The easiest way to understand PhD life is to imagine a world built on shame.
It’s full of thou shalt nots.
It’s full of don’t do this.
It’s full of quiet messages that say:
You’re kind of a mistake. You’re kind of a screw-up. Here’s how you should behave if you want to fit in.
And for years, I listened.
I tried to be good.
I tried to follow the rules.
I tried to help people, be kind, be generous, do the tasks nobody else wanted to do.
My logic was simple:
If I do right by others, something good will come back.
But here is the painful truth I learned over decades:
It didn’t work.
I complied.
I did the “right” things.
And the reward for doing the “right” things was… nothing.
Worse — it made me more scared.
More anxious.
More confused about who I actually was.
One day, I just stopped caring about all the thou shalts.
I checked out of the game.
Instead of trying to impress people, I asked myself one question:
Am I building a community that feels warm, kind, generous, and real?
Not perfect.
Not strategic.
Not status-driven.
Just real.
Now I look for people with warmth.
People who grow with me.
People who are kind in the small moments.
People who don’t make my Spidey sense tingle.
And when something feels off?
I walk away.
I don’t negotiate with it anymore.
After years studying business and building something real, I’ve learned this: there’s no hack, no shortcut, no one-time breakthrough. Everything that matters—staying married, building wealth, launching a meaningful startup—requires the same thing:
Repetition.
Uncomfortable effort.
And doing what others think is “pointless.”
Every real gain in my life has come from repeating hard things when it felt like I was going nowhere. Not from “winning” but from quietly working through rejection, invisibility, and pain.
If you’re doing anything that matters—like building a business, doing research, or pursuing a weird dream no one gets—remember these three truths:
1. The pain isn’t the problem. It’s the signal you’re doing something real.
2. Quiet, repeated work will always beat flashy shortcuts.
3. If it looks boring to others, you’re probably on the right track.
You won’t get applause. But one day, you’ll look around and realize you built something no one else had the guts to stick with.
My research sounds narrow: how do you learn from failure, and how does that turn into innovation.
But “failure” is a misleading word. Once you look closely, it is not one event. It is a messy story. It is nuance. It is trial and error inside real life.
I started in medical technology, staring at adverse event reports. On the surface, it looks simple: one report, one problem. Then you open the text and it is hospital speak, doctor speak, long narratives, and contradictions. Even one “report” can hide thousands of uses, under reporting, or over reporting. The whole thing is hard to read, hard to code, hard to trust.
That mess is what pushed me toward building a way to process narrative data, before machine learning was even common. I had tens of gigabytes of raw text. I needed a way to make sense of it.
The medical context mattered to me. My dad was dying. I had worked in health care. But most people did not care about health care back then. So I had to learn to zoom out, and explain it as something everyone faces: messy moments, setbacks, and how you move forward anyway.
It took me 20 years to communicate that clearly. If you stay with one narrow question long enough, you realize it connects to everything.
I found old newspapers in a recycling bin while moving offices. They were from the 1940s.
One article was about Bethlehem Steel. At that moment, it was the future. It made a huge share of the steel that built North America and it helped power the war effort. The plant was massive. The company was “doing everything right.” Efficient. Disciplined. Serious. Business pages love that story.
And yet it died.
That is the part that still messes with my head.
Because it means “doing things right” is not the same as staying alive. It means the world can change under your feet while you are busy polishing the thing you already know how to do.
So here is my uncomfortable takeaway.
Sometimes the smartest move is to do something that looks wrong at the time. Something weird. Something playful. Something that has no clean logic yet.
Not because it will all work. Most of it will not.
But because we are terrible at knowing what will matter later. Even the best people, with the best data, get the future wrong.
Bethlehem Steel is a graveyard reminder of that.
So if you feel stuck chasing “correct,” try one small “incorrect” thing this week. Just one. Not for status. Not for praise. Just because you have a tiny love for it.
You might be building your next decade by accident.
If I’m honest, most of my daily interactions are dismissive. Not because people are bad, but because they don’t want to spend the effort to understand what I’m actually doing. The easiest response is always, “I’m too busy.” Polite. Distant. Uninterested. I’ve learned that if you’re trying to move the needle in your life and do something even a little strange, this is just part of the deal.
I think about Wikipedia a lot. Tens of thousands of people consume for every one person who contributes. That ratio shows up everywhere in life. Almost everyone takes. Almost no one builds. And once you see that, you stop being surprised when people don’t care.
I’m passionate. I get excited about ideas most people don’t want to touch. And for a long time, that hurt. Now I see it as freedom. My life is a long wandering through the dark where almost nobody notices. And then, once in a rare while, I meet one person who truly sees me. They get me. I get them.
And that one moment makes all the lonely miles worth it.
This loneliness isn’t failure.
It’s the cost of doing something real.
If you’re in school and it feels like everything is falling apart—you’re not alone. Whether you’re in undergrad, doing a PhD, going back as a mature student, or taking just one course that’s pushing you, the hard truth is: real learning hurts. It’s supposed to. That doesn’t mean there’s something wrong with you.
People outside the game won’t get it. Some will call you dramatic. Others will treat you like you’re unstable. But the truth is: you’re just doing something difficult that most people never choose to do.
Learning is uncomfortable. It’s slow. It feels strange. It makes you look weird. And it forces you to walk a lonely path. But that doesn’t mean you’re on the wrong path.
Here’s what you’ll need if you’re doing anything that changes your life—or the world:
1. Quiet Confidence – You keep walking, even when nobody understands why.
2. Radical Honesty – You say the truth out loud: This is hard. And that’s okay.
3. One More Step – You keep going, day by day. That’s how you win.
There’s something I find deeply fascinating—and honestly, troubling—about how many people are willing to cut corners when they think no one will notice. It happens in all parts of life. High school. College. Work. Startups. Even in world-class labs or engineering teams.
And yet, we rarely talk about it.
We praise outcomes. We reward success. But the process? The part where character gets built? That part gets ignored—until it breaks.
Let me give you a small example. It’s kind of funny, but it’s revealing.
When you come over to our house, it looks clean. Tidy. Calm. You’d probably think, “Wow, what a well-kept home!” But what you don’t see is what happens about thirty minutes before guests arrive—my wife panic-cleans like a maniac. Clutter shoved in closets. Dishes stacked in the oven. Stuff under the bed. The appearance is polished, but the reality? It’s barely held together.
That’s not a critique of her. We all do it. It’s a microcosm of something much bigger.
We perform for the visible. We hide the rest.
And the more I’ve thought about this—from studying learning and failure for the past twenty years—the more I see how dangerous this habit is. Because once you start focusing only on the outcome, and not how you got there, shortcuts become acceptable. And eventually, they become expected.
I remember being in engineering school, looking at massive technical projects and thinking, “How did these things actually get built?” Then I remembered how many people I saw copying homework or sneaking past accountability. Smart, kind people—still cutting corners if it meant less work.
That moment sticks with me: sitting down in an exam, watching as people quietly passed around old test answers. No one said anything. But everyone knew. And I remember the tension in my chest—like, am I the only one seeing this?
And let’s be honest: given the same circumstances, I might’ve done the same. It’s not just about others. I’ve taken shortcuts too. I’ve done things I’m not proud of. And I still wrestle with those moments, the decisions I wish I’d made differently.
That’s the hard part.
It’s not just the failure. It’s the after—the voice that whispers, “Why did I do that?” The guilt that doesn’t go away. The self-respect that erodes quietly.
And that’s why I think character—real, internal character—is still one of the most important things we can teach and practice. Especially now.
Because the truth is, most of life is invisible to others.
The real stuff happens in the spaces no one sees. The code you don’t copy. The email you choose not to send. The feedback you give even when it’s uncomfortable. The extra 10% you put in—not because someone will reward you, but because you’ll know if you didn’t.
And yes, it’s hard. Especially when you don’t get credit. When someone who cuts corners gets ahead. When the outcome looks the same on the outside, but you know the effort wasn’t equal.
But over time? That’s where trust is built. That’s where excellence is forged.
My parents—especially my dad—instilled that in me. Do a good job, even when no one’s watching. It sounds simple, but it’s a hard thing to live by. Especially in a world that values speed, shortcuts, and “good enough.”
I know some people might roll their eyes at this. It sounds like old-school advice. But when I think about the future—about artificial intelligence, innovation, engineering, startups—what worries me most isn’t just the tech. It’s the human part.
It’s what happens when we stop practicing integrity. When we stop building the habits that hold things together when no one’s looking.
Because eventually, someone’s life depends on that bridge. That code. That system.
Eventually, you have to live with what you did when no one was watching.
And maybe even harder: you have to forgive yourself for the times you didn’t live up to it.
I’m just so glad that there are wonderful people in this world.
People who are genuine. Sincere.
People who care about the person—about the soul inside—rather than accomplishments.
That’s the thing that matters most in my life. And it’s so atypical in the world I live in, where everything is about productivity, outcomes, and “what did you get done today?”
When I think about the people who changed humanity—Jane Goodall, Nelson Mandela, Martin Luther King, Joan of Arc, St. Francis of Assisi—I keep coming back to one truth:
Every single one of them looked like a screw-up in their own time.
A person “wasting resources.”
A failure.
Someone ruining the world.
Someone doing the wrong thing.
We only admire them now because somebody wrote their stories down. Because we had the written word. Because their humanity was captured long enough for others to see it.
Today, almost all of us have that same ability to store what we believe. To write. To care. To do something that looks pointless or foolish in the moment, but is actually for the betterment of humanity.
If there’s anything I want to be known for, it’s not my accomplishments.
It’s that I cared about the actual human being in front of me.
And I want you to think about this too:
What “screw-up” would you do—what wasteful, time-consuming, energy-draining thing—if it meant being known for your humanity?
Because almost every truly human act will look like failure to someone.
Most people believe a PhD advisor is supposed to “add value.” Or that a student is supposed to “add value.”
Like there’s this clean exchange.
Like everybody knows what they’re doing.
But if you’ve spent even five minutes in this world, you know that’s not true.
What actually happens is two people trying to survive the same weird, messy system where nobody has a clue what the right answer is. Everyone is guessing. Everyone is under pressure. Everyone is trying not to look like a screw-up. And that’s when all the strange behavior shows up.
People defect.
People ghost.
People walk away just when things get uncertain.
People disappear because they don’t want to deal with ambiguity.
And you start internalizing it—every single time—as if it must be your fault.
I’ve done this my whole life.
I assume I said something wrong.
I assume I wrote something wrong.
I assume I am the problem.
But most of the time, you’re not the problem at all.
What I’ve learned is that value in research is not extracted. It’s not sitting there waiting to be taken. It gets molded. It gets created. And that only happens when people actually stay in the room together long enough to admit, “Yeah… I don’t really know what I’m doing either.”
That moment—right there—is where the magic happens.
But it’s rare.
Really rare.
So if someone ghosts you, or treats you poorly, or makes you feel inferior—don’t immediately jump to, “I messed up.” Often they’re just running from the ambiguity. Or fighting it. Or stuck in their own head.
Just remember: most of us are trying to navigate this confusing world with no answers, no map, and no guarantees. You’re doing better than you think.
Take care.
I hear this every single year: “This is a particularly bad year for the PhD job market.”
And yes, this year is brutal if you want a tenure track job.
But here is my hot take.
We need to get off our high horse.
Academia trains smart people to believe there is one “real” path. Get the PhD. Get the tenure track job. Anything else is a failure.
That story is not just harsh. It is also out of date.
Even by the numbers, most teaching jobs are now not on the tenure track. The American Association of University Professors reported that about 73 percent of instructional staff were off the tenure track (in 2016). 
So when you feel like you “suck” because the market is tight, I want to be blunt.
You do not suck.
The market is tight.
I also want to say this clearly: you should still try. Apply. Swing. Do the best work you can.
But do not bet your whole life on one outcome.
Here is what I tell my own students and what I try to live myself:
1. Treat tenure track as one option, not your identity.
2. Build a second path on purpose. Industry research. Government. Labs. Startups. Teaching focused roles.
3. Build proof you can show. I have put out about 6,200 YouTube videos over 10 years. I still get nervous every time. But the only way I can build anything real is to show up in public.
4. Find your people. The best PhD students respond in kind. And they make ideas simpler, not more complex.
If you are on the market right now and you feel behind, I get it.
If this helped you breathe for 10 seconds, share it with one person who needs that.
There are two paths in research.
One where you sit in a room, alone, writing ten pages a day for twenty years—no recognition, no guarantees. You don’t talk to anyone. You just keep going, because that’s what “success” is supposed to look like. And the guilt if you’re not doing it? It’s crushing.
And then there’s the other path.
The one where you still write, but you define impact your own way. Maybe that means building something new. Maybe it means helping others. Maybe it means working a job while trying to stay in the game. Everyone tells you that’s the wrong way. That you’re distracted. That you’ll never make it.
But I’m choosing that second path anyway.
Not because it’s easier. It’s not. It’s messier, lonelier, and it doesn’t come with applause. But it’s mine. And honestly, I’m not trying to be a star. I’m trying to survive. I’m trying to build something that matters to me, even if no one ever calls it “success.”
Because I know I’m not built for that first path. I’ve tried. I’ve failed. And I’ve realized—my only shot is to keep doing my thing. To build R3ciprocity. To show up with care. To be a dad. To create something weird and kind and different.
So if you’re out there, trying to make sense of your own strange, meandering path—maybe this is your reminder: you don’t have to do it their way.
People keep telling me building my own platform is a mistake.
That I look foolish.
That I’m stigmatizing myself.
That this is “not what serious people do.”
And I hear it. It rings in my ears because it usually comes from the same people.
Here’s the thing though.
If there were a better way to build something like R3ciprocity, I would do it.
If there were a shortcut, a cleaner path, a way to pay my way around this, I would have taken it.
I’ve been in school longer than many people have been alive.
I study organizations, learning, innovation, and failure for a living.
You don’t need to be brilliant to see this. You just need to be honest.
The only way this gets built is by showing up.
Out loud.
In public.
One day at a time.
I hear people say, “I don’t care about that kind of thing.”
But you do.
I know you do because you never take the opportunity when it’s right in front of you.
We are the first humans in the history of our species with this level of digital infrastructure.
Anyone. Anywhere. Zero gatekeepers.
And most people freeze.
Why?
Because they’re terrified of looking foolish.
Terrified of being judged.
Terrified someone will say, “Why are you doing this?”
I see it every day in my classes.
I ask someone to stand up and try something small.
Low risk. Low stakes.
And the moment arrives, it shuts down.
“I can’t.”
“That’s uncomfortable.”
“That’s not what I’m supposed to do.”
That’s the point.
I’ve posted 6,200+ videos on YouTube over roughly 10 years.
Every single time, I get nervous.
Every single time, I wonder how I’ll be perceived.
And I still press publish.
Not because I want to be famous.
Not because I think this is easy.
But because no one before us has ever had this opportunity to build, learn, connect, and grow like this.
Why wouldn’t I take it?
Why wouldn’t you?
I struggle with charitable giving. I always have. And I think it’s because of ambiguity.
When you buy a carton of eggs, you get instant feedback. You know what you paid. You know what you got. You crack the eggs the next morning and you know if it was good or bad.
Charity doesn’t work like that.
You give money and it disappears into a system you can’t see. You don’t really know what it bought. Was it food? Was it training? Was it staplers? Was it overhead? And overhead matters. Every real organization is mostly overhead. Even Apple and Google are mostly overhead.
But with charity, we want instant, visible good. And we almost never get it.
Then there’s the deeper problem. Even if the intention is good, we don’t always know if the outcome helps or harms. Does giving cash help? Does it make things worse? We don’t really know. Economists argue about it. Philosophers argue about it. And regular people just feel stuck.
I don’t have a clean answer.
What I do believe is this: charitable giving is less about certainty and more about practicing a bigger heart. Doing something you don’t fully understand. Acting without clear reinforcement.
And that might be the whole point.
One of the strangest things about being public is the split reaction I get.
Half the people say, “Are you okay being this open?”
The other half say, “Oh… I thought it was just me.”
And that second reaction is the whole point.
I’m trying to meet people where they actually are. Not where LinkedIn tells them they should be. Not where podcasts or YouTube thumbnails pretend life exists. But where people really are at 2 a.m., Googling, “Why does this feel so hard?” and wondering if something is wrong with them.
Here’s the truth. Most of life is not a highlight reel. It’s not constant growth or constant joy. Most days are what I call B-land. You wake up a little tired. You do your work. Some things go wrong. Some things go fine. You eat dinner. You decompress. You do it again tomorrow.
That’s not failure. That’s life.
The problem is almost nobody talks you through those middle moments. Everything online is filtered, edited, and framed as if real life is either collapsing or glorious. It’s neither. It’s mostly ordinary, slightly messy, and quietly meaningful.
What actually moves the needle isn’t intensity. It’s tiny adjustments, made repeatedly. Dialing things up a little. Dialing things down a little. Not panicking. Not spiraling. Not letting one bad day define you.
If you can learn to live well in the middle—while still taking one small step forward—you’re doing far better than you think.
That’s what I’m trying to show, out loud, in real time.
There’s one thing I’ve learned that no one really prepares you for in academia:
You can do all the right things. You can follow every step perfectly. And you’ll still be told you’re not good enough.
It doesn’t matter if you publish, get your PhD, get the job. You’ll hit these thresholds—tenure, full professor, whatever—and you’ll realize: none of it actually guarantees you belong. It’s not you. The system just doesn’t know how to make sense of people like you. People like me.
That’s the part that messes with your head.
You keep asking: “Did I earn this?”
You wonder: “Do I actually deserve it?”
And the truth? There’s no rhyme or reason. No strategy. It just feels arbitrary.
The real academic game?
It’s crazy-making.
You walk forward. You get no clear feedback. You wonder if you’re even on the path.
That’s why I started building R3ciprocity—to strip out some of that ambiguity. To make the progress visible. Tangible.
But honestly? I still struggle.
I still ask, “Should I even be doing this?”
I still don’t know the answer.
All I know is this:
I’ve been doing this long enough to realize it never feels right.
And that’s okay.
Because the only thing that works is this:
• Keep walking forward. Even when nothing makes sense.
• Stop waiting for the system to tell you you’re good enough. It won’t.
• Make meaning from your steps, not their signals.
This is the lesson. It’s brutal. But it’s the only one I know that holds.
I don’t talk about this much, but my grandpa was a severe alcoholic. And I mean severe. He would disappear for days on benders. As a kid, I never saw it directly, but I lived with the fallout. It shaped my family in ways that are still raw decades later.
He was also a World War II veteran. He saw heavy fighting. He came home injured. And he came home to a world that told him to man up and never talk about it. Drinking became his way of surviving what he couldn’t process.
Here’s the thing I’ve learned with time. I would not be who I am without that experience. Not because it was good, but because I was lucky enough to have parents who were steady, square, and deeply values-driven. They didn’t hide what was happening. They talked about it. They taught me that someone else’s failure is not your fault.
That’s why I study learning from failure. That’s why I believe people can change. And that’s why I believe small steps matter. If you’re struggling, one less drink. One honest conversation. One boundary. One tiny step sustained over time.
You are not broken. You are not evil. You are responding to pain the best way you know how. And you can choose a different path, one small step at a time.
Here’s something I’ve learned the hard way: this is how nice people get taken advantage of.
I’m a management professor. I study innovation and failure. But this pattern shows up everywhere. Academia. Hospitals. Small businesses. Big corporations.
If you put a grumpy, irritable, forceful person next to a kind, laid-back, empathetic person, most people will work harder for the grumpy one. Not because they’re better. Because pressure feels decisive. It creates urgency. People respond to it.
The nice person feels safe. Comfortable. Human. And that’s exactly the problem.
Deadlines slip. Effort shifts elsewhere. And eventually, the nice person gets avoided. Not because they did anything wrong, but because guilt creeps in. And people don’t like being reminded of where they fell short.
If you’re that nice person, you will miss out unless you build boundaries.
Not anger. Not becoming grumpy. That kills your soul.
Boundaries.
You say: this is what I give. This is what I don’t. And the world can adjust.
I choose to be kind, gentle, generous, and respectful. But I protect myself. If someone doesn’t respond in kind, I walk away.
The goal isn’t power. Or status. Or money.
It’s a peaceful life. With a big heart. And self-respect.
Take care.
gotta say the single most important thing that gives me joy today is this puzzle of trying to make my life more fun and more exciting. That’s what the whole Reciprocity Project actually is.
For decades, research has never been as fun as people think it is. If you want to test this, go write a research paper on the weekend. You’ll realize instantly: “oh my gosh, I hate this.”
That’s been my life for as long as I can remember—writing under extreme pressure.
So I’ve been trying to solve one thing:
How do you create a nearly non-rejectable research paper that is fun, interesting, your own flair—and actually exciting to do?
And here’s the real puzzle: absolutely nobody cares right now. Maybe a handful of people are paying attention, but most don’t. And yet this puzzle gives me joy. Trying things. Building things. Playing around with ideas. Seeing what moves the needle. Even as I burn up time and resources.
I’m ten years in and feel like I’m just starting.
And I keep thinking about the reality so many researchers live in: chronic anxiety, stress, depression, tunnel vision. Most people never seek out anything that might make this life easier. And search engines bury anything that doesn’t benefit them anyway.
So the puzzle remains:
How do we make research fun?
How do we make it interesting?
How do we democratize it—not just for elites?
It’s not just AI. It’s about making our lives easier and more enjoyable. It’s about treating research as something worth playing with, not something that destroys us.
I know nobody’s riding in on a white horse to fix any of this. So I’m building it myself. Slowly. Messily. Joyfully. One puzzle at a time.
When I was about seven years old, I realized I just think differently than everybody else.
I didn’t think like my parents.
I didn’t think like my friends.
I didn’t think like the people in my church.
For decades, even now as a business professor, I’ve puzzled over why I see the world in such a different way.
I’ve always felt a little strange.
I don’t follow conversations when there’s noise.
I struggle to put things together quickly.
Group discussions with more than three or four people overwhelm me.
Later in life I realized I have ADHD — and probably mild dyslexia — and that explained part of it.
But there’s another side:
I can persist far longer than most people.
I see patterns in research seminars that others can’t see.
My mind works in quirky, unusual ways that make sense to me even when they confuse other people.
Many of us look at ADHD, dyslexia, or high intelligence as “problems,”
but they often shape the very abilities that make us who we are.
There is no normal template.
There never was.
We all have something unusual — and that unusual thing is often the gift.
I just get so sick of the strategic behavior that happens in science. Everybody’s smart—maybe too smart. They try to outthink the system, outthink each other. It becomes this game of “how do I win?” instead of “how do I learn?”
That’s not how I grew up. That’s not how I was taught to live.
The truth is, nothing we build in research—or life—is perfect the first time. But there’s this illusion that you can create something flawless from the beginning. That’s why startups fail. That’s why academics flame out. People give up because their plan didn’t work.
The reality? You just have to keep whittling away. Keep showing up. There is no recipe. No one knows what the right answer is. Not really.
What makes it worse is that this behavior is taught. It’s expected. You start thinking it’s normal. But when you have values—when you’re trying to be real—it leaves a bad taste in your mouth.
There’s so much strategizing, so much ego, and so little honesty. The hardest part is learning who to trust in a market like this.
So here I am. Just trying to figure it out like you. Maybe I’m smart enough to see the games, but not smart enough to win at them. I don’t know. What I do know is this: the only way through is to keep going. Keep building. Keep being you.