Switching Fuel at Altitude
I think 2025 is the year I stopped trying so damn hard.
Not in a dramatic, burn-it-all-down way. More like the quiet, unsettling realization that the strategies that once worked - the ones that got me off the launchpad - were no longer fit for the altitude I was flying at.
The fuel that got me here was powerful. Explosive. Effective. It was also toxic.
For a long time, “just work harder” carried me through. It solved problems. It bought credibility. It covered gaps - mine and other people’s. But this year, a couple of events slapped me hard enough that I couldn’t deny the truth anymore: that fuel source was starting to poison everything around it.
One project in particular pushed me past the edge. Long hours. Weekends. The whole heroic narrative. My alcohol intake crept up. My diet collapsed. Sleep - something I’ve spent years carefully optimizing because of lifelong insomnia - fell apart. And the worst part wasn’t even the physical cost. It was what it stole from my family.
It wasn’t a “leak.” It was theft.
Even when I was physically present, I was miserable to be around. Short-tempered. Elsewhere. Running an invisible TODO list in my head while my kids were right in front of me.
At the time, the story was that this was temporary. A few weeks of heroics. A necessary push. But the aftermath was anticlimactic in the most revealing way possible. No parade. No reckoning. If anything, my effort simply insulated others from consequences and reinforced the exact behaviours that caused the mess in the first place.
Leadership didn’t care. Not maliciously - just structurally. Everyone “knew” I’d pull it off. Retroactively, of course. The sales VP who dumped the problem in our lap went off to do exactly what he was always going to do. Leopards, spots, etc.
What did matter were two people on the team who went through it with me. Months later, they’re still in my orbit - mentees, friends, maybe trauma-bonded, maybe not. But even under pressure, I was still looking out for people. That realization landed deeper than I expected.
Because here’s the thing no one really tells you: no one remembers what you delivered.
I’ve reconnected this year with people from death marches years ago. Nobody remembers the details. Not the 2AM pizza runs. Not the features. Not the timelines. What they remember are the one-on-ones. The feeling of safety. Camaraderie. The space to learn hard lessons without being crushed by them.
The artifacts disappear. The relationships compound.
That insight has had far-reaching consequences for how I see responsibility now - especially the responsibility I’m willing to take on. I’ve spent a long time optimizing my life: sleep, fitness, diet, routines. And I’ve noticed a dangerous pattern. As soon as pressure hits, the temptation is to abandon all the systems that keep me healthy. More caffeine. Alcohol to unwind. Bad sleep feeding bad food feeding worse decisions.
I’m acutely aware of becoming my father. Of seeing my kids only at the dinner table while silently simmering. I don’t want that life.
This year I’ve thought a lot about the Serenity Prayer - not in a religious sense, but as a survival heuristic inside large systems. What can I actually change? What do I need to accept? And what needs to slide off me like water off a duck’s back?
One answer has been people.
For the first time, I’ve made a real effort to maintain relationships instead of constantly moving on to the next chapter. Beers. Coffee. Lunches. A retirement party invite from an old supervisor. Drinks with a director from three years ago. Zoom calls with an old PhD brother. Messages with a university housemate.
Life as a country-hopping expat means I’ve collected people across the world. It’s messy. It’s time-consuming. Maybe that’s also why I write - it’s a way of stitching continuity where geography doesn’t cooperate.
At the same time, I’ve hit a ceiling.
My BS detector won’t let me play nice in big corporate environments anymore. I’ve tried nudging toward VP roles - came close, got snubbed, lost out to people with deeper org-building scars. I’m close, but not quite there. Starting my own thing or being a technical cofounder would be the logical move - but risk aversion, and family, matter more now.
My kids are young. They need extra time and attention. And I married a professor - a job I increasingly hate, even though I love her.
From a cold logic perspective, she earns half of what I do. But when the kids are sick, I’m the one taking the day off. On weekends, it’s usually me. I’d love a new shiny thing to chase, but I can’t. And maybe I shouldn’t.
I’m choosing flexibility. Slow progress. A lower blast radius.
A couple of years ago, I tried to reduce my life to five priorities. Fatherhood. Fitness. Work. Husband. I can’t even remember the full list without looking it up. But fatherhood has always been non-negotiable. The shame of “I could be doing more” never goes away - kids will absorb everything you give and still ask for more - but they never asked to be born.
Fitness matters for the long game. What’s the point of wealth if I can’t climb stairs at seventy?
Marriage is harder to articulate. After eleven years, I’m realizing something uncomfortable: she’s never going to choose me first. Between kids and work, I’m too independent to need managing. And I’ve done the same to her. If we’re both barely in each other’s top five, the risk isn’t divorce - it’s becoming high-functioning housemates.
I heard a line recently: to be a father to girls, you just have to love them. to be a father to boys, you need to love their mother.
I’m still sitting with that.
Most days, life is a seven out of ten. Some days an eight. I’m not unhappy - but I do worry about the future. About empty nesting. About what’s left when the kids eventually leave. Chris Williamson talks about the “lonely chapter” - the transition between who you were and who you’re becoming.
My fear is that this is the filler chapter. The middle two hundred pages where nothing happens.
But when I look honestly at where I still feel alive, two things stand out.
I signed up for a marathon. It’s big. Scary. Finite. Something to build toward. Something that gives shape and identity to effort.
And I’ve doubled down on mentoring. Even if I’m not moving the needle directly anymore, I can still plant seeds and watch them grow in others.
That’s probably the shift in identity right there. Vibes matter more than metrics. Metrics are tangible, but fleeting. I’m playing a longer game now - one where seeds take seasons.
If I were to leave a note for myself starting 2026, it would be simple: don’t take it so seriously. you’re overthinking it. it all pays off.
And if there’s one thing I hope the people around me learn - my kids, my team, my mentees - it’s this:
Do the right thing. Not because it’s easy. But because it’s right.
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