I was born and raised in Texas, which means voting has always felt like a mix of responsibility, ritual, and—if I’m being honest—frustration. I’ve stood in long lines at polling places where half the machines didn’t work, watched friends walk away because they didn’t have the “right” ID, and listened to relatives rant about voter fraud like it was gospel. So when I picked up We’ve Got to Try by Beto O’Rourke, I expected a political memoir laced with soaring rhetoric.
A few weeks ago I had the privilege of visiting The Art Institute of Chicago. One painting I was looking forward to seeing was Edward Hopper's Nighthawks. I'm regularly drawn to and awed by this painting. Here's why.
My wife and I moved to Chicago in late 2019. When we moved to the city, it felt like possibility. A new apartment, a neighborhood to explore, the kind of fresh start that makes you walk around with a little bounce in your step even when you’re lost.
If you’re on Earth, “left” and “right” feel as real as your own hands.[1] They’re constants in your mental map, always ready for quick navigation: turn left at the corner, the remote is on your right, pass me the salt on the left. But those words are actually fragile little conveniences, bound tightly to the environment where they were born. Take them far enough away—say, into orbit or beyond—and they begin to unravel.
If aliens ever studied Earth from afar, there’s a good chance they’d think we worship the airplane. These sleek metal birds dart across the sky in orderly formations, leaving white streaks behind them like signatures on the heavens. But beyond their visual grace, airplanes are functional masterpieces—sculpted more by physics and economics than by aesthetics. Still, for something so marvelously complex, the silhouette of a commercial aircraft remains remarkably consistent: long cylindrical body, swept-back wings, tail fin, nose cone.
There’s something quietly radical about saying the words “I was wrong.” In a culture that prizes certainty, expertise, and fast takes, admitting error feels like breaking character. It can make you seem weak, indecisive, or, worst of all, uninformed. But what if the opposite were true? What if recognizing and embracing your mistakes was actually one of the most intelligent, growth-minded moves you could make? What if being wrong was the gateway drug to getting smarter?
There was a time when my handwriting had personality. It wasn’t good, but it had quirks. Loops and slants and occasional flourishes that made it mine. Now, if I pick up a pen, the letters stumble out like they’re still waking up. It’s like my hand forgot how to talk without a keyboard as the interpreter.
The weird part is that typing doesn’t just feel faster, it feels more natural. My fingers know where the letters are without thinking.
Ever walked up to a door, pulled when you should have pushed, and felt that brief flash of embarrassment? Maybe even muttered something under your breath like, “Well that was dumb,” as you realize the sign says otherwise. But here’s the thing: that wasn’t your fault. It was the door’s fault. Or more precisely, the fault of how it was designed. There’s a word for why that moment felt so clumsy—and why some things are easy to use without instructions while others make us feel like we missed a step.
A mechanic tightens a bolt just enough so that it holds firm but never snaps. A grandmother tells a story that makes more sense than any textbook. A manager jots down how to reboot a legacy system no one touches anymore. These are all examples of knowledge—but not the same kind. The way we know things matters as much as what we know. In fact, understanding the types of knowledge we rely on can change how we work, teach, learn, and even remember.
In an era obsessed with speed and simplicity, most decisions are made at the surface level. We optimize for immediacy, for first impressions, for what feels right in the moment. But under the surface of every choice lies a chain of consequences, many of which we fail to see until they unfold. Second-order thinking is about seeing that chain in advance—not just what happens, but what happens next.
It’s not just a trick of strategy.
Why does a piece of music give you chills? Why do people argue over abstract paintings or obsess over the perfect photograph of their morning coffee? These moments seem small, but they tap into something profound. Beneath every gasp at a sunset or debate over a film’s merit lies a deep, often invisible current of thought—one that has occupied philosophers for over two thousand years. That current is aesthetics, the branch of philosophy devoted to beauty, taste, and the strange, stirring power of art.
Systems thinking is a powerful mindset for understanding the world not as a series of isolated events, but as an interconnected web of relationships and influences. It invites us to see complexity clearly, to grasp how seemingly unrelated parts can work together, and to identify how small changes might have big consequences. In a time when the challenges we face are increasingly intricate, systems thinking offers a practical and compassionate approach to solving problems, managing uncertainty, and making sense of the chaos around us.
Every time I walk through an airport, I’m struck by the choreography of it all: families juggling suitcases, business travelers pacing during calls, signage trying to cut through a fog of fatigue and urgency. It’s easy to think of airports as simply functional infrastructure—a way to get from point A to point B—but if you look closer, they’re something more. Airports are one of the purest reflections of how human systems operate under pressure.
There is something timeless and universal about humanity’s fascination with flight. From the moment people could look up and see birds soaring above them, the desire to join them became more than a fantasy—it became a calling. Flight has always symbolized freedom, ingenuity, and a kind of sublime rebellion against gravity itself. For centuries, the idea of flight lingered in myth and speculation, and even when science finally gave it wings, it was still driven by the same force that powered those first dreams: curiosity.
Corporate leaders are told to be data-driven, customer-centric, and agile. They’re told to empower teams, drive engagement, and lead through uncertainty. But walk into most organizations and the experience often feels the opposite: top-down decisions, clunky processes, vague goals, and disengaged employees. What’s missing isn’t good intent or strategy—it’s good design.
Game designers, by contrast, are architects of voluntary engagement. They craft systems where people want to participate, where feedback is clear, and where progress feels both earned and visible.
We tend to assume that the smartest people—the domain experts, the senior engineers, the seasoned leaders—are naturally the best ones to explain how things work. They’re the ones who know the system inside and out. But here’s the paradox: often, the more someone knows, the harder it becomes for them to communicate clearly with those who know less. This is the “curse of expertise,” also known as the curse of knowledge—a cognitive bias where experts unconsciously assume that others have the same background knowledge they do.
As a manager and people leader, I’m constantly searching for frameworks that bring structure without stifling creativity—tools that can align a team around shared goals while still empowering individuals to own their work. In Measure What Matters, John Doerr offers exactly that. Drawing on decades of experience, from Intel to Google to global nonprofits, he introduces Objectives and Key Results (OKRs) not as a trend, but as a practical, scalable system for focus, alignment, and accountability.
In today's consumer-driven society, the abundance of choices is often celebrated as a hallmark of freedom and personal autonomy. From the myriad brands of cereal lining supermarket shelves to the endless array of streaming content at our fingertips, the modern individual is inundated with options. However, psychological research suggests that this proliferation of choices may not be as beneficial as it seems. In fact, an excess of options can lead to anxiety, decision paralysis, and decreased satisfaction—a phenomenon known as the "
The QWERTY keyboard layout has been the standard for over a century, despite the existence of alternative designs that claim to be faster, more ergonomic, and more efficient. From mechanical typewriters to modern touchscreen devices, QWERTY remains the default input method for billions of people worldwide. But why?
Many assume that QWERTY persists simply because it was the first widely adopted layout, and while that is partially true, the story is more complex.
Despite the rise of digital technology, pens remain an essential tool for writing, sketching, and note-taking. Whether signing documents, journaling, or taking lecture notes, the right pen can make a significant difference in comfort and writing quality. But what exactly makes a pen feel comfortable to use?
Some pens glide effortlessly across the page, requiring minimal pressure and allowing for smooth, uninterrupted writing. Others cause discomfort, leading to hand fatigue after only a few minutes of use.
Here’s something I’ve learned the hard way: if a problem spans more than 48 hours, there’s a good chance I won’t solve it. Not because I can’t, or because I don’t want to—but because, by then, the mental thread I was following is gone. The context, the details, the little insights I had? Lost.
I have ADHD, and one of the trickiest parts of that is managing working memory—the brain’s ability to hold and manipulate information in the short term.