R3ciprocity Podcast

Not the pitch decks. Not the TED Talks. Not the LinkedIn wins.But the quiet moments of anxiety. The constant doubt. The deep embarrassment of putting something out into the world before it's ready—and maybe before you are.In this podcast, Professor David Maslach (creator of R3ciprocity) shares a brutally honest take on what it actually feels like to build something real—when you have no funding, no roadmap, and no clue if it will work.This is for the people in the middle of the mess, trying to build anyway.

simple: 1. Generate knowledge 2. Turn it into real-world solutions 3. Repeat—with joyBut instead of pretending that this happens in a perfectly rational system, I want to remind people: it's allowed to be fun.Serious progress can come from play.Deep insight can come from silliness.The point is to keep going, and keep trying—even when it feels pointless.

Most days, I feel like I'm failing at everything.I'm trying to be a good dad.A good husband.A good son.A good professor.A good person.And most days—I feel like I'm not doing enough in any of those roles.Like I'm stretched so thin, I barely exist in any of them.But I still show up.Not because I have it figured out. Not because I'm successful.But because I believe there are people out there who feel the exact same way—and think they're the only ones.You're not.I talk about what it's really like to live in that space where you're trying hard, giving what you can, and still wondering if it matters.I also talk about what it's like to build something—like the Reciprocity Project—when you're not confident, not famous, and not sure anyone's listening.This isn't a success story. It's a survival story.And if you're in that place right now, this is for you.

I'm going to say something that might sound extreme:If we got rid of higher education as we know it—college, university, all of it—maybe we'd be better off.Why?Because most people don't actually want to learn.They don't care. They're checked out. And no message—no matter how true or kind—seems to land unless it's already preaching to the choir.And yet… I keep going.Because I know this: real education moves the needle.But only when people take it seriously.Only when they do the hard work.Only when they show up—again and again—even when it's miserable, boring, thankless, and lonely.I've lived it.I've seen what this kind of work does to a life.You don't see it in the moment. You don't feel it in your bank account.But give it 10 or 20 years, and it changes everything—your class, your identity, your capacity to survive.This episode is for the person who's being laughed at right now.For the person who's grinding and feels invisible.For the one who wants to quit because the gains feel too far away.Keep going.It's supposed to be hard.And yes, it feels stupid while you're doing it.But one day, someone will come up to you and say: “I wish I had done what you did.”And that moment will be worth it.

We're taught in school to look for a single best answer. One multiple-choice question. One correct option. Select A and move on.But the real world never works like that.Most of the time, the answer is never given to you.Most of the time, you don't even know what the question actually is.In real life, the “answers” are never independent. They're highly connected in weird ways. If you select A in the first question, the response in the second question might be B. Or D. Or something you didn't expect at all.And when you actually interact with the world, you realize you just don't know. There isn't a straight answer. There isn't even a clear question. You have to piece together artifacts of this very complicated world and make sense of it yourself.The central problem is this: people wait to be told the right answer.But it's not going to present itself that way.You have to figure out what you're even asking.Then decide what you will call the correct choice based on what you see.And the only way to build that skill is by pushing against the world. Saying “screw you” to the idea of a single right way. Doing something. Seeing what happens.It's always going to be a complicated interactive mess.But you learn by doing. Not by waiting.

It's not lost on me how wrong management theories often are.I read a lot. And I know this sounds pretentious, but I'm confident enough now to say I'm one of the few people who actually studies platforms and builds one. The only reason I got here is because I'm building the Reciprocity platform with my own money, my own time, and all the embarrassment that goes with it.And that's why I see how disconnected management theory often is from the real world. We rarely capture what it feels like to actually build something — the shame, the failure, the stress, the weird looks, the feeling of being an outsider, and doing the “wrong thing” for years before anything works.Nobody writes about how hard it is to get attention.Nobody writes about being stuck in the middle — too practical for academia, too theoretical for builders.Nobody writes about waking up, wasting money, screwing up, and getting back up again.Students talk about innovation.Big companies talk about innovation.But almost nobody actually does it — because it's humiliating, slow, lonely work.The only reason I understand this now is because I was foolish enough to build something real. And once you do that, you realize how little our theories explain and how much of innovation is simply:get up, feel the shame, try again.Take care and have a wonderful day.

I built the most powerful research tool I have ever used — more impactful than AI. It lets you compare ideas, generate abstracts, and get instant feedback. I don't know why researchers keep scrolling past it.

I keep hearing that academia is dying.That we're in an existential crisis.That peer review is broken. That the system is collapsing.And I get it.I've been deeply concerned about parts of it, too—especially peer review. When it's bad, it's almost useless. But when it works, it's beautiful. And hard.Still, I don't buy the narrative that we're watching the death of the academic system.Because one thing organizational theory teaches us—if we're really paying attention—is that you can look at the same system in multiple ways. And when I step back and squint, academia starts to look like something much simpler:A distributed network of smart people paid to think.That's it. That's the whole thing.Strip away the institutional formalities, the politics, the performative routines—and what we're left with is still valuable. Because even if universities crumble or AI replaces traditional processes, there will still be demand for smart people solving hard problems.And if the public systems fall apart? Private ones will emerge.Will they be better? Maybe. Worse? Maybe.But they'll exist—because thinking has value.In this episode, I explore why I'm not afraid of the supposed collapse of academia.I'm actually kind of excited.Because the system was never perfect.And maybe what comes next could be even more alive.

Sometimes I'll see a new bill passed or read a shocking headline—and my first reaction is the same as yours: “What the hell is happening to the world?”I'll get grumpy. I'll vent to my wife. I'll think, “This is dumb.”But then I stop.Because I've learned that we, as human beings, are terrible at making sense of complicated systems.Even if something seems obviously harmful—or genuinely is harmful—it's often impossible to know what the actual long-term effects will be. The systems we live in are too complex. You move one piece, and another shifts in a direction you never saw coming.We teach this in business schools all the time. But we forget it when the world feels uncertain.In this episode, I talk about why we get suckered into overreacting to things we barely understand. Why even smart people with lots of data still get it wrong. And why real change—like with climate tech—often comes from places we least expect.I talk about China, capitalism, solar panels, and storms. But really, I'm talking about how hope still survives in complexity. And why stepping back doesn't mean giving up—it just means seeing the system for what it is.If you've felt overwhelmed by the news, this episode is for you.Not because I'll tell you what to think.But because I'll remind you that it's okay not to know right away.

There is absolutely far too much hype around innovation.I say that as someone who teaches innovation for a living and then tried to build something myself.I have spent unbelievable amounts of time, effort, and money on the Reciprocity platform. And the great irony is that it was meant to help researchers in a field that talks nonstop about innovation. Yet when you look around, almost no one actually innovates. Not really.At the beginning, I fell for the hype. I read all the good stories. I believed the models. But once you try to build something in the real world, you see how big the selection bias is. We only hear from the winners. Nobody counts the people who tried for a week or two and quit because they were crushed by the psychology of it.The truth is this: most innovation is not technical. It is emotional.You have to sit with your own failures. You have to feel like an outsider.You have to speak into the darkness and hope someone even cares.And you have to keep going when it feels like nobody does.I misunderstood how hard that would be.And I am still trying.

There is a lot of mystery and ambiguity around the career of a researcher or scientist, and the general public often gets it wrong. Reporters and commenters talk about science in a certain way, but when you are in it, you know it does not work that way at all. Different domains are very different in how they operate in the scientific way, and there is a lot of nuance that people never see.What the public thinks we actually do is striking, and these misperceptions pass to policymakers and government analysts. Even popular science shows report things like the number of citations, but that is one of the most meaningless things in terms of what good science really is. More citations does not mean better science.Good work needs depth, nuance, and looking at the world in a different way. There are big differences in scientific effort across fields. Some work is very good, and some is easy to see as not very good at all. You see it fast when you look at abstracts, even my 13-year-old could spot it.People also think science is full of facts, but real facts are very hard to come by in a world with so much uncertainty. Science is probabilistic, complex, and never as clear as it looks. Better understanding of probability, science, and even financial literacy would help people understand it all a lot more.We need more clarity about how science actually gets done, why ideas repeat, why norms develop, and why science is not the simple story most people imagine.

Is Business Strategy Just Luck, Privilege, and Repetition?Over time, I have become increasingly cautious about what strategy truly means. I have spent much of my career studying it, teaching it, and trying to apply it. Yet the longer I engage with the topic, the more I have come to wonder whether we sometimes overstate what we can actually achieve.Respecting the TraditionIt is important to acknowledge that the study of strategy has given us remarkable insights. The field has taught generations of scholars to think about positioning, competitive advantage, and the careful use of scarce resources. These ideas have shaped me deeply.The narrative assumes that we can diagnose a situation, marshal our resources, and execute a well-chosen plan. Yet when one examines real world examples as it actually unfolds—in markets, in careers, in scientific discovery—the connection between deliberate planning and eventual success appears less direct to me.The Invisible Forces: Luck and Social PositionMuch of what we observe as performance may be better explained by forces that are rarely incorporated into our models of organizational life: luck and social position. Luck determines when and where one is born, who crosses one's path, and which events unfold unexpectedly in one's favor. Social position shapes access to information, status, and networks that magnify opportunity.None of this invalidates the importance of strategy. It simply means that strategy often operates within constraints that are difficult to see and even harder to measure.If luck and position matter so much, what remains within our control? The answer lies in gumption and humility, rather than perfect decision-making. The causes of success and failure are often intertwined.In such a world, the most strategic capability may not be the ability to choose perfectly, but the ability to continue acting (gumption) when the outcomes are unclear. It is not brilliance, but endurance, or… stupidity.The Engine of Performance: Gumption and FaithI have grown to see persistence as the quiet foundation beneath every form of performance. Those who continue to show up, to be curious, and to believe that improvement is possible—despite repeated setbacks—often discover forms of success that were invisible.To me, this does not diminish the value of strategy; it deepens it. It reminds us that deliberate planning must coexist with faith. Something we have known for all of humanity.⸻The Humility to See ComplexityThe traditional tools of strategy remain valuable, but they describe only one slice of a vast, open, and adaptive system. Recognizing this should not make us cynical—it should make us humble.True strategic insight may not come from trying to control the world, but from patience, grace, and joy. Strategy, at its core, is not about mastery. It is about learning to move forward through muddy messes—again and again—while still believing that tomorrow can be brighter than today.

There is a lot of discussion about the validity of science right now.Researchers talk endlessly about how to make results “more valid,” how to fix problems, and how to improve the system.But here is what I actually think.It is not about “bad apples.”It is almost never about that.The real issue is culture.And culture often comes down to one or two people inside a community who stress performance above all else. Those one or two people create tension. They make others feel lesser than. They make you feel like you are the problem. And then everything starts to bend around that pressure.This is true everywhere.Every organization. Every department. Every field.You can feel it when the conversation becomes only about outcomes:number of citations, number of papers, number of grants.All lagging indicators. All terrible predictors.My field in strategy does this constantly.It is completely wrong.And it has been wrong for a long time.A lot of this came from the old Jack-Welch-style management thinking of the 1980s. That mindset seeped everywhere. It made people believe outcomes were all that mattered. Just hit the number. Hit the target. Hit the metric.But if you look at the research coming out of the systems-dynamics world at MIT — the Sterman group especially — the story is always the same:When you focus on outcomes, everything erodes.Eventually it all falls apart.Because outcomes are not the thing that matters.What matters is whether people feel safe.What matters is whether people feel supported.What matters is whether there is unconditional kindness in the room instead of fear.You fix culture, you fix science.And none of that starts with performance.

Everyone says to optimize. To fit in. To specialize.But what if playing it safe is exactly what's holding you back?In this raw and honest episode, David Maslach shares what most people won't say out loud:Being weird might be the only reason your career survives.Drawing from experience as a tenured professor and researcher, he explains: • Why the best ideas start as misunderstood • How “goofy” projects become strategic breakthroughs • Why great firms like Google protect weirdos—and so should you • What it feels like when even your friends think you're wasting your timeThis isn't hustle advice. It's a survival guide for researchers, PhDs, and anyone trying to build something real when nobody else sees the vision yet.If you've ever wondered, “Am I off-track or just early?”This episode will help you keep going.

Hey assistant professors that are just starting out. I just wanna remind you to live with as much joy as you possibly can. It is very easy to focus on what you need to get to and be very strategic in terms of who you are going to work with, but the key thing to always focus on is joy. Make sure that you are smiling every day. Make sure you have some laughter every single day. Look for those moments that make you feel warm inside. This is what I call the Spidey sense — the warmness you feel once you start engaging and you start doing things in life.Take a step back from the things that make you feel uptight. Engage with the moments that give you the warm fuzzies. It is not about being impractical and it is not about living life with rose-colored glasses. It is about figuring out how to survive in a world that often pushes all of that joy away. The more you focus on feeling warm inside, being light on your feet, and living your life with joy, the better off you are going to be.You might be listening to this and saying that joy will not make you productive. You have already lost as soon as you start thinking about productivity. That is a dead-end journey. As soon as I say the word productivity, I get uptight in my belly. But if I focus on how I can feel warm, how I can live my life with joy, how I can be a more joyful researcher where every moment I am laughing and every moment I have a sense of lightness, I feel better.For me, joy comes from people who want to laugh, who smile, who shrug off the seriousness of life. It comes from going for walks, hearing the birds, talking to you, and getting to engage in these moments where I feel good. None of this has the word productivity in it. None of this is about accomplishing things. Push that language away.If you think this will not help you get tenure, you have already lost. Your life will be dominated by trying to get tenure, and by the time you get there you will ask why you were so focused on it. Live with joy. Live with an open heart. See people smiling. Laugh. It is OK to get a cup of coffee or grab a lunch. It is not about productivity.My life used to be dominated by the logic of productivity, and every time I heard about working all the time, I felt awful because I could never compare. So I disengaged with that and focused on what makes me excited and joyful. When I could not get things done, when I was grocery shopping or spending time with my kids, I disengaged from the pressure. The joy comes from these moments, and it will change who you are inside.It may not always work out for you, but at least you lived a life worth living. You will take more risks. You will engage more. People will want to be around you. There will be a fundamental shift in who you are. Ironically, by not focusing on productivity — by focusing on joy — you actually become more productive. The less you care, the better off you are.You might not listen to this now, but one day, 20 years from now, you will hear this again and say: now I get it. Learn how to engage in the warmth and the joy of the process of discovery. Disengage from everything that pushes you toward “getting things done.” In the end, what matters is that you lived a good, healthy, lovely life where you laughed, had fun, and every moment was a joy.If you have small kids, I know it is difficult. I live that life. But remember they are a blessing. They are not taking away from your work. They are adding to it. Live a life of inspiration for others. Do not live a life about productivity. Live a life where you want to be joyful at any given moment — where you laugh and you smile. Something changes when you do that.All right, take care and have a wonderful day.

My dad used to sit in the backyard and just watch his garden.No phone. No emails. Just stillness.It never made sense to me when I was younger—how he could be happy with just that.But now I understand.He wasn't chasing anything.He had arrived.In academia—and in so many elite careers—we're trained to chase.Chase status.Chase metrics.Chase recognition from people we don't even know.I feel that pull every day.This deep, unshakable urge to be part of the most prestigious schools.To be recognized as “one of the best.”To earn a seat at the imagined table.Even when my life is full—A partner I love.Kids who make me laugh.Colleagues I care about.Freedom to think, write, and build.Still, the voice whispers:“Shouldn't you want more?”Here's what I think is happening.We construct this amalgamated ideal—a stitched-together fantasy of all the “best” traits we see in others.The top publication record.The perfect teaching scores.The charming personality.The viral following.The elite institution.The MacArthur. The Nobel. The NYT op-ed.But this ideal?It's a monster.It doesn't exist.And comparing ourselves to it only makes us feel broken.We forget: the entire picture matters.That so-called “flaw” you carry might actually be the source of your integrity.That “slowness” might be the root of your originality.That local, quiet life might hold more wisdom than any global award.The pressure to perform isn't just exhausting.It's distorting.It makes us forget that this—right now—might already be enough.Maybe we don't need to outrun the system.Maybe we just need to stop sprinting toward someone else's fantasy.And remember how to sit still.And notice the garden.

This is one of those moments I promised I'd be real with you. Nothing polished. Nothing fancy. Just the truth. Right now, I'm grumpy and tired after work—and honestly, that's all I wanted to share. Not as a rant, but as a reminder. Because we're surrounded by advice telling us to love every second of our careers, to feel passion at every turn. And if you're not feeling it, then maybe something's wrong with you. That's the lie.Here's my experience: after a full day of real work—whether that's writing papers, mentoring students, or even just managing life—I'm drained. I feel grumpy. And that's not failure. That's what it feels like to do something. Any kind of work, even the cool, creative kind, still wears you down. Whether you're a professor, a parent, a podcaster, or a so-called “influencer”—at the end of the day, you're still just a tired human trying to do your best.I see a lot of research, a lot of career advice, and a lot of “hacks” about how to be happy at work. But I'm going to tell you what I know for sure:A) I never fully know what I'm doing.B) I often feel like I'm doing the wrong thing.C) After doing the work, I usually feel completely wiped out.And honestly? I think that's completely normal.It's also normal to disengage now and again. To feel like you need to hit pause. Sometimes, switching up what you're doing—even just a little—can bring you back. That doesn't mean you're lazy or dispassionate. It means you're human. Not everything has to feel exciting. Sometimes, the best work feels like a slog.So no, you don't have to feel good all the time. You don't have to be lit up with purpose 24/7. Life isn't constant joy. It's cycles. There are days when you feel unstoppable and days when you feel like you want to curl up and disappear. That's not a flaw. That's just how it works. Take care, and keep going.

Most people ask: “Why do universities produce so little innovation per dollar spent?” or “Why don't university labs focus on real-world innovation?” The problem is that we keep using metrics that don't capture what's actually happening.Universities are playing a very different game than companies. They don't just chase performance. They teach. They serve public missions. They take on harder problems—ones others walk away from. And most of their innovation efforts? They aren't failures. They're options—investments in ideas we can't yet predict.So when you hear someone say “university patents don't make money” or “companies do it better,” they're forgetting the whole point: we're terrible at predicting success. In fact, most business leaders fail at this too—they just get to pick from projects that already look successful.If we want real innovation, we need to stop asking why universities aren't more efficient. The real question is: how do we make life good enough for the people who can see around corners—so they actually want to show up and build?

I've spent the last 10 years building a platform to make research better.To make it less lonely.To make it more joyful.To make rejection less painful.At first, I thought people would jump in.I assumed: “If I build something good—something that helps—people will just show up.”They didn't.I kept building anyway.And along the way, I learned the hardest part of innovation isn't the tech.It's not funding.It's not even the science.It's belief.Getting people to believe something new is possible…That's the game.And most of us are too tired, too overworked, too skeptical, or too burned by the system to believe.So we tell ourselves: • “I don't have time.” • “I haven't heard of it.” • “I'm already overwhelmed.”And those are real. I get it.But here's what I've learned:If I want to build something that changes anything at all, it's my job to figure out how to break through that.Not yours.You don't need to believe in my platform.But maybe this:If something feels hard to share or grow, it's not because people are wrong.It's because people are tired. Burned. Stuck.That's not an obstacle.That's the reason to keep building.Because maybe—just maybe—someone else is quietly trying too.And they need to know they're not alone.

The research career is hard in a way that's not often talked about. It's not just intellectually difficult — it's personally difficult. It functions a lot like entrepreneurship. You are left entirely to your own demise. You have near-total autonomy, and what that does is amplify whatever your default tendencies are.If you are a high-anxiety person — which describes a large number of successful researchers — you will likely internalize everything. You'll obsess, push harder, and feel like the world will fall apart if you don't accomplish something today. That's often why people succeed. But it also means you can burn yourself out or break down completely. The anxiety becomes the thing that eats you alive.On the flip side, if you are naturally more relaxed or chill, it's easy to default to avoidance. You just won't get much done. You tell yourself it'll be fine — and nothing happens. And nobody is really there to push you, because there's nobody watching.The whole system reinforces whatever your crutch is. If you're prone to loneliness, you'll feel it more. If you're prone to overwork, you'll overwork. If you need structure, there isn't any. And over time, it becomes clear that the hardest part isn't the research — it's regulating your own head.Most of the damage comes from being left to your own psychology. And that's what makes the research profession so much like building a startup. It's rarely about your ideas. It's whether you can survive being left to yourself.

I've become increasingly skeptical of the peer review system—not because the intention behind it is bad, but because of the complicated world in which it's embedded. On paper, the process sounds idealistic: submit your research, get anonymous feedback, revise, and resubmit. But in practice, it's a messy system shaped by invisible games, ambiguous standards, and enormous variability in what counts as “good” science.In this episode, I reflect on what it feels like to send work off into a black box—where editorial decisions are shaped by uncertainty, disagreement, and sometimes just luck. We talk about how reviewers often don't agree, how “A-level” work depends on who's judging it, and how real people's careers and livelihoods are affected by invisible rules no one fully understands.I still believe in the value of careful research. But I also think we need to get honest about the cost—emotional, intellectual, and financial—of playing the current game. And maybe, just maybe, we need to imagine a better system.

Why do we choose this strange, difficult career of research—and what makes it worth it?David Maslach sits down with Olav Sorenson, Professor of Strategy at UCLA Anderson and one of the most influential voices in organizational theory and entrepreneurship.“We're professional problem solvers.”In this powerful conversation, Sorenson shares how curiosity—not credentials—built his career. From almost launching a startup to shaping the field of entrepreneurship, he reminds us why the real reward in science is the process, not the prize.We talk about: • Why choosing “weird” ideas matters. • How to build real, lasting relationships. • Why intrinsic motivation is more powerful than prestige.This is a reminder that being a good scientist means staying brave, sometimes irrelevant, and always learning to love the climb.

Most people give up.They try a few times. It gets hard. It gets quiet. No one notices.So they stop.And that's why the game is winnable.That's why you never see professors building open platforms.Why researchers tell you not to start something new.Why smart people will laugh at your idea and say,“That's not how it's done.”They're not wrong.They're just done.But I'm not.Every day, I show up. Even when no one cares.Even when I feel ridiculous.Even when I want to quit.Because I know the truth:Consistency outlasts brilliance.One more day of effort stacks higher than one perfect performance.And I've seen this across research, careers, and life:The people who win aren't always smarter.They're the ones who refuse to stop when it stops being fun.They do the boring thing.The scary thing.The invisible thing.Until something cracks.And then people say:“Wow, you're lucky.”“Must be nice.”But the truth is simple:You didn't quit.And that's always been the difference.

I've never liked how we talk about retirement. Like life just… ends at 65. You stop being relevant, you stop pushing, and you're supposed to disappear into golf courses and travel ads. That might have made sense in 1955—when making it to 70 was a miracle. But that's not our world anymore. Most of us will live far longer than we think, and if you've made it this far, chances are you're healthy, sharp, and still very much alive.This episode is a gut-check: why “retirement” is outdated, why aging is framed all wrong, and why it's not too late to build, explore, and press against the world. We've confused age with irrelevance—and it's costing us. It's time to unlearn what we've been sold, respect the long arc of curiosity, and show up again—with all our might.

As a professor and researcher, you'd think I'd be certain about things by now.But the more I study the world, the more I realize how little we actually know.We act like understanding is easy—as if truth is just waiting to be downloaded.But most knowledge is fragile. Most beliefs are assumptions in disguise.And still, everyone around us—especially in academia—pretends like they know.This creates a strange culture:One where people compete by displaying knowledge, not seeking it.Where learning becomes performance, and doubt is seen as weakness.But here's the secret:The best minds I know live in the tension between knowing and not knowing.They don't shout. They ask. They keep peeling things back.Not because they have the answers—but because they're still curious.

You are more capable than you think.Most people won't tell you that. The world will make you feel small. Rejections pile up. Deadlines feel impossible. And sometimes it feels like quitting is the only way forward.But here's the truth: if you've made it this far, you already have a level of grit, intelligence, and persistence that few people ever reach.You don't need to “prove” yourself to anyone. You don't need the world's permission. You are already one of the most capable people in the room.

I've been thinking a lot about ultra-wealth—what it means when someone can earn more money in a year than most of us will see in a lifetime, and still have their wealth grow faster than they can spend it. On one hand, they earned it—through luck, skill, or strategy. On the other, we've created a world where a few people now sit above every system, every law, and maybe even time itself.This isn't a rant. It's a puzzle.What happens when wealth becomes untouchable?What happens when markets can't contain individuals anymore?There's no easy fix. But for those of us studying systems, innovation, and inequality—this is the kind of problem we have to think through. I don't have the answer. But I think we need to ask better questions.

When I began my academic journey, I assumed science was about accumulating facts that would eventually point to some clear understanding of how the world works. I believed, like many do, that each study added a brick to a larger structure we call “truth.”But over time, I've come to appreciate a more complex view.In many areas, evidence is often ambiguous, methods rest on assumptions, and interpretation depends on context. The questions we ask, and the tools we use to answer them, shape what we're able to see.Pluralism is defined as the view that multiple perspectives, methods, or explanations can each contribute meaningful insights to a phenomenon. In my own work, I've found that no single model captures everything. Some scholars use experimental design. Others prefer ethnographic immersion, formal modeling, or archival methods. All have their strengths—and their limitations.Rather than treating one method as “the” path to insight, I've come to rely on what you might call a weighted mental model: I take what I can from each approach and try to integrate these insights in a way that makes sense for the specific problem I'm studying. It's not always elegant, but it reflects the reality that many phenomena are multifaceted and dynamic.Truth as Process, Not EndpointThis doesn't mean there is no truth. But it does suggest that truth in the social sciences often emerges through approximation—through triangulation across methods, perspectives, and disciplines.Even strong findings can vary across contexts. A causal mechanism that holds in one setting may operate differently elsewhere. What looks like a robust effect in one dataset may fade in another. This doesn't invalidate our work—it simply reminds us that most knowledge claims are conditional.Rigor Still MattersIf anything, this view has deepened my respect for rigor. In complex systems, rigor is not about perfection. It's about careful design, clarity in logic, and transparency in assumptions. It's about acknowledging limits while still striving for insight.The challenge is balancing structure with openness, precision with flexibility.So Where Does That Leave Me?Honestly? I still wrestle with doubt. There are moments I wonder whether I'm overcomplicating things—or not pushing hard enough for generalizable results. But I've come to believe that uncertainty isn't a weakness in science. It's part of what makes this work so important.

I've been building a platform for years. And here's the truth I wish someone had told me:You won't know what you're doing—most of the time.Building anything real means making decisions with half the data, managing problems you didn't know existed yesterday, and waking up unsure if you're wasting your life. Some days you feel like a visionary. Other days, like a fool. That's normal.The hardest part isn't the code. It's not the funding. It's managing the quiet doubt that creeps in when progress is slow, bugs are endless, and people stop paying attention. But you show up anyway. You keep building.

(And no, I'm not talking about romance.)One of the most underrated forces in our working lives is love. Not romantic love—but the kind of love that feels more like what a good parent gives: steady, safe, present. You mess up, and they're still there. They guide, they coach, they believe in you.It's the kind of love that says: You're not your worst moment. You're still worth it. Let's figure it out together.As I've gotten older, I've realized this is what shaped me most. My parents weren't perfect—they were grumpy, snippy, just like everyone else's. But underneath it all, I never doubted they were there for me. That kind of love? It's the ground you walk on. You grow because someone believed you could.In my adult life, outside of family, I can count on one hand the people who've shown me that same kind of love. My wife. My kids. Maybe one or two close friends. That's it. And almost never in work settings.We talk about trust in business—but I think what we're really craving is this deeper sense of commitment. Not transactional. Not conditional. But a quiet promise: I'm here even when things go wrong. Especially then.That kind of culture is rare. But when you build it—when you coach, support, and still hold people accountable—it changes everything. Not because it's soft. But because it's strong.That's the kind of workplace I want to build.That's what R3ciprocity is about.That's what I'm still learning to practice, every day.

The fastest way to wealth almost always feels the slowest and the most painful. Everything that truly moves the needle—high-return assets like index and mutual funds—feels boring, ordinary, and slow. Entrepreneurship and flashy startups may seem exciting, but they come with spectacular risk and rarely pay off.Research, psychology, and economics all point to the same truth: long-run, low-risk investments—the kind nobody talks about—generate real wealth. We don't see stories about the hundreds of small, ordinary gains that compound over decades. Instead, we hear about that one viral investment while the many failures go unseen.If you want to build lasting wealth, don't chase hype. Don't buy the narrative that makes you feel weird or left behind. Stick to tried-and-true assets that grow steadily, even if they feel slow or boring. Over time, those tiny moves are the ones that win.

What if Science Isn't About Truth After All?When I started out, I believed research was about uncovering some objective reality. Something we're all moving toward, together.But over the years, I've let go of that belief. Not out of cynicism, but because I've seen how science actually works.We don't just ask what is “true or valid.”Truth and validity is just the beginning.Seeking truth is challenging. We really often don't know what “truth is.”We have to remember the system managed by imperfectly rational humans. But, let's not just blame the people involved. They are doing their best. We often all are. And, we often research things that are challenging.Science and research is just hard.There are tools, like replication and retesting, but it is only the start.We also have to ask:- What will reviewers like?- What will get published?- What will get cited, shared, or funded?What makes it through isn't always just truth, as I once understood.It's what feels persuasive, legible, beautiful.Strange ideas, messy ideas, uncomfortable ideas? They rarely survive the filter.We don't have good universal definitions of what is persuasive or beautiful. And this isn't just a social science problem. It's science, full stop.⸻I have seen this firsthand with my own work.I share publicly. I build tools. I try to make research more human.And most of the time?Ignored. Discounted. Misunderstood.I am not upset. This is not a rant. It's just reality.Look at my Youtube videos on R3ciprocity or these posts. Some work because some see their own humanity in it, and others barely get a few dozen views. I cannot predict what will be liked or who will pay attention.Some warrant more attention than I would like. It is such a challenge to understand.But I have realized: it's not just me.It's the system.The our realities are not only about facts.It's about style, status, and maybe who gets to speak.Again, this is not a flaw. This is the reality of being a human being in a beautifully ambiguous and changing world.⸻So what's left?I don't think the answer is perfect peer review. That is very difficult to do, and perhaps impossible.I don't think the answer is another ranking system.The answer might be simpler: • Let more voices in. • Accept more ambiguity. • Make the invisible visible.Just have more ideas to be heard, no matter who they come from.Maybe we create different ways to communicate become more acceptable?Maybe we explore and play. Be silly.I do see many positive things happening.We need to figure out how to get people to continue to show up in science, and not give up.Because science isn't only about truth.It's about listening to others' realities.It is about not giving up in the face of the difficult uphill climb.It's about letting your voice sing in a way the shares truth, and what you love to explore.Because it is so more than about truth. It is about what is beautiful.

After years in academia, I've realized something few people admit: most people don't actually want to change the world. They just want to live their lives, stay comfortable, and avoid risk. Innovation, entrepreneurship, and research only attract a rare few who are willing to keep going despite rejection and ambiguity.

You've been fed lies about productivity. “Do more, faster, smarter.” But in real research careers, that ratchet-up mindset breaks labs and burns people out. Most “efficiency gurus” overlook the truth: productivity doesn't come from hacks—it comes from culture.I used to believe I had to optimize everything—every minute, every task, every thought. But all that pressure to “ratchet up” only made me feel like I was falling behind. The truth? Most of what's sold as productivity in science is just noise. It doesn't reflect how real progress happens.The best research careers aren't built on hacks. They're built like kindergartens—with guidance, patience, messy days, and small wins. What actually matters is creating the space where people feel safe enough to try, fail, and grow over years—not just days.I've stopped chasing the illusion of perfect efficiency. Now I ask: how can I build a meaningful environment where people want to show up? Where I want to show up? That's the real work. Share if you've felt this tension too.

Can a non‑top‑tier doctorate program get you into a job or career within the academic or research world that is top tier? I used to think that if you did everything right—you were producing more papers, asking profound questions, and had the “nod”—you could eventually land that rare job at Stanford or Princeton. But after years in the profession, I've come to realize there are tremendous headwinds, especially around market efficiency, sorting mechanisms, and even bias against geography or resources. These institutions are looking to make the biggest bang for their buck—they invest in uncertain resources and often reinforce existing hierarchies.So what do you do? As I've learned, you have to play those forces—get the scores, network, aim high. But equally important is to reframe your identity. You can't move up rankings if the market engine is too strong. Instead, love yourself where you're at and build a meaningful life doing the best you possibly can given your reality. You can define success on your own terms—creating impact, enjoying your work, and living an enjoyable life—without chasing a permanently unreachable “top.”

Everyone says the algorithm is broken.That it penalizes you. That it keeps you invisible.But after 6,000+ YouTube videos, I've realized something:The algorithm isn't the enemy. It's just a mirror.It reflects what we click on, what we crave, what we can't look away from.Here's the problem:If you're not exceptionally beautiful, funny, shocking, or extreme, the internet ignores you.“Being normal” doesn't trend.But being normal is what lets you survive.Most people burn out chasing performance.Trying to out-hustle, out-shock, out-perfect the algorithm.Me? I chose survival.I chose to lower the bar, to just show up every day as a professor, a dad, a researcher, and a human being.Because survival compounds.It lets you build for decades, while everyone else quits after a few months.It's not glamorous. It's not clickbait.But maybe — just maybe — showing up as yourself is the most radical strategy left.

I was just having this conversation with my son—about how human nature drives so much of what we see online. You go on LinkedIn, and it's like everyone has to sound like they've got their act together. “Founder of this,” “Thought Leader of that.” You meet them in real life, and it's like… wait a minute. That title doesn't match the person. Sometimes it's funny. Sometimes it's sad. But mostly, it's just human.I know I sound like a pretentious jerk saying all this, but you've probably seen it too. The polished title, the perfect posts, the projection of success. Yet behind the curtain, we're all a little bit of a mess. And maybe that's okay. Maybe the only real status is being okay with falling apart some days and holding it together on others. If you're someone who's tired of the fakeness—or just wants to feel human again—this one's for you.

Don't buy into the highlight reels. The truth behind progress—real, lasting, meaningful progress—is much slower and far more painful than anyone admits. Most people who look successful are just better at hiding their struggle. The ones who are actually making a difference? They often feel like failures. Because they're pushing. Because they're going slow. Because they're honest with themselves about how hard it really is.

I had no investors. No team. No roadmap. Just one strange, stubborn belief: that I could build something that changed the way research is done. Everyone said it was foolish. Many still do. But I kept showing up. Every day. With nothing but a broken idea and a full heart.This post is about what it actually feels like to create something when the odds are against you. It's not glamorous. You'll be ignored, doubted, and dismissed. But you might also build something no one else dared to try. If you're chasing a wild idea—if people don't understand why you're doing it—you're probably on the right path. Keep going.

The internet is designed to keep you scrolling.Not thinking. Not learning.Most people check out the second a conversation gets difficult.Not “heated.” Just difficult.Hard conversations — about data, about money, about failure — get ignored, not because they're wrong, but because they're inconvenient. They feel uncomfortable.And this is why so many of us never learn the most important lessons. • Learning is not fun. • Real growth feels terrible while you're doing it. • Engagement online isn't built on wisdom — it's built on what people already believe.Once you see this, you can't unsee it.You stop expecting people to stay.And you start focusing on the few who don't check out.Because the future is always built by the people willing to sit in the discomfort and keep going.

We keep hearing AI will ruin everything—but no one talks about how much of our life already changed without us noticing. From daily showers to spotless homes to chauffeuring kids every night—this is all new. In 30 years, we quietly reinvented “normal.” So what happens when robots don't just work for us—but become better partners, better parents, even better lovers?

Everyone says they want innovation—until you actually try to fail on purpose.But living in the land of failure is the only way anything truly new happens.You won't get applause.You won't get permission.You will be told you're wrong—by people who only repeat what worked last time.But the truth is simple:Those who win in the long run are the ones who keep failing deliberately,quietly,again and again.They're not chasing prestige.They're chasing truth.And they know: the path to something real goes straight through what looks like a bad idea.

Try things that lead to failure. You never know what it will bring.

You were an R&D exec, an engineer, a builder of real things. And now? You're told to watch Wheel of Fortune and sit still. That's nonsense. You've still got curiosity. You've still got edge. You're finally free to mess around, screw up, and chase what made you excited in the first place. Reinvent your toaster. Obsess over headlights. Start that blog about Lego men.No one's stopping you now. So… why the hell not?

I used to think I needed to build something massive to matter. Publish groundbreaking research. Get recognized. Maybe even win awards. But when I look back, the people who shaped me the most—my mom and dad—never chased any of that.They just did small things. My mom still knits mittens for people in her community. My dad used to give away carrots and potatoes from his garden. No one gave them a medal. No one wrote them into history books. But when they left, the absence was felt.This episode is about how real impact often looks like nothing at all. It's invisible. It's humble. And it changes everything.If you're feeling like your work, your life, or your research doesn't matter unless it's loud, flashy, or celebrated—you need to hear this.Because the truth is: we don't need more geniuses. We need more people who show up, give away the extra carrots, and knit mittens.Take care. And be that kind of person.

I believed education would unlock everything—happiness, clarity, purpose. And in some ways, it did. But the hardest part of life wasn't solved in any classroom. The real challenge is waking up each day and doing the hard, boring, painful things that don't feel exciting anymore. Managing your own motivation, your aches, your disillusionment—that's the work no one teaches you.What's missing from the story of success isn't more knowledge. It's knowing how to get back up when you're tired, discouraged, or simply numb. It's understanding that life won't always feel fresh or inspiring, and doing the work anyway. You don't need to be a genius to do that—you just need to decide to try. Every day. Even when it hurts.

Most of us think money problems are solved with budgets, rules, and discipline. But the truth is, you don't need a budget—you need a reframing.We live in a world where marketers are paid to make us feel like we don't have enough. They pull on every psychological trick: comparison, fear of missing out, the idea that the “good life” is always just one more purchase away. And because we can't measure what really matters—love, compassion, stability, joy—we undervalue it. We chase the quantifiable things: bigger homes, flashier cars, the visible proof of success.But here's the secret: the most valuable things in life are invisible. A walk with a friend. A stable relationship. The quiet consistency of putting 10–15% into index funds, even though nobody sees it. These invisible things compound. They build stability. They make you whole in a way “stuff” never can.If you stop playing by everyone else's rules—if you stop chasing what can be measured and instead invest in what can't—your life transforms. Not overnight, but day by day, one step at a time.The game was never about buying more. It was about seeing differently.

Brilliant ideas don't start brilliant.They start lonely. Ugly. Scary.The first time you share something that matters, it will be misunderstood. It will feel like a punch in the gut.And your instinct will be to shrink. To cry. To quit.But that moment—that heartbreak—is the cost of entry.Every meaningful idea feels dumb before it feels right.I study innovation. I live this life.And I still get that ping of doubt, that wave of embarrassment, every time I propose something weird.Even Roman numerals on bricks.The truth is, creativity only grows when the environment makes it safe to look foolish.Your job isn't to look smart. It's to create space for weird ideas to breathe.That's what I'm building.That's what I'm still learning to do.

I talk about the politics of PhD life because gossip—yes, gossip—has a purpose.We think of gossip as petty, but in research life, it's often how we make sense of ambiguous, uncomfortable situations no one will say out loud. It's the quiet way someone whispers, “Here's what's really going on.”The reality is that research careers are messy, political, and resource-scarce. Most of us eventually realize there's no magic bullet. You follow the tips, you mimic the strategies, but what works for others doesn't always work for you. I've been at this long enough to know: my “magic bullet” doesn't exist.And that's okay.My only real trick? Ignore as much of the politics as you can, and keep taking steps forward. Focus on becoming the kind of person who can walk away at any time—with your integrity, your health, and your financial independence intact.Because when you can walk away, you're actually more powerful. And you'll work with more kindness, generosity, and freedom than any political maneuvering could ever give you.That's the message I try to share. Not because it's easy. But because it's the only way I know to keep going in a system built on ambiguity, scarcity, and—yes—gossip.

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.