• On the Importance of Words 1

    I think about words a lot. Not just what we say, but how we say it, when we say it, and most importantly, why.

    It’s something I come back to often when I’m writing anything meaningful – whether that’s an email, a WhatsApp message, a pitch… The act of writing gives us space. We can think, self-censor, edit. I can optimise every word until I’ve shaped what I believe is the best possible version of what I want to say. It’s incredibly intentional.

    But speaking? That’s a different beast entirely.

    When I speak, in real-time conversations or voice dictation, there’s barely enough space to think beyond the next few seconds. Maybe a little longer if I’m lucky – helped along by filler words or pauses – but it’s fast-thinking by nature. Reacting more than crafting, drawing on what I’ve said and heard before.

    Daniel Kahneman’s Thinking, Fast and Slow lays this out perfectly: System 1 thinking is quick, instinctive, emotional. System 2 is slow, deliberate, logical. Most of my writing happens in System 2. But the most important conversations usually happen in System 1.

    That contrast hit me recently during a negotiation that, if I’m honest, has been seven years in the making. It’s a partnership I could only have dreamed of when I first started the company. I’ve been incredibly patient – careful to build trust, maintain the relationship, and not push too hard. This company in question is synonymous with our industry. What they’ve done represents tens of millions of dollars in development and years of a head start that we simply couldn’t afford to replicate. But because of the strength of the relationship, we’re now on the brink of working together in a way that could fundamentally shift what’s possible for us.

    Just over a year ago, an enormous Fortune 500 company pipped us to the post. I remember the call when our ally at this company phoned up and cautioned me that a press release was imminent. “That’s fine,” I choked. As is often the way with larger companies, a budget cycle later and their work in this space has been sidelined. Their partnership is on ice.

    Once the dust had settled, I went again. After years I could feel the timing was indeed different. I was finally asked to lay out what we wanted. So I did – and I didn’t hold back. I wrote a full view of how we could win together, including one particular request: exclusivity. I knew it was a big ask, but from my side, it wasn’t about dominating – it was about reducing risk. Earning something defensible.

    The CEO pushed back, as I half-expected. So I suggested we jump on a call.

    Here’s where the difference between fast and slow thinking came into play. I didn’t go in with a line to hold. I didn’t say, “We need exclusivity or we walk.” I just talked honestly about the real concern. If we go all-in on integrating their technology and someone else comes in later with more leverage or volume, we’re toast. Our entire effort could be marginalised. And if that happens, we’re fucked.

    You could feel the shift in the conversation. It clicked.

    Suddenly, we weren’t debating the word “exclusivity” anymore. We were problem-solving together. Within minutes, they were offering ways to give us the protections we needed – effectively solving the same issue, but in a way that worked for both sides.

    What struck me afterwards was how close we came to missing that breakthrough – all because of a word. If I’d stuck to slow-thinking, writing carefully worded emails, trying to make the case from a distance, we might have missed the moment entirely. But speaking honestly, and trusting the relationship, gave space for something better.

    There’s a risk with slow thinking – you can over-optimise, over-edit, and lose the human part. Sometimes it’s better to stop hiding behind carefully crafted words and just get on a call, look someone in the eye (or at least the camera), and say what you mean.

    Because at the end of the day, the words matter.
    But the why behind them matters even more.

  • Original thought is so overrated

    Somewhere along the line — probably in school — we were taught that the most valuable thing we could offer the world is something original. A fresh idea. A new angle no one’s thought of before.

    And that belief has stuck. We glorify originality in business, writing, tech, even intelligence. We think if it’s not completely new, it’s not worth doing.

    I think that’s nonsense.

    Not because new ideas don’t matter — they do — but because chasing originality stops most people from ever starting. We overthink. “Hasn’t this already been done?” “Someone’s said this better.” So we stall.

    But the truth is, most of what actually works isn’t original. It’s better. It’s clearer, more useful, more accessible. It builds on what’s already there.

    Steve Jobs didn’t invent the graphical interface — he refined what Xerox built.
    Google wasn’t the first search engine — it was just the fastest, cleanest, and most accurate. Facebook wasn’t the first social network — it just nailed exclusivity, identity, and virality. iPod wasn’t the first MP3 player — it was just the one that actually made sense to use. Atomic Habits didn’t invent habit psychology — it just made it stick.

    This is the stuff that lands. Not originality — execution.

    So here’s the better approach:

    Don’t try to be the first. Be the one who makes it clearer, simpler, faster, smarter. Be the one who actually gets it done.

    We don’t need more geniuses.
    We need more people doing work that they love — even if it’s been done before.

  • New Beginnings and Familiar Returns

    It’s been over a decade since I last wrote something that wasn’t tied to work. Not a proposal, not a self-promotional post, not a carefully worded strategic email. Just putting thoughts into words—for no reason other than to figure out what I think. The kind of words that don’t need to justify themselves. That don’t have an end goal. That just feel worth getting out of your head.

    Back in the earlier days of my career, I found blogging to be a kind of outlet. I had several websites, wrote the odd guest article, and used the space to stretch beyond 180 characters and try out new ideas—some half-formed, some attention seeking, some that still make sense now.

    Over time, like a lot of things, that habit faded. Life and work moved forward. Writing became more instrumental. Everything became more “on-message.” And that’s fine—it’s part of the territory. But something gets lost when every sentence has to be justifiable and re-enforce your persona. The joy of simply reflecting—without needing to prove anything—quietly disappears.

    And so here I am, starting again. Not for clicks. Not to build a “personal brand.” Just to reconnect with that slightly freer part of myself that used to enjoy writing for its own sake.

    This time around, though, the context is different. I’m writing (or more accurately, dictating) this while doing laps slowly around our dining table. It’s late at night. My wife is in our bedroom, trying to bank a few hours of sleep. And I’m holding our newborn son in one arm while The Simpsons plays softly in the background—more for me than for him.

    I am shattered. I am frayed. I am more present than ever. And yet I have the desire to express and store my ideas in the beautiful time capsule that is the internet. Perhaps eradicating hours a day of scrolling Twitter/X has freed up some mental capacity in me to create, alongside my newfound responsibilities.

    Becoming a dad is a strange and enormous shift. My experience is obviously not unique—it’s happened billions of times throughout history. But it’s entirely personal to me. I wasn’t sure if we’d have children. I had, at one point, reached a kind of peace with the idea that maybe we wouldn’t. And now here he is. A whole new human being, half-asleep in my arms, changing everything.

    I’m only just beginning to understand the outer edges of what that means. The shock of frustration I didn’t know I could feel. The deep infatuation that shows up in strange moments. The surreal exhaustion and beauty of it all. It’s early days, and I know I’ll look back at this from some future vantage point and see just how little I knew—but I want to capture this moment while I’m in it. Because it already feels fleeting—something that will be hard to hold onto and truly relive later.

    And maybe that’s what this blog is for. Not to write about parenthood necessarily, or about work, or about anything in particular. But just to record the thoughts that pass through in this season of life. To make sense of the changes. The evolution. To leave some kind of breadcrumb trail I can return to later.

    Some posts might be short. Some might go nowhere. Some might contradict others. But that’s part of it. I want this to be a space where I don’t have to think about what others think.

    I still look back at old blog posts and cringe a little, but also smile. There’s something oddly satisfying about recognising the younger version of yourself and how you used to think. Maybe I’ll do the same with this one day—look back from my 50s and marvel at how raw and weird and lovely this season was.

    For now, though, I’m just here. Writing again. Starting over. Holding a small boy who’s barely a month old, and re-learning how to put my thoughts into words—not for anyone else, but for me.

    Let’s see where it goes.