to timing. He was at McLaren from 2002 to 2006, a period when the team had speed but couldn’t keep the car reliable. He could’ve easily been champion in 2003 or 2005 if the car hadn’t let him down so often. The raw pace was there. The wins were there. The titles slipped away.

Then came Ferrari. He won the championship in 2007 (still one of the tightest and most dramatic title wins ever), but the car began to decline afterward. By 2009, Ferrari wasn’t in the fight anymore.

Compare that to Schumacher, who helped build Ferrari into a winning machine, or Hamilton, who moved to Mercedes right before their era of dominance. Kimi never got that perfectly timed golden era. He always seemed one step behind the ideal team-car combo.

Not a Political Player, And That Cost Him

Kimi wasn’t interested in playing the political games that often come with being a lead driver in F1.
He didn’t fight to build a team around himself, didn’t engage in mind games, didn’t chase media love or internal favoritism. He just wanted to drive, and honestly, I love him for that.

But the truth is, F1 isn’t just about who’s fastest. It’s about influence. Schumacher, Hamilton, Vettel, they all knew how to influence a team, a strategy, a season. Kimi stayed out of it, and in this sport, that can cost you.

Passionate, But Not Obsessed

Let’s not ignore the mental side. After 2007, it felt like Kimi had achieved what he set out to do, and he never really chased more titles with the same hunger. He even left F1 entirely for a couple of years (2010–2011) to go rallying and have fun elsewhere.

That’s not a knock, it’s just Kimi. He raced because he loved racing. He didn’t care about records or becoming the face of a generation. He was a driver in the purest sense. But in a sport where obsession and legacy often go hand-in-hand, that put him on a different path.

The Sport Changed, Kimi Didn't

Kimi thrived in the era where driving was all about raw pace, tire feel, and instinct. But modern F1 became more complex, with energy recovery systems, fuel saving, team radio micromanagement, and endless tire strategy.

Drivers like Hamilton and Vettel embraced this. Kimi adapted, sure, but he never enjoyed that side of the sport. He wanted to race, not manage energy flows or be a co-engineer. And while he stayed competitive into his 40s, the F1 world slowly moved away from what he loved most.

Still a Legend, Just Not on Paper

Look, numbers matter in F1. But they don’t tell the whole story. Kimi Räikkönen was a world champion, a 21-time Grand Prix winner, and held the record for most race starts. But beyond all that, he was a rare character in a sport full of PR-polished personalities. Quiet. Honest. Deadpan. Fast.

In an era of media training and team politics, Kimi showed up, did his job, and walked away, often literally, mid-interview. And that’s why fans loved him. That’s why I loved him.

Final Thoughts

The Iceman didn’t need multiple titles to prove his greatness. He raced with heart, stayed true to himself, and gave us some of the most memorable moments in F1 history, without ever caring about the spotlight. That kind of authenticity is rare.

So yeah, maybe he’s not the most decorated. But in my book? He’s one of the greatest, no question.

Ferrari: Where World Champions Die!

The Angry Man and His Dog

There’s something about the story of a lonely, angry man who has no one left but his dog. It always works. No matter how many times we’ve seen it, it still hits a nerve.

Why?

Because deep down, most of us have felt a version of that. Maybe not as extreme, but we’ve all had moments where everything feels pointless, where the world feels like it’s turned its back on us. And in that chaos, having one being, just one, that sticks around and loves you anyway, that’s powerful.

The man is broken, tired, maybe even dangerous. But he still feeds the dog, still protects it, still talks to it like it’s the only thing keeping him sane. And often, it is.

The dog represents the last bit of his humanity. No judgment, no expectations, just presence. And that’s enough to keep him from going completely off the edge.

Also, the anger isn’t just anger. It’s grief. It's disappointment. It’s all the stuff he never got to say or fix. And the dog doesn’t need him to explain any of that. It just stays. That loyalty breaks us. Every single time.

What makes it even better is how simple the whole thing is. It’s not about the plot. It’s about the feeling. One man. One dog. And a world they both stopped trusting. But somehow, together, they still move forward.

In the end, it’s about love. Not the loud kind. The quiet one that just stays, no matter what.

Why “Work Smart, Not Hard” Sends the Wrong Message

The phrase "Work smart, not hard" is often shared as advice to encourage efficiency. While the intent behind it is understandable, I believe it conveys a fundamentally flawed message.

The reality is that success demands a combination of smart and hard work. Focusing exclusively on "working smart" risks undermining the value of dedication, perseverance, and effort, the very traits that drive long-term achievements.

Consider the importance of relentless commitment to a goal, solving real challenges, and inspiring a team through action. These elements go beyond just "working smart" and require consistent hard work to bring ideas to fruition.

Hard work creates the foundation for learning, growth, and mastery. It teaches resilience and adaptability, qualities essential in a rapidly evolving tech landscape. Meanwhile, smart work, using the right tools, strategies, and prioritization, amplifies the impact of that effort.

In our pursuit of success, let’s not forget that hard work is not an outdated concept. It’s a cornerstone of innovation and excellence. When paired with intelligence and strategy, it becomes unstoppable.

So, the better mantra might be: “Work smart and hard.” That’s how we build lasting success, for ourselves, our teams, and our organizations.