R3ciprocity Podcast

As researchers, we are trained to demand evidence before believing something. We pride ourselves on the phrase, “Show me the data.” And yet, I'm struck by how quickly we discount the human side of knowing—the intuition, tacit knowledge, and “spidey sense” that quietly guides so many of our decisions.In my own life, I've learned that those gut feelings often point to something real. You try something, and it just works. You see a pattern and instinctively know what to do next. But too often, those moments get dismissed as “just anecdotal” or “just the placebo effect.” The irony is that this dismissal can blind us to real phenomena worth understanding.Why does this matter? Because intuition isn't magic—it's experience speaking. Expertise is defined as the ability to recognize patterns from having done something thousands of times, even if you can't fully explain how you know what you know. In those cases, demanding formal evidence before trusting someone's judgment can actually make us ignore valuable knowledge.Of course, there's a danger here. Everyone likes to believe they're an expert. That's why separating genuine expertise from overconfidence is hard. Still, when someone with deep experience says, “This works,” we should pay attention—especially if the claim has persisted across contexts.Another reason we discount intuition is that effects vary. In research, these differences are called moderators—factors that change the size or even the direction of an effect. Something might work brilliantly for one person but barely move the needle for another. Think about marijuana: for some, it's a knockout; for others, it does nothing. Medicine often ignores these nuances, chasing an “average effect” instead of exploring why outcomes differ. This is changing with personalized medicine, which recognizes that context, genetics, and environment shape results.The same principle applies in management and innovation. An approach that's a breakthrough in one setting may flop in another. The fact that it doesn't work everywhere doesn't mean it's useless—it means it's context-dependent. But when we only look for universal effects, we overlook valuable local knowledge.So how do you tell if a feeling is worth trusting? I think it comes down to two things: 1. Depth of experience – Repeated exposure to a problem builds pattern recognition that can't be faked. 2. Deliberate reflection – Paying close attention, experimenting, and adjusting until you see what really matters.Neither guarantees truth, but both increase the odds that your intuition is pointing to something real. The challenge, especially in research, is to notice these patterns before they disappear under layers of skepticism.And yes, we need to weed out the “woo” from reality. There's a lot of junk science and wishful thinking out there. But history is full of ideas that were once dismissed as nonsense—handwashing, for example—that turned out to be correct. Often, the people raising them couldn't prove their case at first. That doesn't mean they were wrong; it means they were ahead of the evidence.So, maybe the next time someone says, “I know it works—I've seen it a hundred times,” we pause before dismissing them. We ask: • How much experience do they have? • Have they paid attention to patterns? • Could the effect be real for some people, even if not for all?Because if we're honest, a lot of what moves the world forward starts with a hunch that doesn't yet have a p-value attached to it.

I know I'm weird. I record podcasts while driving. I talk to strangers on the internet. I've poured time, money, and reputation into something that might go nowhere. It's embarrassing. It's terrifying. And I do it anyway.This episode is for anyone sitting on a dream but too scared to start. I get it. I feel that same fear—every single day. I'm shy. I hate being the center of attention. I worry I'm wasting time I could spend with my kids. But still, I show up.We live in a world filled with opportunity. Anyone can build something. Anyone can speak. But most people won't—because someone, somewhere told them they were foolish for even trying.If you've ever felt like what you want is too big, too weird, too risky, or too small to matter, I want you to hear this: you're not alone. The fear doesn't go away. But the only way forward is through.You don't need to be fearless. You just need to do it afraid.Take care. And go be weird.

If you're looking for a rational, financial reason to have kids, you won't find one here. I've looked. I teach strategy and economics. I live in a world obsessed with optimization. And by all those measures, having children is just… a cost.But I did it anyway. Twice.This episode is about the truth no one wants to say out loud: there's no economic model that justifies raising kids. It's time-consuming, expensive, and pulls you away from work you love. And yet, somehow, it's also the most meaningful decision I've ever made.I talk about the tension between ambition and family, love and logic, joy and sacrifice. I challenge the financial frameworks we use to define “value” in life—and why they break down the moment you try to price love, time, or legacy.This isn't an argument for parenthood. It's an invitation to rethink what matters.If you've ever wondered why you're doing something that doesn't make sense on paper—but feels right in your soul—this one's for you.Take care. And let yourself choose joy, even when it looks like a loss.

Everyone tells you to be bold—but when you're actually in the middle of a PhD, or building something real, all you feel is pressure.Pressure to finish quickly.To not mess up.To not look like a failure.So what do you do?You choose the “safe” project.You chase metrics.You kill the weird idea that kept you up at night.I've seen this story unfold a hundred times—students who could've done something incredible… but didn't. Not because they lacked talent, but because they were afraid.Afraid of what their advisor would say.Afraid of wasting time.Afraid of looking stupid.And here's the truth no one tells you: that weird, risky idea you're avoiding? It's probably the most valuable thing you've got.The ones who do the extraordinary aren't always the smartest. They're the ones who follow the strange idea anyway.Even when it looks foolish.Even when no one else understands it.Especially then.If you're in your 20s and terrified of taking a risk—this is your sign.Do the thing you're scared to do.Not recklessly.But relentlessly.Because in 10 years, the only regret you'll have is not doing it sooner.

Everyone around me says I've made it—tenure, a house, a good life. But inside the system I work in, I'm told—explicitly and implicitly—that I don't count. That I'm invisible. That I'm failing.Why? Because I didn't play the game the way I was supposed to. I didn't chase citations or prestige. I chased joy. Stability. Meaning. Love.This isn't just my story—it's a quiet rebellion against a broken definition of success. If you've ever felt like you were doing all the right things, but still being told you're wrong… you're not alone.This is a message for everyone who's ever whispered, “What if success isn't what they say it is?”Take care.

Why do we feel guilty when we finally enjoy our lives — as PhDs, professors, or researchers?There's this unspoken rule in academia: if you take weekends off, you're not serious. If you rest during the summer, you're lazy. If you enjoy time with your family, you're not really committed. And yet… the best insights always come during the pause — on the walk, in the shower, during the laughter.This guilt? It has no logic. But we still carry it.In this episode, I reflect on the pressure to always perform, the subtle shame baked into the culture of research, and why the most profound work often begins when we stop working. If you've ever felt like resting means failing — this one's for you.Take a breath. You're doing okay. And if someone has a problem with that?Screw them.

Artificial intelligence is the most powerful innovation we've seen in a generation—maybe ever.I know many people still don't see the impact it will have. But as someone who studies failure, I can't help but think about the things we're not seeing. The things we can't predict. The blind spots that history has shown up again and again.This isn't fear-mongering. I'm not saying we should stop building or exploring AI. The cat's already out of the bag—and much of what's happening is remarkable. We're likely entering an era of discoveries that will radically reshape what's possible in science, medicine, education, and even creativity.But what concerns me isn't the progress. It's our arrogance.We often think we can control systems far more complex than we understand. We've done it before—nuclear power, financial systems, the internet—and every time, we learn the same hard truth: we're not as prepared as we thought.What makes AI different is how fast it's moving, how invisible the risks are, and how hard it will be to reverse once the damage is done.Yes, some dangers are obvious—weaponization, manipulation, data exploitation. But others are subtle. They creep in through overconfidence.

At some point in your PhD or academic career, the pursuit of knowledge turns into a grind for survival — passing comps, getting published, getting grants, staying relevant. The dream fades. But what if the only way to stay whole is to stop taking it seriously? What if joy, play, and laughter are the real resistance?

There's no perfect template for success — not in academia, not in life. Even people who look like you, think like you, or grew up with you will want different things. The truth is, you're unique. And those academic metrics, rankings, or definitions? They don't define who you are. You don't need to belong to succeed. You just need to say, “Screw it — I'm doing OK.

I've spent the last nine years building something that matters—at least, it matters to me.It's called the Reciprocity Project. It's a platform I started to help researchers and writers get better feedback, improve their work, and deal with the quiet, brutal struggle of doing hard things in isolation.I've posted nearly every day. I've shared thousands of thoughts, built tools, recorded videos, written blog posts, tried to show up in all the ways we're told matter. And still—nearly a decade in—I get people asking:“Wait, what is that again?”And every time I hear that, it hurts. Like… really hurts.Because if you've ever tried to build something meaningful from scratch, you know how demoralizing it is when no one sees it. Not because it's bad. But because the algorithm never let it through.And here's the thing:Most people still have no idea how much of their life is controlled by algorithms.You think you're seeing the world. You're not.You're seeing what a machine thinks you should see.What you hear. Who you talk to. Whether your spouse even gets your message on time. What your kids learn in school. What research gets funded. What books get published. Who gets famous.All of it is filtered, sorted, and ranked by invisible systems you don't control.I'll post something that takes me days—sometimes weeks—to write. Thoughtful. Vulnerable. Built from experience.And it disappears.Even my own wife doesn't see it in her feed. Because the algorithm decided it wasn't relevant to her life as a mom who loves golden retrievers.And it's not just social media.Regulations? Algorithms.Healthcare approvals? Algorithms.Your bank account? Algorithms.The traffic light you're stuck at every morning?Yep—algorithms.And still, we walk around thinking, “If I just work hard enough, someone will notice.”But the truth is more brutal:You can do everything right and still be invisible.Because algorithms don't reward meaning. They reward metrics.And unless your work fits the formula—unless it's popular enough, short enough, shareable enough—you don't exist.So before you give up…Before you assume your project isn't good enough, your writing isn't clear enough, your voice isn't valuable enough—Ask yourself: Did it actually reach anyone?Or did it just get filtered out by a machine that decided, in 0.2 seconds, that you weren't interesting today?I'm not saying this to make you feel worse. I'm saying it because I need to remind myself too.I'm nine years in. Most days, I feel like the only person who knows how hard I've worked is my mom. And I've almost quit more times than I can count.But I haven't.Because once you understand the game, you stop taking it so personally.You stop assuming that silence means failure.You stop chasing perfection for an audience that may never even see you.And you start building anyway.Because that's the only power we've got left—To keep creating, even when the algorithm doesn't care.

If you're doing anything that really matters in your life, there are two things you have to hold onto.First: Persistence.Just. Keep. Going.I know that sounds stupid—like a motivational poster—but honestly? Most people quit way too soon. They stop when it gets boring, or slow, or hard. But if you keep showing up, you will do something extraordinary. I promise.Second: Self-forgiveness.You're going to mess up. You'll fall behind. You'll say the wrong thing, miss the mark, blow the plan. That doesn't mean you're failing. It means you're human.You have to let go of the idea that you'll get it all right.Keep going. Be kind to yourself.And even if it doesn't work out the way you imagined—at least you tried.That's already more than most ever do.

I was talking with my son about life, work, and why I insist on building this “weird” thing in public.R3ciprocity isn't just an app; it's my way of showing the world—especially the mom on the bus, the single parent in Brazil, the early-career scholar in Afghanistan—that you can change the game without dropping everything or being a 25-year-old with rich parents.I'm a dad, a husband, a professor, and yes, my life is already stupid-busy.I record videos in my car. I code in the cracks of the day.Most people look at me and think, “Why bother? This is a giant failure.”I hear that voice in my own head every day.But here's the truth: • I want a platform where anyone, anywhere can create non-rejectable research and actually have fun. • I want to prove you don't need fancy investors or perfect timing to move the needle. • I want to live a life that looks impossible on paper—and do it anyway.Every step feels awkward. Every metric shouts “not good enough.”But I keep going, because that's what a good life looks like to me:one uncomfortable step after another, taken in public, so other people can see it's normal to feel stupid and still press “publish.”If you're building something the world doesn't get yet, welcome.We're in this together—one weird, embarrassing step at a time.

I know I'm a world-class researcher. I know I'm doing careful, meaningful work—stuff that will matter in 30 years. I also know that I'm building something with the R3ciprocity Project that helps people finally feel like they belong in this world of research. It's not just a tool. It's a quiet movement—a belief that you're already good enough, even if the system never says it out loud.But most people don't see any of that. They don't get it. They think I'm weird. Or crazy. Or wasting my time.And honestly? That used to hurt.I spent years trying to get a job after my PhD. Two years of silence. Rejection. Most schools didn't even look. But the strange part? A few top schools—MIT, Wharton—they did look. That contrast told me something: the majority often don't understand what matters until much later. The people who get it? They're few. But they matter more than anything.So I've had to build this quiet confidence inside. A kind of daily faith. I wake up, and I say: “Giddy up. One more day. Keep going.” That's it. Not flashy. Not loud. But consistent. Honest. Determined.People often can't tell the difference between a giant loser and someone who's going to change the world. So they default to doubt. And they laugh. Or ignore. Or stay silent because of their own fears.But that's not my problem.What I've learned is that changing anything that matters means carrying the weight of misunderstanding. It means looking foolish—for a long time. And still walking forward anyway.I keep going. I keep building. I keep telling others they're good enough. Not because it's easy. But because it matters.If you're doing anything that's truly different—if you're trying to change the world—here are three truths I've had to live by: 1. Giddy up. One more day.You don't have to feel strong. You just have to take the next step. 2. Ignore the world. Trust the work.Most people won't get it. That's their fear talking, not your failure. 3. Smile. Nod. Keep walking.The future is built by people who keep showing up—long before they're understood.Take care. Keep building. And I'll see you in ten years.

Let's be honest: where you went to school still shapes your academic career.If your degree says “top 10,” doors magically open. If it doesn't? You hustle harder. You stay later. You apply three times more. And you hear, “we had many qualified applicants” way too often.I didn't know the rules when I started. I didn't grow up around people who talked about elite universities or academic journals. I just did the work—day after day.And I'm still here.Yes, the pecking order in academia is real. The status games are real. But here's the truth: they don't have to define you. There's power in persistence, in carving your own lane, and building something that matters.

If someone told you you're not good enough, it's probably because they're just afraid. Most people who try to shut you down are projecting their own pain. You are not flawed — you just believed a story someone else gave you. Pursue what matters, over and over, until you see the possibilities for yourself. There is no weakness in trying. Just keep going, with a kind heart.

This podcast is a bit of a diary. I treat myself like a Petri dish. And I just have to say it—after I sit and read and think and work through research, I almost always feel this deep sadness. Not because the ideas aren't exciting (they are, sometimes!), but because the process is cognitively demanding, isolating, and just… heavy.I've tried things—exercise helps. Face-to-face interaction helps. But there's still this crash. That yuckiness at the end of the day.I don't know if it's just me. I don't think so. I think it's the nature of the work. So I'm trying to figure it out—how to build a life that feels more connected, less draining, and still lets me do this thing I've spent years trying to get good at.If you've felt this—if you've got tips or insights—I'd love to hear from you. Because honestly? I study this stuff… and I still don't know how to fix it.

Some professors say they love this job.They say it's rewarding. That it's exciting.And maybe it is for them.But I'm going to be honest with you:Every single day, I ask myself if I should quit.It's not because I'm bitter.It's because I've seen how the system works.And once you've worked with real data—not cleaned-up, publishable models, but real-world messy data—you start to see how deeply broken this profession can feel.I was trained as an engineer. I came into academia thinking that truth mattered most.But truth is messy.Truth doesn't fit cleanly into a journal submission.Truth doesn't get past peer review if it's not beautiful—or worse, if it's too perfect.And that's the tension that keeps me up at night.You do the work.You analyze the data.You know it's real.But if it doesn't match what a few anonymous reviewers think is interesting—or polished just right—it dies in a PDF no one will read.I've built models that worked.I've spent years on papers that were correct.And I've watched them get rejected for not fitting someone else's ideal of perfection—or worse, because they were too close to it.That messes with your head.And the hardest part?This journey is incredibly lonely.When I started, I thought I'd be part of a community—collaborating, learning, discovering truth together.But more often than not, it feels like you're alone—quietly fighting to get something meaningful through a system that wasn't designed to reward truth.It rewards polish. Performance. Persistence.Some people figure out how to play the game.Some don't work with real data at all.Some just… stop caring.I can't.But I don't know how much longer I can keep going, either.So here I am—still showing up.Still trying to be honest.Still trying to make something meaningful, even when the process feels broken.

Every region, every country, every decision — it's always a complicated mess. Even when you think you're doing the right thing, time and context reveal otherwise. Life doesn't follow a simple plan. What feels clear now might look completely wrong ten years later.So keep yourself a whole bunch of humility. Eat some humble pie. Be okay with feeling embarrassed by who you used to be. Because no matter what country you live in, or what you're going through, things are almost always complicated — and that's okay.

You've worked for months—sometimes years—on an idea. Then someone says: “You just have to do this.” And suddenly, it feels like everything you built is slipping away.In this raw episode, David Maslach unpacks the frustration researchers feel when the core contribution of their work remains fuzzy to them—but strangely clear to others. He speaks openly about the emotional weight of feedback, the difficulty of letting go of your first framing, and the exhausting process of re-seeing your own work through someone else's eyes.This isn't about information—it's about identity, ego, and the quiet grief of revision. You'll learn why adapting doesn't mean admitting failure, and why those who thrive in research aren't always the smartest—they're the ones who can sit with discomfort the longest.If you're stuck between what you built and what they want, this episode is for you.

What if the dream you've been chasing your whole life—was never really your dream?I've been thinking a lot about this lately. About how much of what I've pursued was shaped by the environments I was raised in, the people I admired, and—most of all—the perception of value and scarcity I was taught to believe in.When I was a kid, I wanted to be a priest.Then I met someone who studied engineering at a top school.Then I chased the best PhD at the best school.Then tenure. Then prestige. Then more.Each step felt like it mattered—because someone, somewhere, told me it did.Sometimes it was a formal institution.Sometimes it was just word-of-mouth.But almost always, it was a kind of marketing.This isn't a rant against ambition. I've benefited a lot from chasing those dreams.But lately, I've started wondering:How much of that desire was planted in me?How much of it was real?I walk through the difference between genuine growth and chasing manufactured scarcity. I don't have the answers. But I do have questions that matter.And I've found that when I take stock—my family, the sunshine, the quiet gift of breath—I start to want less. Or maybe… I just start to want differently.If you've ever felt like your ambition is pulling you somewhere you didn't choose, this episode is for you.

I used to believe that if I just perfected myself, people would love me. That if I worked hard enough — became successful enough — I'd finally earn their respect.That belief drove me to get a PhD, to become a professor, to keep pushing every single day. But it never gave me what I really wanted.I've learned something else. Something harder. No matter how much you try, some people just won't like you. Some will quietly shut you down with looks you can't describe — subtle moments of exclusion no one else will notice. Others will actively try to sabotage you. Most just won't care.This episode is about what happens when you stop trying to be liked — and start practicing how to let go. It's about building a “heart barrier,” walking away, and saying “screw you” to a world that doesn't see your worth. It's not easy. It's lonely. It's a muscle you work every day.But for the overachievers, the perfectionists, the ones who feel deeply — this is a practice in survival. You won't change them. So create space. Protect your peace. And just keep taking steps.Because maybe — just maybe — the ones who do care are the only ones that matter.Take care, and have a wonderful day.

What if I'm honest and everyone finds out I'm a fraud?This quiet fear shaped the beginning of my career in academia—and still lingers. It's a feeling that cuts across disciplines and professions: if we speak honestly, we'll be exposed as not good enough. But in academia, where truth is supposed to be the job, that fear is especially paradoxical. I've spent years training to be a scientist, only to realize that honesty—particularly about ourselves—is often discouraged.This fear shaped why I created the Reciprocity Project. I didn't start with a theory or a product. I started with a feeling: loneliness. After years of isolated research, I wanted to build something that brought play, connection, and conversation back into the work. But as I started documenting that process, I realized something strange—many people were afraid of me doing so.They'd talk to me privately about it, but not in public. Others saw the work as irrelevant to the profession. And yet I was a professor of innovation, studying how new things are created. Shouldn't building something new in academia be part of that story?Apparently not.It turns out, we're comfortable studying “others,” but not ourselves. We train ourselves to explore the world, but not the system we live in. Physicians know this too—self-reflection is uncomfortable. But it's also necessary. Otherwise, we perpetuate a strange norm: we praise curiosity in theory, but punish it when it questions our own structures.This contradiction is personal. I'm not just talking about norms—I've lived them. The work I do is often considered taboo, even when it's mundane. Sharing the truth that academic work is frequently lonely, difficult, and emotionally unglamorous is seen as a betrayal. I've been told not to say these things. That I'm harming my career. That no one wants to hear it.But when I do say them, something remarkable happens: people connect. They open up. They say, “Yes. That's exactly how I feel.” And they say it in whispers.This whisper-network of truth makes me wonder: What are we so afraid of?What if being open didn't destroy our careers, but transformed them? What if struggling didn't mean we were flawed, but human? What if loneliness was not a pathology, but a signal that something in the system needs care?I built Reciprocity because I needed a place to feel less alone. I wanted to gamify the work, bring some joy back in, even if I had to talk to a robot instead of a person. But what I discovered is that the real innovation wasn't the platform. It was the honesty. The audacity to say: “I'm a researcher. I'm often alone. I'm scared. But I'm trying.”That's the truth I stand by. Not as rebellion, but as care. We lose too many good people to silence and quiet exits. If naming the loneliness, the fear, and the struggle makes me an outsider, so be it. But maybe—just maybe—naming it can change things.You're not broken. You're just doing something hard. And I'll be here to remind you: you're not alone.

Doing a PhD has nothing to do with coming up with better knowledge. I know that sounds wild. But I strongly believe this — and in this episode, I'm going to explain why.We think science is about finding truth. But the truth is, science is doubt. It's frustration. It's being torn down, over and over again. It's thousands and thousands of conversations with people who don't believe in you — and never will. It's building something when everyone thinks you're crazy. And it's doing it again tomorrow.I've spent over 10 years building the R3ciprocity Project — and most days, I feel like a stray dog just trying to be trusted. I feel like an idiot. But I get up and do it again, because this isn't about logic. It's about trust. It's about resonance. And it's about telling a story that's so strange, so outside what people expect, that they'll only believe it after you've said it a thousand times.

I get these waves.Waves of fear. Of doubt. At least once or twice a day.Why am I doing this?Why am I so public about something I don't even understand myself?I don't want to mess up anyone's life.What if someone hears this and does something terrible because they misunderstood me?What if I'm screwing it all up?I feel like a buffoon most of the time.A giant mess, walking around pretending to know.Sometimes I think I might be the hero in my own life.But mostly… I don't.I'm 46. And I still feel like the insecure kid on that dirt road — Ryczko Road — where nothing made sense.None of this goes away.The more I do this, the more doubt I have.The more faith I need — and I'm not even a faith-kind-of-person.But I've learned: you'll never really know.And that fear never disappears.You just learn to live with it.Take care.

I have seen a lot of people—especially in academia—try to ban ChatGPT outright. But the world doesn't work like that. Banning tools like this doesn't teach students how to live in a messy, shifting world—it just teaches them guilt and silence. I grew up in a strict household, so I get the instinct. But I also know what happens when people are told something is morally wrong: they hide. They feel shame. And they don't know how to talk about it when they slip.This episode is about building something better. Not rigid rules—but real conversations about how tools can be both powerful and flawed. We need to teach people how to think, how to ask questions, and how to live honestly inside a world that's constantly changing. And that's a much harder—but more human—lesson than just saying “don't.”

So what if you work on something for two, three, five years…You write the dissertation.You build the app.You post the idea.And no one looks.Your advisor doesn't read it.Your peers don't respond.The internet gives you five views and one pity like.This is not a bug in research.This is the game.Dissertations go unread.Projects die in inboxes.New ideas get met with condescension, silence, or worse—indifference.But you're not trying to reach the world.You're looking for one person—Someone playful enough to engage, curious enough to see potential.Most people won't.They'll never move a finger.It's not malice—it's just how it is.The work is in finding that spark.One out of ten million.That's how momentum starts.Ignore the rest.Reframe the silence as signal.Look for the spark.Keep going—quietly, persistently—until it catches.It won't take a year.It might take a decade.Maybe more.But those of us who build know the truth:That's the work.

This is just a one-minute thought—but it might change how you see yourself.We're told to be humble.But the truth is, no one gets far without a little arrogance.You need to believe you can do it—Even when others doubt you.Even when you doubt yourself.At the same time, that belief can't turn into self-importance.You also have to listen. Stay open. Learn fast.It's not about choosing one or the other.The people who go furthest?They hold both: a quiet arrogance and a grounded humility.

I have a PhD. I'm a professor.And still—some days, I can't keep up.There are emails I haven't answered. People I haven't followed up with. Promises I meant to keep but couldn't.Not because I don't care. But because I'm human.I wrestle with guilt. With fear. With the thought: “What will they think of me?”I've always been shy, and when people take me seriously, it still scares me a little.But I'm learning—slowly—to let go.If they judge me, that's on them.If I'm doing the best I can with what I've got, that's enough.Academia doesn't always make space for that truth—but I will.Today, I'm choosing to take a breath. To notice the beauty around me.And to remind myself: I'm doing okay.So are you.

What If You Picked the Wrong Career—And Can't Fix It?I think about this almost every day. I am sure you do, my friend.What if I picked the wrong career?What if I can't undo it?I'm a professor. I have a PhD—with 15 years of experience. But most days, I still ask: What the hell am I doing here? This isn't what I imagined. I feel typecast. Trapped. Like I can't change direction because the world already decided who I am.I'm an old man.But here's the truth: those boundaries—those roles we think are fixed—they're mostly made up. Nobody really knows what they're doing when they start. You just figure it out as you go.And when I see a 72-year-old training to be a lifeguard after 40 years as a programmer at my swimming pool (true story), I'm reminded: it's never too late to start again.If you're stuck, forgive yourself. I hear people say, “You just didn't do your homework.”F that. No one knows what they're getting into. You figure it out as you go.Say “screw it” to the expectations.Try the thing. Muck around.You don't need permission. Just start.And when people judge you? Build a boundary in your head. Politely Say SCREW YOU. Keep moving.That's what I'm doing.And if you're a PhD who feels this way—know you're not alone. You didn't mess it up. You're just living a story that's still being written.This is for every PhD who quietly wonders: “What if I chose wrong?”If you need someone to hear this, share it!

I'm Still Not Over My PhD — 15 Years LaterIt's been almost 15 years since I ended my PhD. I graduated in 2011.And if I'm being honest, I'm still not over it.I came in strong—undergrad and master's at one of the best engineering schools in the world. The first in my family to get an university degree told me I was no slouch. I thought I'd accelerate through a top business school, graduate in four years, and be on my way. Perhaps being a business professor or management consultant.But that's not what happened.What happened was… grief, confusion, silence, rejection.Two years of wandering at the beginning of my PhD program, trying to find mentors and figuring out me. I eventually found extraordinary mentors that pushed me every day and were often there to listen to lement.A job market that punished my pedigree— Canadian schools just don't have the same cache in the market.I can't tell you the number of times I heard: Waterloo what?Ivey who?I didn't know about the US academic market, so I never applied to those programs. I WAS living my dream schools.Endless ambiguity and crushing self-doubt.I nearly quit. Perhaps, more than once.I had a newborn one the way and a toddler. I was ready to work in a factory for nearly minimum wage if one more door closed.Then, one opened at one institution. I've been here ever since.But the scars linger.The questions. The bitterness. The confusion over why some thrive and others feel like they never quite click. Even today.And the deep, unshakable sense that I had to figure it out alone.That's why I built the R3ciprocity Project—to help fix this broken system. I've spent embarrassingly amounts of money and time trying to build this platform because of it.I get the same rejection. The same silence.But, I keep going forward because I know that this is important.I get the private messages and nods.If you're in it right now and struggling, you're not weak. I can tell you the majority of the professors out there feel the same way that I do. You just don't see it.You're not alone.You're living through what most of us never talk about.Keep going.

We're living through the biggest information shift in 100 years—and no one's prepared. Institutions are stuck. Algorithms reward chaos. But there's hope in something no one talks about: being a thoughtful, average, flawed, and kind person who still shows up every day. In a world built for extremes, the future belongs to those who build slow, human, and real.

There are days I feel like I've done nothing important since high school. Like the best is behind me—and I'm just slowly fading.And I know I'm not the only one.Even as a professor of innovation, I wrestle daily with the quiet fear that I'm falling short of who I'm “supposed” to be. The shame of wanting recognition. The guilt of not doing enough. The fear that others will take advantage of my vulnerability.But here's what I've learned:You don't need to fix it all. You just need to do one small thing today. Then do it again tomorrow. And the next day.If you've ever felt stuck, unseen, or like you're slipping backwards—this is for you.You're not broken. You're human. And you're not alone.

In academia, recognition isn't just a nice bonus. It is the reward system. If people don't notice your work, you don't get the job, the promotion, the funding. But if you seek recognition too openly? You risk looking awkward, insecure, or self-absorbed.It's a strange paradox: we are judged by how much others defer to our judgment. But to earn that deference, others must be paying attention. And to get attention, we're expected to self-promote—often in ways that feel deeply uncomfortable.For me, this isn't just professional discomfort. It's personal shame.I grew up in a Roman Catholic family where humility was everything. So when I see others promoting themselves online, or when I do it myself, I feel a wave of guilt. I think of all the people who might feel worse because of what I posted. I reflect on my own insecurities. I wonder if I'm good enough. And then I go quiet again.But the truth is: silence doesn't always serve us. And neither does shame.If you feel uncomfortable with self-promotion, you're not alone.If you secretly crave recognition and hate yourself for it, you're not alone.This is the messy middle we live in.There's no right answer—only the daily effort to be honest with yourself, and maybe kind to others trying to figure it out too.

In academia, one of the biggest red flags I've learned to recognize is when someone proudly says they “outwork everyone.” It sounds admirable—until you realize it often signals transactional thinking, competition over collaboration, and a mindset that leaves no room for empathy or building something bigger than yourself.Research is not a race. And outworking others isn't the goal. The goal is to build something that lasts, something meaningful—with people who care just as much as you do.If you're trying to create anything truly new—especially in research or academia—you can't do it alone. You need trust. You need support. You need people who show up for each other.The ones who win at that game? They don't say “I outwork everyone.”They say: “Let's build this together.”Let me know if this resonates—or if you've seen this kind of mindset, too.

You're not going to like this—but I've come to believe it's true:We're not teaching people empathy.Not in business school.Not in PhD programs.Not in most classrooms.We're teaching performance.Frameworks.Strategy.Execution.But not how to read a room.Not how to ask:“How is this person actually feeling right now?”Or: “How do I show up in a way that helps, not harms?”I used to think empathy was soft.I now believe it's the core skill that makes or breaks your success—in research, in business, and in life.The thing is… I'm naturally empathetic.And for a long time, I assumed everyone else was too.That people were good.That they meant well.That if I showed up with kindness, it would be returned.That was wrong. Painfully wrong.Empathy doesn't work on everyone.Some people take advantage of it.Some people weaponize your kindness.And the more you give, the more they take.But that doesn't mean you give up on empathy.It means you learn to use it wisely.Empathy is not weakness.It's not being a doormat.It's not endlessly giving.It's knowing when to give.And when to walk away.In my house, we talk about feelings.We ask, “How do you think they felt?”And I've seen the difference that makes with my kids.A little empathy changes everything:How you teach.How you parent.How you lead.How you breathe in a room that doesn't fully accept you.But here's the catch:Empathy only works if you also protect yourself.So if you're the kind of person who gives…Who senses everything…Who gets crushed when you're ignored or dismissed—This is your permission:You are not wrong. You are not soft. You are not naive.You're reading the world at a deeper level.Just make sure you don't burn out trying to fix it.Empathy is your superpower.But like all power, it needs boundaries.

At some point, you realize the climb they promised was never real. Maybe there isn't a ladder. Maybe there's no pinnacle.You start to feel a shift—where you stop buying into this dream of “moving on up” and start accepting the world as it actually is. That doesn't mean you give up. It means you embrace modesty. Simplicity. The birds and the bees. The tingly feeling when you realize: I'm doing OK.It's not about climbing anymore. It's about finding peace with where you are and who you are. And when that happens—strangely—everything begins to change.

People will tell you it should be easier. They'll say you're doing it wrong. But until they actually stand up and do it themselves, they haven't got a clue.The truth is: it's way frigging harder than you think it is. You will make mistakes. You will feel embarrassed. You will doubt yourself every single day. But your job is to keep going, to try your best, and realize that we all universally suck at this.You have as good a shot as anybody else. Forget their noise. Get up. Try. Be willing to look foolish. That's the only way anything real ever happens.

Ignore what other people expect of you. Reinvest everything into things that go up in value. That's it. The trick is doing it for 30, 40, 50 years—even when nobody understands, even when it looks foolish. Get the boring degree. Drive the boring car. Make the ambiguous choices. Invest in yourself. In your family. In your future. You won't see the payoff right away, but that's the point. Keep doing it. Day in. Day out. That's how it works.

I get it — I've felt it too. I grew up far from academic circles. I was the first in my family to go away, and it always felt like everyone else was just more polished, more confident, more… something. But after years in academia and building the R3ciprocity Project, I've learned that what looks like arrogance is often just insecurity, stress, and isolation. Most of us are introverts forced into strange performances. You'll meet some kind ones, and some who act like they've made it. Just remember: everybody puts their pants on the same way. If you've ever felt small or out of place around someone with a PhD — you're not alone. You are enough. You're gonna be okay. Keep walking into those rooms and forgiving yourself when it feels awkward. You're doing better than you think.

Nobody cares. You have to get to the moment where that's just your thing. You walk past them. You say, “Whatever.” You don't listen. You just keep going forward every day. Most people are deeply compliant. They're in the here and now. They don't get it. But you do. You've been humiliated. You've been broken. You've been ignored. And yet, you're still going.This isn't about applause. This is about doing something for the greater good. It's grinding. It's expensive. It's lonely. But if you're still moving, still building, still saying, “I love myself for doing it,” then you're doing something right.Practice smiling from the heart. Practice wonder. And remember: every day, it's a little bit of not listening. And every day, you get better at it.

I'm 45. I'm in the middle right now. I feel like I plateaued ten years ago, but I'm still moving up.” In this episode, I talk honestly about aging, the struggle with aging parents, and why I'll never resonate with my mom. I share what it's like to care too much, to realize that the roles have reversed, and to feel like your parents—your superheroes—no longer understand you. I open up about generational gaps, acceptance, walking as the happy pill, and the hard truth that “you can't help people who don't want help.” This is about learning to step back, love others as they are, and love yourself more.

I've been doing this for a long time—and I keep asking the same question:Why do so many people disappear from academic research?We tell ourselves it's about intelligence. That people drop out because they weren't smart enough.But I think that's a cop-out.What I've actually seen is this: people leave because they don't feel supported.Yes, it takes grit.Yes, it takes personal drive.But the thing that keeps people going—year after year, failure after failure—is community.And that's exactly what's missing for so many PhDs and researchers.We burn people out.We isolate them.We make the process so cold and transactional that it breaks the spirit of even the brightest minds.But what if we changed that?What if the academic journey didn't just leave people bitter and alone, but helped them feel loved, seen, and supported along the way?That's what I'm building with the Reciprocity Project.It's not perfect, but it's a step toward something better—toward keeping more of us in the game for the long haul.Because research doesn't just need brilliance. It needs people who feel like they belong.

Someone reached out to me recently. They were interested in working together—but it became clear they hadn't taken the time to really understand what I'm building.This isn't about ego. It's about depth.We're taught to move fast, to skim, to pitch before we listen. But real innovation—like real relationships—requires a deeper dive.Before we build something new, ask:What already exists? What's been solved? What's working beneath the surface?Most systems, ideas, and platforms are held together by years of invisible learning. When you ignore that, you don't move faster—you end up starting from scratch and repeating old mistakes.I'm not looking for quick wins or surface-level partnerships.I'm looking for people who want to knead the dough slowly, fold in the right flavors, and build something that lasts.If someone asks you to slow down and understand—don't take it as resistance.Take it as a chance to do meaningful work.

I'm super grateful for my parents. I know my mom listens to this—love you, Mom.They taught me something really important: you don't have to care about everything all the time. That might not sound profound, but it's one of the most useful lessons I've ever learned.There's this pressure in the world to always be on—to always be pushing, performing, doing something big. But the truth is, if you care about everything, you'll fall apart.And if you care about nothing, nothing gets done.So there's this middle ground—this space between trying hard and letting go—and I think that's where real life happens.Some days, you push.Some days, you rest.And if you land somewhere in the middle? That's more than enough.That's what I learned from watching my dad work in the garden. That's what I learned from a life of quiet moments and thoughtful choices. And that's the kind of wisdom I want to pass on.Take care. And remember:You don't have to be on all the time.

It's personal, quietly profound, and instantly relatable for anyone carrying long-term emotional weight—especially PhDs, professors, or high achievers navigating invisible pressure.

Most people never do anything important in their life—not because they're lazy, but because they can't stand feeling unimportant.To build anything real, you have to walk through rejection. You have to be okay with looking like a fool, with people asking, “what the hell are you doing?” and you having no good answer.I've lived it. I still do.I've spent years pouring time and money into something that looks like a flop to the outside world. But I show up. I make it happen. I take the next step—even when it's embarrassing.That's what it means to do good work. You push the needle by doing embarrassing things every day while people look away.Not because you're special. But because you're willing.Real life isn't some magical moment where everything comes together. It's the moment you stand up, ignore everyone else, and get crap done.If you feel like an outsider, like you don't matter—that's actually the sign that you're on the right path.This is about the grind, the taint, the courage to matter when you feel like you don't.

Every time I see a handwritten sign taped to a light pole that says:“MAKE $10,000 A WEEK — NO EXPERIENCE NEEDED”“TURN OLD MATTRESSES INTO CASH”“CALL JERRY FOR A FINANCIAL FREEDOM HACK”…I ask myself the same question:Who falls for this? And more importantly: who's out there posting these signs like it's their life mission?But here's the thing—people do fall for it.Because these scams follow a formula: • Promise something absurd • Target people desperate for change • Hope that 1 out of 10,000 is desperate enoughThis is the same mindset behind scammy financial influencers with no training, fake AI tools, “passive income hacks,” and every shortcut that conveniently skips over the actual hard, painful, years-long grind it takes to build something real.Here's the truth no scammer will say:If it looks easy, fun, and instantly profitable—it's either illegal, unethical, or completely made up.The only path that works?It's boring. It's slow. It's painful.It requires you to do things no one wants to do, over and over, for years.If you don't see the suffering, there probably wasn't any value created.

Being experience essentially means that you know that not everybody does what they say, and say what they mean. It means that you have to live with and get up and keep going when you have a lot of disappointment.

Professor Jen Heemstra, Chair of the Chemistry Department at Washington University, shares her remarkable journey from being told she wasn't “good enough” for science to leading in academia. This conversation explores navigating failure, building inclusive and psychologically safe academic spaces, and why leadership roles in academia are often misunderstood. Insights from her upcoming book, Lab Work to Leadership, offer actionable strategies for thriving as a leader in science. This discussion provides valuable lessons on mentorship, resilience, and creating positive change in academic culture.

I've been in the research game long enough to know that intelligence isn't what I look for anymore.It's empathy.It's quiet respect.It's that subtle feeling you get when someone actually sees you—not as a stepping stone or a means to an end—but as a real person.For a long time, I assumed everyone worked like that. That if you were kind, if you cared, others would too.But I've learned the hard way: not everyone plays the same game.Some people view empathy as weakness.Some use it.Some never had it to begin with.That's why now, my only real filter is this:Do I feel safe, respected, and valued in your presence?If not, I'm out. No drama. Just gone.I don't want clever.I want care.I want to work with people who feel things.People who build slowly, trust deeply, and show up for the right reasons—not just to get ahead.It's rare.But if you're one of those people—if any of this resonates with you—reach out.Maybe we work together.Maybe we don't.But I'd love to know that you exist.Because this world needs more empathetic researchers.And I'm done pretending that's a soft skill.It's the only thing that matters.#ResearchLife #EmpathyInAcademia #PhDLife #RealTalk #R3ciprocity

I used to believe in magical thinking—the idea that if I just worked with the right person, picked the right hot topic, or followed some “research success formula,” it would all come together.But it doesn't work that way.What actually works?Grinding. Rejection. Isolation. Picking yourself back up. Again and again.It's not glamorous—but it's real.I've accepted that no one's coming to the rescue. So I'm trying to build something instead—a small platform called r3ciprocity.com. It helps researchers get feedback, build confidence, and stay motivated in a system that's honestly stacked against them.The idea is simple: • Make research feel a little less lonely. • Help people keep going. • Give them tools so they don't quit too soon.But I can't build this alone.If you've ever felt stuck, burned out, overlooked, or like you were doing everything “right” and still falling behind—this is for you.If you believe academia should do better by its people, please share this.Let the presidents and deans see that we're not asking for shortcuts—we're asking for support.We don't need magical thinking.We need better systems.And we need each other.Thanks for reading.And if you're still showing up every day—even when it's hard—you're already the hero in your story.