I’m using Sora. The prompts are mine. The face is mine. The ideas are mine. But I didn’t animate a single frame.

Am I creating? Or am I commissioning?

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This isn’t an academic question anymore. It’s happening in real time, in our hands, reshaping what we mean when we say someone “made” something. And we need to talk about it before the answer gets decided for us by people who profit from our confusion.

The Architect Who Cannot Build

I’m also building (or “building”) an app using Lovable. I describe what I want. The AI generates the code. I refine my descriptions. It iterates. Eventually, something functional emerges that matches my vision.

I cannot code. Not really, anyway. I can read it enough to understand what’s happening, but I couldn’t write it from scratch. Does that disqualify me from calling myself the creator?

We’ve answered this question before, just not in this context. Architects have been considered creators for millennia despite not physically constructing buildings. The vision, the decisions about space and form and purpose: that’s the art. The construction workers executing blueprints, no matter how skilled, aren’t considered the authors of the building.

Film directors don’t operate cameras, edit footage, or compose scores. Kubrick didn’t paint each frame of 2001. Hitchcock famously said actors should be treated like cattle. He cared about his vision, not their method. We don’t question their authorship.

But there’s a difference, and here’s where it matters: those directors worked with other humans. Humans who brought their own interpretation, skill, and creative problem-solving to the collaboration. The cinematographer makes choices. The editor finds rhythms the director didn’t know were there. (and sometimes the director let’s someone else’s perspective influence the final product. The actor discovers something in a line reading that transforms the scene in a way the screenwriter may not have anticipated.

When I prompt Sora or Lovable, what’s the nature of that collaboration? The AI isn’t bringing creative interpretation. It’s predicting patterns based on training data. It’s sophisticated pattern matching, not artistic partnership.

Or is it? And does that distinction actually matter?

The Michelangelo Problem

Let’s do the thought experiment: If Michelangelo had conceived David in perfect detail: the contrapposto, the expression of concentrated determination, the anatomical precision..but lacked the physical ability to carve marble, would he be any less of an artist?

My first instinct is to say yes, of course, because part of David’s genius is in the execution. The way Michelangelo understood how marble catches light. The technical mastery that let him render veins beneath stone skin. The fact that the proportions are realistic even when enlarged to larger than life. The decades of practice that made his hands extensions of his imagination.

But then I think about Rubens, who ran what was essentially an art factory. Many paintings sold as “Rubens” were largely executed by apprentices and assistants. He would sketch the composition, maybe paint the faces, and his workshop would complete the rest. We still call them Rubens. His authorship isn’t questioned.

The difference is that we knew the arrangement. The market understood what it was buying. The value was in Rubens’s compositional genius and his supervision, not necessarily in every brushstroke being his. This is a part of the debate and subsequent controversy around Dale Chihuly’s work. If an apprentice is doing the glass blowing, who is the artist?

What bothers people about AI isn’t really about the tool. It’s about the opacity and the speed. When I generate a video with Sora, I’m collapsing what would have traditionally required a team of animators, modelers, and technical directors into a prompt. The craft that would have been visible in the credits, that would have taken months, happens in minutes behind an inscrutable black box.

We’re uncomfortable because we can’t see the work. And we’ve been taught that creation “is” work, that value comes from visible effort.

The Death of Craft, or Its Liberation?

If intention alone can produce output indistinguishable from skilled execution, what happens to craft?

Photography faced this question. Painters initially dismissed it as mechanical reproduction, not art. It didn’t require the years of training to mix pigments and render light. Point and click. Anyone could do it.

But photography didn’t kill painting. Instead, it freed painting from the obligation to represent reality. Without photography, we probably don’t get impressionism, cubism, or abstract expressionism. We might still be churning out realistic portraits and landscapes because that’s what the market demanded and what demonstrated mastery.

The technology liberated artists to ask different questions. Not “can I represent this accurately?” but “what can I express that a camera cannot?”

Synthesizers sparked similar panic in music. “Real” musicians said they weren’t instruments because they didn’t require the physical discipline of strings or breath control. Now they’re just… instruments. Tools that expanded what was musically possible.

But here’s where AI feels different: those tools still required significant skill to use well. A great photographer isn’t just someone who can press a button. They understand composition, light, timing, editing. Synthesizers require musical knowledge to create something compelling.

The skill didn’t disappear. Instead, it shifted. You needed different knowledge, but you still needed knowledge.

With AI, the skill floor has dropped dramatically. It didn’t drop to zero. Good prompting is genuinely harder than it looks. But it is low enough that the gap between novice and expert output is narrower than it’s ever been.

Is that democratization? Or is it the devaluation of expertise?

Both, probably. And we don’t know yet which effect will dominate.

The Authenticity Trap

When I create videos using my own face, doing things I’ve never done, there’s a strange question embedded in the output: Is that me?

It’s my likeness. My facial features, my proportions, my expressions translated into movement. But I never made those movements. The video is simultaneously completely me and not me at all.

This feels newer than it is. Actors have always embodied characters they aren’t. Special effects have long shown people doing impossible things. Stunt doubles have made actors look capable of physical feats they cannot perform.

The difference is disclosure and intention. We know movies are constructed realities. The question with AI-generated content is: when does the synthesis become deceptive?

If I post these videos on social media without disclaiming they’re AI-generated, am I lying? If I do disclaim it, does that diminish their value or increase it?

I think the answer depends on what I’m claiming. If I present them as documentation of things I did, that’s deception. If I present them as creative expression (visual ideas that happen to use my face as a canvas) that feels authentic.

The authenticity isn’t in the method. It’s in the transparency about what’s being claimed. For the record, all of my videos, created by AI, are disclosed as AI when I post them.

Who Owns the Vision?

Here’s where it gets legally and ethically thorny: ownership.

When I create something with AI trained on millions of copyrighted works, what am I actually creating? The AI didn’t spontaneously develop the ability to generate coherent images or functional code. It learned from human-created examples, most of which were used without explicit permission or compensation.

Every Sora video I generate contains echoes of other work. Every line of code Lovable writes reflects patterns from developers who built the work it trained on. I didn’t steal their work directly, but I’m benefiting from a system that did.

Is my authorship legitimate if it’s built on uncompensated and uncredited efforts of those before me?

The traditional answer would be: yes, because all creation is derivative. Every artist learns by studying others. Every writer is influenced by what they’ve read. We build on what came before. That’s how culture works.

But there’s a difference between influence and ingestion. When I learn to paint by studying Caravaggio, I’m not extracting and recombining his brushstrokes. I’m developing my own hand, informed by his principles.

AI training is more like creating a painter who has Caravaggio’s muscle memory without ever having seen his paintings consciously. It’s a strange form of knowledge transfer that sidesteps understanding.

I don’t have a clean answer here. I know I’m using these tools. I know they’re built on ethically complicated foundations. I know that my discomfort doesn’t stop me from using them, which is mainly because I am trying to understand where MY place is in this world where these tools are available to express ones self.

The Question We’re Really Asking

Underneath all of this is a deeper anxiety: What is human creativity for?

If machines can generate images, write code, compose music, and edit video, what’s left that’s distinctly ours? What’s the point of developing skills that can be automated?

This is the wrong question, but it’s the one we’re asking.

The right question might be: What do we want to do ourselves, regardless of whether machines can do it?

People still bake bread despite industrial bakeries. Still knit scarves despite cheap manufacturing. Still play guitar despite perfect digital synthesis. Not because it’s more efficient, but because the act of making things with our hands connects us to our humanity in ways that consumption cannot.

The issue isn’t whether AI can replace human creativity. It’s whether we’ll let the existence of AI convince us that human creativity without technical mastery is worthless.

I think that would be a profound loss.

New Language for New Creation

We need better vocabulary for what’s happening. “AI-generated” lumps together wildly different levels of human involvement. The person who types “cool sunset” into an image generator and the person who iterates through hundreds of prompts, adjusting parameters and curating outputs, are doing different things.

Similarly, “creator” no longer cleanly distinguishes between people who execute and people who envision.

Maybe we need terms like:

“Conceptual author”: Someone who provides the vision and intention

“Technical executor”: Someone or something that realizes the vision

“Curatorial creator”: Someone who generates multiple outputs and selects what matters

These aren’t perfect, but they’re more precise than collapsing everything into “the AI made it” or “I made it.”

The goal isn’t to create a rigid hierarchy (as some forms of creation being more legitimate than others) but to develop shared understanding of what happened when something was made.

Why This Conversation Matters Now

We’re establishing norms in real time. The frameworks we develop now about attribution, credit, and value will shape creative work for decades.

In five years, these tools will be ubiquitous. The question won’t be whether people use AI in creative work because they will. The question is whether we’ll have developed thoughtful, nuanced ways to think about different types of creative contribution, or whether we’ll have defaulted to binary thinking: either you did everything by hand or you’re a fraud.

I fear we’re heading toward the latter. I see it in comment sections, in creative communities, in the reflexive dismissal of anything AI-touched as “not real art.”

That instinct is understandable. People are afraid. They are afraid their skills will become obsolete, afraid the market will be flooded with cheap content, afraid that years of dedicated practice will be devalued.

Those fears are legitimate. We should take them seriously.

But we also can’t let fear become dogma. The relationship between tools and creativity has always been dynamic. The printing press, the camera, sampling in music, digital audio workstations: each sparked similar anxieties. Each ultimately expanded what was possible rather than destroying what came before.

My Tentative Conclusion

I don’t know if what I’m doing with Sora and Lovable is “real” creation in the way that term has traditionally been understood.

But I know I’m making choices that matter. After spending some time playing around, the videos I now create pay off a concept that I devised. The app I’m building solves a problem I’ve identified and reflects my understanding of how users should interact with information.

The technical execution isn’t mine. The vision is.

That matters. How much it matters (compared to manual execution) is something we’re still figuring out.

What I’m certain of is this: dismissing all AI-assisted creation as illegitimate is as wrong as claiming that using AI makes you automatically an artist. The truth is more complex and more interesting.

We’re in a transition period where the old rules don’t quite apply and the new rules haven’t been written. That’s uncomfortable. It’s supposed to be. But isn’t that also f*****g exciting?!

The worst thing we could do is stop talking about it, to let these questions be answered by default through market forces and platform policies rather than through collective deliberation about what we value and why.

So yes, I’m going to keep making weird videos of myself. I’m going to keep building things I don’t technically know how to build. And I’m going to keep thinking about what that means.

Because figuring out what’s authentic in an age of synthesis isn’t just an interesting intellectual exercise. It’s how we’ll understand what it means to be creative in the decades ahead.

And that conversation is too important to leave to the machines.​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

Podcast theme song by The Never Project

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And I thought THAT was my life. The trip to Boston. The California vacation next month. Time was just... the stuff between destinations. The boring parts you endure until the next Instagram-worthy moment.

But here’s the thing: I was completely wrong about where life actually happens.

Our theme music is "Light" by The Never Project.

My grandfather.

He passed away well before I was born, leaving behind only a few photographs and no videos or recordings of his voice. Yet he exists in me, his genetic legacy is coursing through my veins, passed down through my father and now extending to my children.

This is a paradox. Someone being simultaneously unknown yet intrinsically part of who I am. I have called this painting series "The Closest Unknown." He is the only grandparent I never met.

So far, I've completed eleven portraits of him, with plans for dozens more. Each time I approach the canvas, something different emerges. I begin with the same limited source material (one of just three precious photographs) but the results are never the same.

Some days, I find myself applying bold strokes in warm hues. Other times, blues and greens dominate the palette. For some I started from a blank white canvas. In others black. The painting i’m working on right now is primarily black and red.

These variations aren't mistakes.

They are revelations.

I didn’t know what it meant. I’m not sure the kid that called me that knew what it meant either. But he was taught the word, and taught what the physical attributes were to associate that word to a person. I felt confused.

That moment (brief as it was) became the first entry in what would become a lifelong catalog of moments when I was reminded that to some, I would always be seen as different.

I keep going back to these words by Bruce Lee lately. They've become my lifeline during these hurricanes I've been weathering. I keep turning this paradox over in my mind: how can something so yielding be so powerful? And why did it take me so long to understand this?

Recently when having breakfast with a friend the topic of health data and measurement came up. We talked about Oura rings, Whoop Bands, and Apple Watches. And then the topic of apps came up. It was recommended to me to try out this app called Athlytic.

I downloaded and immediately became incredibly interested in the metric for body battery. Like the battery on your phone it measures how much juice you have left in your current state.

I have recently become motivated to increase my body battery. And it's important to do so. Because while phone battery charging problems can be solved by buying a new one, our bodies only have one battery. And keeping it charged is not only a helpful habit it's a necessary one.

This got me thinking: If something exists but most people can't naturally perceive it, does that make it any less real or meaningful?

I don't have an attention advisor.

Neither do you.

We track every dollar. We ignore every thought. We guard our credit scores.

And…we give away our focus for free.

Something's deeply wrong with this picture.

Money is renewable. Time isn't. Attention is the bridge between them.

I run a company. Make decisions daily. Sign off on six-figure expenses. But my most valuable resource isn't capital. It's clarity.

Clear thinking creates everything else. And lately, it has become more and more difficult to think clearly in this noisy world around us.

What's In Your Attention Portfolio?

I thought to myself, “that’s one way to make sure the museum never moves your piece out of rotation!”

But then I read the placard explaining the piece and discovered that while Sol LeWitt was credited with the piece, he, in fact, did not actually draw it. It credits LeWitt as drawing the original piece but this particular one was drawn by another artist who followed the detailed instructions LeWitt left behind before he died.

This got me thinking about something big.

What makes art, art? The idea behind it? Or the actual making of it?

But they add up.

Change isn’t always a revolution. Sometimes it’s a whisper. A slight nudge. A quiet decision to take back control when everything feels like it’s spinning out of it.

I have one more idea on this topic: The rules themselves.

In every creative field, there are rules. Conventions. Standards. Best practices. The accumulated wisdom that gets passed down through education and training. But what happens when we don't know these rules yet?

Well…something magical.

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Breaking Rules You Don't Know Exist

There's a cool story about Miles Davis that relates to this. When he was recording 'Kind of Blue,' he deliberately gave his musicians minimal prep. Legend says he gave them the modal scales just before recording. Though these were accomplished musicians (like Bill Evans and John Coltrane), Miles wanted their fresh, spontaneous responses rather than rehearsed performances.

Obviously you know the result. A revolutionary jazz album that broke free from convention.

I believe Miles Davis understood something profound: musicians who don't know they're breaking rules don't hesitate. They don't second-guess. They simply follow their instincts. They simply do.

When we don't know the rules exist, we can't be paralyzed by the fear of breaking them. Instead, we rely on the skills that got us there and let the magic free-flow from there.

The Weight of Knowledge

Think about a kid drawing. They don't worry about perspective or proportions. They don't care about color theory. They simply create with unbridled imagination and joy. You may see purple polka dotted faces and elephants with 6 legs.

Then art education happens.

Art teachers need curriculum. So they are forced to structure lessons around a subject that is built around free form expression! Suddenly there are rules about composition, about shading, about how light works. Knowledge accumulates, and with it comes the burden of correctness.

I've seen this happen with my own creative process. The more I learned about design or photography or painting, the more I found myself second-guessing.

Knowledge becomes a weight. A filter that ideas must pass through before reaching the canvas.

Unlearning as a Creative Strategy

Perhaps the most famous quote on this topic is from the filmmaker Jim Jarmusch. You may not know who he is but you probably have seen a few things he’s directed: probably his 2019 film, The Dead Don’t Die? Anyway, he once said: "Nothing is original. Steal from anywhere that resonates with inspiration or fuels your imagination... Select only things to steal from that speak directly to your soul."

What's interesting about this advice is that it requires you to know enough to steal effectively but remain ignorant enough to combine influences in ways that experts might consider "wrong."

Picasso's African-inspired period emerged because he approached African masks and sculptures without their full cultural context. He was first exposed to African art at the Trocadéro Museum in Paris around 1907. It (in turn) led to a radical shift in his work, eventually helping birth Cubism.

Was this cultural appropriation? By today's standards, probably (and that's a complexity worth acknowledging). But it also demonstrates how partial knowledge combined with fresh eyes can transform what expertise might dismiss as misunderstanding into radical innovation.

The Intermediate Plateau

There's a phenomenon in learning known as the 'intermediate plateau' or 'Valley of Despair.' Beginners make bold, sometimes brilliant mistakes because they don't know better. Experts innovate because they understand the rules so deeply they know precisely when and how to break them.

But intermediates: the ones in the middle, those who know just enough to recognize rules but not enough to transcend them, often produce the most conventional work.

They're trapped between ignorance and mastery. Conscious of rules but not confident enough to break them.

Many creative careers stall in this intermediate phase. We learn enough to become self-conscious about breaking rules but not enough to break them with authority.

Strategic Ignorance

Could it be that strategic ignorance is a creative superpower? That deliberately not learning certain rules might preserve the very innocence that leads to breakthrough ideas?

Brian Eno's "Oblique Strategies" deck which I mentioned in my first article contains a card that simply says: "Honor thy error as a hidden intention."

This isn't just accepting mistakes. It's recognizing that what expertise labels as "errors" might actually be new pathways that knowledge would have prevented you from discovering.

Honor thy error as a hidden intention

Some artists deliberately impose constraints on themselves that force ignorance. Composers who write for instruments they don't play. Painters who use power drills to splatter paint with unpredictable outcomes. In many ways, my recent obsession with shooting soccer matches with film cameras is an arbitrary constraint that I hope brings more creativity.

We're creating artificial ignorance. We’re forcing ourselves into positions where our expertise can't rely on established patterns.

The Human Thread of Unknowing

Earlier, I questioned whether expertise sometimes kills creativity. Then, I explored how audience expectations create impossible standards as artists develop.

Now I see another thread: this creative power of not knowing.

The moments when we step outside our expertise, when we venture into unfamiliar territory, when we embrace beautiful ignorance. These might be our most creatively fertile times.

Perhaps the most innovative creative strategy isn't accumulating more knowledge but cultivating a beginner's relationship with our knowledge.

Holding it lightly.

Being willing to set it aside.

Creating artificial spaces of not-knowing.

Maybe the most human thread of all is our capacity to stay between knowing and not-knowing, expertise and innocence, between rules and our beautiful ignorance of the rules themselves.

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The audience.

You and me.

The people consuming all this art, music, writing, and creativity. We play a bigger role in this dynamic than we might realize.

We Forgive the Amateur What We Punish in the Professional

Think about Nirvana's first album "Bleach." I’ve heard it was recorded for just $600 at a local studio in Seattle. By traditional standards of professionally produced albums, it was rough, unpolished, and imperfect. But those imperfections weren't just tolerated: they became part of its charm. The fuzzy guitars, Kurt's vocals, and the raw “garage-y” production contributed to its authenticity. Critics and fans (including high school me) loved these qualities because it felt real.

We don't just tolerate these imperfections. We celebrate them.

We call them "authentic." "Raw." "Honest."

Now imagine if Adele released an album tomorrow with the same technical flaws. The internet would explode with criticism. At best, people would try to find deep meaning to why a polished performer would put something out so unrefined. And if the answer wasn’t satisfactory, the reviews would be merciless. The industry would question if she had lost her touch, and social media would overflow with hot takes about her decline.

The double standard is striking (and it affects how artists evolve).

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The Romance of the Untrained

We have a cultural fascination with untrained genius. The high school dropout who codes a revolutionary app. The brilliant outsider artist discovered living in isolation. The musician who "never learned to read music" but plays by ear.

These stories captivate me far more than the ones about diligent practice and methodical improvement. There's something really irresistible about natural talent unfettered by convention. It feels magical. And I love re-telling these anecdotes to my kids and other people that need inspiration.

The Beginner's Hall Pass

When someone is just starting out, audiences grant them an unofficial permission slip to experiment. "It's their first novel," we say. "Can you believe it?" The very fact of being new becomes part of what we're evaluating.

We don't just judge the work. We judge it “relative to experience level”.

This creates a strange window of opportunity for creators. A brief moment when bold choices are not just allowed but expected. But this window closes fast.

By the second album, the second novel, the second collection, audiences start applying different standards. They expect growth. Refinement. Maturation.

And paradoxically, they often mourn the very rawness they pushed the artist to move beyond.

The Career Death Spiral

This audience dynamic creates a predictable trajectory for many artists:

* Early work: Praised for freshness and originality despite technical limitations.

* Middle work: Technical skills improve, but audience begins to miss the "original spark."

* Later work: Artist either continues refining toward technical perfection (and gets labeled "too polished") or deliberately tries to recapture early rawness (and gets accused of "trying too hard to be authentic").

It's a no-win situation (and our contradictory expectations are partly to blame). The latitude for risk-taking shrinks with success.

Amplifying the Paradox

Professional critics make this situation even worse. They're trained to identify innovation and technical excellence simultaneously. An impossible standard.

They praise a debut for "breaking all the rules" then criticize the follow-up for "not showing growth." And their opinions shape public reception in powerful ways.

They become the voice saying, "Yes, but" to whatever choice an artist makes.

But also early adopters make things bad too. I admit that I am like this: especially for music. In the 90’s this was the most apparent when I just couldn’t get into Radiohead’s OK Computer when others who may have not followed them since Pablo Honey found it so revolutionary. I wanted more of the Bends but OK Computer’s artistic vision and departure from the previous style was too much for me to jump on to.

By all measures, OK Computer is not only a fantastic album musically, their evolution of sound and constant re-invention throughout their body of work is the true measure of creativity!

The Liberation of Obscurity

There's a freedom that comes with being unknown. With having no audience expectations to fulfill. No critics analyzing your evolution. No fans demanding you recapture past magic.

This is why some established artists release work under pseudonyms. Why authors switch genres using different names. Why musicians form side projects with deliberately limited audiences. They're trying to recreate that beginner's hall pass. That freedom from the weight of reception.

Imagine if in the 90’s Garth Brooks just released a rock album instead of under the not-so-secret pseudonym, Chris Gaines? Would your opinion of him change?

Finding Balance in the Paradox

So what can we do with these ideas? As creators, maybe we need to just tune out audience reaction and criticism. This is a lot easier said than done. Or maybe we just need to remember that reception often has more to do with the audience's relationship to our journey than to the work itself.

As audience members, we might try to be more consistent in how we evaluate art. To ask whether we're holding different artists to different standards based on their stories rather than their work. To consider whether we're part of the pressure that stifles the very originality we claim to value.

The Human Thread of Reception and Creation

In last week’s post, I explored the tension between expertise and creativity. Now I see that tension exists not just within the artist but in the space between artist and audience.

Have you noticed this paradox in how you respond to art? Do you find yourself judging beginners and experts by different standards? Have you felt the weight of expectations change how you create or share your own work?

I'd love to hear your experiences with this. In the end, we're all both creators and audience members in this great conversation.

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Something about those opening notes captured me instantly.

There was an energy, a freshness to it that I couldn't quite explain.

Years later, I stumbled across Malcolm Gladwell's famous "10,000-hour rule" in his book Outliers, where he uses Mozart as a prime example. According to Gladwell, despite beginning to compose at age six, Mozart didn't produce truly original masterpieces until his twenties, after he had achieved his 10,000 hours of practice.

This gave me pause.

The symphony I loved so dearly was written when Mozart was just a teenager (nearly 16) supposedly before he had achieved "mastery".

It made me wonder: what if the conventional wisdom about expertise has it backward, at least when it comes to creative expression?

What if there's something uniquely valuable in the work we create before we know all the rules?

People hesitate to be honest with someone in a leadership position. And my colleague definitely eased into delivering the news with a little bit of apprehension. This is a clear difference from the way they typically give feedback to members of the team they directly manage. The higher you are in an organization, the less likely you are to hear the truth. Leaders must actively seek it out.

It’s a dangerous trap. Without honest feedback, you start operating in an echo chamber, reinforcing your own assumptions (or bad habits) instead of redefining your approach. I believe the best leaders don’t just tolerate feedback; they pursue it. And they do it relentlessly, from everyone around them. It’s not just a tool for improvement. It’s a necessity for staying sharp and connected.

The Shock of Truth

Have you ever done a cold plunge? Well, feedback can feel a heck of lot like doing a cold plunge. It shocks your system. Your chest tightens. You do that uncontrollable and audible gasp before a shiver. Every time I’ve done a cold plunge my brain screams, “Get me out of here!” But if you push through it and stay in the moment, something shifts. Your body adjusts.

After that initial shock you emerge sharper. You are more alert. You are stronger!

At first, criticism feels like betrayal. It attacks the identity you’ve built. But that identity is only built in your own mind. Buried in that discomfort is an opportunity to see yourself more clearly.

To be better.

Fighting off instinct

My first instinct when receiving feedback? Defend. Justify. Find flaws in the critique instead of myself. But I have noticed that sting only happens when there’s truth in it. The greater the discomfort, the more valuable the lesson. To be a truly authentic leader you must resist the urge to fight it. The process of fighting is not only fueled by ego, it shuts your brain off to actually staying in the conversation.

Sitting with that discomfort builds EQ or emotional intelligence. Most people believe they are self-aware, but the reality is that true self-awareness is rare. Honest feedback closes that gap. It forces reflection. It makes us confront blind spots we’d rather ignore.

Emotionally intelligent people embrace feedback as fuel for growth. They recognize that the most valuable insights often come from the people closest to them. It’s easy to dismiss a coworker’s critique, but what about a partner’s comment on your communication style? A friend’s perspective on how you handle stress? These insights are gold. We just need to have the courage to ask and the desire to listen.

A Sign of True EQ

Receiving feedback isn’t just about professional growth. It’s about personal growth too. Truly emotionally intelligent people don’t just tolerate feedback; they actively seek it out. Not just from coworkers, but from friends, family, and even casual acquaintances. They know that different perspectives help paint a fuller picture of who they are. I can only hope to have enough EQ to not only understand the importance of feedback but to actively seek it out. But I guess, striving for it is the next best thing right?

We should all try to build a habit of seeking feedback. Asking a friend, “What’s something I do that annoys you?” or a family member, “How can I be a better listener?” opens you up to some personal growth. The best leaders don’t just improve in their jobs, they improve in their relationships, their communication, and their ability to connect with others.

And research supports that people who actively seek feedback are more engaged, perform better, and strengthen their relationships. This is both professionally and personally.

Asking for feedback isn’t weakness.

It’s an act of belief.

Belief that you can improve.

A belief that your potential is greater than your pride.

A belief that discomfort today leads to great things tomorrow.

Making Feedback Work

When I seek feedback:

* I ask clear, specific questions. Instead of saying, Do you have any feedback for me? try, What’s one thing I could have done better in that meeting? or How do you think I handled that conversation? This applies at work and at home.

* I create a safe space for honesty. People won’t be truthful if they fear backlash. I make it clear that feedback is welcomed, not punished, by responding with curiosity rather than defensiveness.

* I ask different people. True self-awareness comes from multiple viewpoints. I seek feedback not just from colleagues, but from mentors, friends, and family. They see sides of me that others don’t.

When I give feedback:

* I am specific and timely. Vague feedback like You need to be better at communication isn’t useful. Instead, I focus on precise actions: In today’s meeting, you interrupted twice. Next time, try pausing before responding.

* I focus on actions, not character. People shut down when they feel attacked. Instead of You’re bad at presenting, I say, Your presentation would be stronger if you slowed down and made more eye contact.

* I balance critique with encouragement. Effective feedback builds, not breaks. I highlight strengths alongside areas for improvement so the person feels empowered to grow.

When I receive feedback:

* I listen without interrupting. My instinct might be to jump in and explain, but true growth comes from listening fully before responding.

* I ask for examples. If feedback feels unclear or unfair, I seek clarity: Can you give me an example of when this happened? This turns vague criticism into something actionable.

* I express gratitude, even when it stings. A simple Thank you for your honesty. I’ll reflect on this builds trust and shows I value growth over ego.

The Courage to Let Feedback Shape You

Feedback doesn’t smooth down the edges. Feedback is meant to sharpen. The sting is a signal that something inside you is shifting, improving, becoming sharper. Growth is uncomfortable. It’s also necessary.

The most painful feedback is the most powerful because it forces you to confront the parts of yourself you’d rather ignore. It holds up a mirror, revealing the gaps between who you are and who you aspire to be. The discomfort is proof that you're on the edge of real transformation.

So let it sting. Let it heal. Let it shape you. And then, go ask for more.

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I followed the guidelines to the letter.

Zero exceptions.

I understood the stakes. A clean procedure required a clean slate, and even a small deviation could compromise the clarity of the results. Not to mention, if you are going to take the time to do the procedure, the last thing you want to do is have to do it again right away.

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This experience got me thinking about presence: how I show up for my friends, family, and colleagues. Just as I followed the colonoscopy prep with unwavering diligence, what if I applied that same level of intentionality to being present with the people in my life? What if I treated my attention as something requiring careful preparation and deliberate choices rather than leaving it to chance?

I feel like I talk about our distraction-filled world in every single post but it’s such a huge part of the world we live in. It’s so easy to offer half-hearted engagement. We nod while checking our phones or listen while mentally drafting a to-do list.

But real presence requires more.

It demands the same strict adherence I gave to my colonoscopy prep: clear boundaries, deliberate choices, and an understanding that the outcome, (deep, meaningful connections) depends on my intentionality.

Just as I avoided the foods and drinks that would cloud the results, I need to avoid distractions that cloud my relationships.

No exceptions. Or at least strive for as few exceptions as possible.

When I sit down with a friend, the phone stays away.

When a colleague needs my input, I resist the urge to multitask.

When I'm with family, I give my undivided attention because those moments are fleeting and deserve my full self. This is especially true right now as I desperately grasp tight to those precious moments with my son, our youngest, before he is off to college in the Fall.

My goal, like the colonoscopy, is clarity.

Clarity of mind, clarity of connection, and clarity of purpose.

By being intentional to the last detail, I create the conditions for genuine presence. And just as the clean scan gave me peace of mind about my health, this kind of mindful attention brings peace and fulfillment in my relationships.

Being present isn’t complicated, but it must be intentional. And if I can commit to the rigorous prep for a medical procedure, I can certainly commit to the prep required to show up fully for the people I love and the work that matters to me.

Recently, in a conversation with my brother in law he told me about his experimentation with a sabbath practice. Every Sunday, he is experimenting with the freedom from all devices: no phone, no computer, no email, no texts. He told me that it is “partly a reconnecting to my Jewish side for religious/spiritual/cultural reasons, and partly as a rhythm of life unplugging and being more present, less compulsive.”

It was so great to hear him tell me about this. It started with his intentionality and is continuing with his willingness to try it out. The best part of this exchange for me, however, was I only learned about it because we were intentional on putting a check-in meeting on our calendar. He lives 3000 miles away from me, but investing in my relationship with him is not just because he is family, it’s like what I wrote about last week, “(I) step into every conversation with curiosity and tenderness, knowing that each person we meet shapes us in ways we may never fully comprehend.”

I recognize his version of this practice may not work for everyone. It doesn’t work for me mainly because some of my deepest connections are with people who live far away from me and we share a love for our sports teams that compete on the weekend and our love for texting each other throughout the game. Besides, being free from devices may be a form of self-care but self-care is also commiserating with life-long friends about our team and re-living the not so distant memory of the glory days.

And while his version may not work for me, my version has started with turning non-essential notifications off, leaving my phone on its charger when I get home, and actually telling my friends and family what I am striving to do. In case you missed it, I wrote about these steps in greater detail a few weeks ago.

By taking these deliberate steps, I am creating the conditions for clearer, more meaningful connections just like the precise prep needed for a clean scan.

Am I perfect? No one is. But I certainly strive to be more intentional and deliberate with my choices!

I hope you found meaning in this post. As always, thank you for reading and subscribing.

I appreciate you!

Stay curious. -Greg

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I asked if he had connected with someone that I introduced him to late last year and his response was, “No. I took a look at the company and it didn’t seem like a good fit.”

I have a rule. If I get introduced to someone, I take the meeting. 100% of the time. No matter the person. No matter the situation. It's as simple as that.

Why? Because relationships are everything.

Not just important.

Everything.

Every moment we spend with another person is a chance to build something. Something real. Something meaningful. Too many people treat relationships like transactions. They want to know: “What can I get from this?” But this way of thinking misses a huge point. And when my friend doesn’t follow up on an introduction I gave him it not only reflects negatively on him: it reflects negatively on me.

I’m not saying you should meet every person just to be nice. But when you open yourself to new people, new ideas, and new opportunities, you’re changing your mindset. You’re shifting your focus from “taking” to “giving.” Giving first. Offering value, kindness, and attention without expecting immediate rewards.

And taking every meeting is about more than business. It's about human connection. It's about understanding that every introduction can lead to something bigger.

It’s a mindset shift. A new way of thinking about relationships. Whether in your personal life, at work, or in your community, relationships are the foundation. If you aren’t taking every meeting, you’re closing yourself off to new possibilities.

The Psychology of Connection

Humans are social creatures. We thrive on connection. From the moment we’re born, we seek others. We need others. It’s hardwired into our biology. Our brains are built for connection.

Why is that important? Because meaningful connections are the key to happiness. Harvard’s longest-running study on happiness found that good relationships keep us happier and healthier. They’re more important than money or fame. That’s the kind of insight that makes you rethink how you approach the people around you.

When you take every meeting, you’re opening yourself to these kinds of connections. Your brain craves it. Even the smallest interactions with new people can have a lasting impact. That’s why it’s so important not to judge someone before you meet them. You never know who they could become in your life.

In business, the value of relationships can’t be overstated. Research from the Stanford Social Innovation Review shows that social capital: the value we get from our networks, is a key driver of success. Not just in business. In life. The more people you know, the more opportunities open up.

So, when you close yourself off to new relationships, you’re cutting off those opportunities. You’re shutting down the capillary that feeds into your life. Relationships aren’t just about immediate transactions. They’re about opening doors to things you haven’t even considered yet.

The “Take First” Mindset vs. The “Give First” Mindset

Let’s break it down. The world is full of people with a “take first” mentality. We all know them. The people who ask for favors, but never give back. They’re always looking to benefit from a relationship without putting anything in. The problem with this approach is simple. It’s transactional. It’s self-serving. And ultimately, it doesn’t build deep, meaningful relationships.

Now, let’s look at the flip side. The “give first” mindset. This is where you show up ready to offer value, to contribute, to help others. You’re not thinking about what you can get out of it. You’re thinking about what you can offer. That shift alone changes everything.

Think of the most successful people you know. They’re likely givers. They approach every interaction with the goal of offering something. It could be advice, an introduction, or just a kind word. And because of that, they build trust. They build loyalty. People want to help them because they’ve helped others first. This leads to better, deeper, and more lasting relationships.

And here’s the kicker. It works in the short term too. Giving doesn’t mean you’re ignoring your own needs or goals. It just means you’re prioritizing others. And in the long run, this always pays off.

The Data Behind the “Give First” Approach

One of the best-known studies on this topic comes from Adam Grant, a professor at Wharton. His book Give and Take explores how people who give are often the most successful. He categorizes people into three groups: takers, matchers, and givers. Takers focus on their own interests. Matchers look for equal exchange. But givers? Givers think differently. They focus on helping others. And they tend to do better in the long run.

Grant’s research shows that givers tend to build stronger networks, are more likely to get promoted, and are more successful in both their personal and professional lives. Why? Because people remember when someone has helped them. They remember the value you’ve given. It’s the foundation for a lasting connection.

There’s more research to support this idea. A study published in Psychological Science found that people who help others are more likely to feel fulfilled. Helping others increases your sense of purpose, which in turn makes you feel happier and more satisfied with your life. It’s a win-win.

It’s simple: Give more, and you’ll get more.

Not in the transactional sense. But in the sense that relationships come back to you. Your network grows. Your opportunities increase. And you become a more valuable person in the process.

The Ripple Effect

When you take every meeting, you start a chain reaction. You meet one person. They introduce you to someone else. And that person introduces you to yet another. This is the ripple effect of relationships. Each new connection has the potential to lead to something bigger.

Think of your network as a web. Each person you meet is a node in that web. The more people you connect with, the larger the web becomes. And each new connection brings new possibilities.

The beauty of taking every meeting is that you never know where it might lead. One meeting might feel like a “small” interaction. But what if that person knows someone who knows someone who changes your life? The connections you make today might not pay off immediately, but years down the road, they could make all the difference.

This concept is known as six degrees of separation. The idea is that everyone is connected to everyone else through a chain of acquaintances. And by taking every meeting, you expand your circle exponentially. Every new connection could lead to opportunities you never thought possible.

Steps to “Take Every Meeting”

So how do you actually start adopting this mindset? It’s not as hard as it seems. Here are some actionable steps:

Shift Your Mindset: The first step is to mentally commit to this. Start thinking about every new introduction as an opportunity to give. What can you offer this person? How can you help them? Even if you don’t know them well yet, the mindset shift will guide the conversation.

Be Open-Minded: Approach every meeting with an open mind. Don’t judge someone based on their title or their job. Everyone has something valuable to offer. And the people you think might not be valuable now could be the most important connections down the road.

Follow Up and Follow Through: The meeting doesn’t end when you say goodbye. Follow up with a thank-you email. See if there are ways to help them further. Follow through on any promises you made. This shows you’re serious about building a meaningful relationship.

Leverage Your Network for Others: One of the best ways to show you care is by helping others. Introduce people who could benefit from each other. Make connections. Offer value. This creates goodwill, and people will remember you for it.

Be Consistent: The key to all of this is consistency. Taking every meeting won’t give you instant results. But the more you do it, the more relationships you build. The more relationships you build, the more opportunities you open up.

Learn From Each Meeting: Every person you meet has something to teach you. Whether it’s a new idea, a different perspective, or a new way of thinking, there’s always something to learn. Treat every meeting as a chance to grow.

Build Long-Term Relationships: The purpose of all of this is not to get something right away. It’s about building relationships that last. The value of these relationships will pay off in the long run.

The Benefit of Human Connection

I strive for a world where every encounter is cherished, where every introduction is embraced with open arms and an open heart. A world where human connection becomes a profound celebration of our shared existence.

I challenge you to step into every conversation with curiosity and tenderness, knowing that each person we meet shapes us in ways we may never fully comprehend.

Lean into the magic of every introduction, every moment of shared humanity.

Take every meeting.

Give first.

Embrace the unknown.

In the end, the true richness of life lies not in what we achieve alone, but in the countless people we’ve touched along the way.

So TAKE. THE. MEETING.

Allow yourself to be swept away by the beauty of human connection. Say yes to the stranger, the friend of a friend, the unexpected invitation. In every new face, there is a vast universe waiting to be discovered. And in choosing connection, you are choosing a life filled with love, wonder, and endless possibility.

If today’s episode sparked curiosity or resonated with you, let’s keep the conversation going on the Human Thread substack at followgreg.substack.com.

Until next time stay curious, and keep exploring the human threads that connect us.

In this episode, Alison Wood Brooks, a behavioral scientist at Harvard Business School, said:

“We interrupted them every five minutes in a conversation and asked them, were you listening attentively to your partner or was your mind wandering? And 24% of the time, they say, actually, my mind was wandering. I wasn't listening to my partner.

We suspect this is an underestimate because people know that it's sort of embarrassing to not be listening to their partner. You see this happen during video calls or on Zoom. People are smiling and nodding at the camera even while they're like to the side texting their friend or making a grocery list. Because there are these norms of politeness, right?

We know that we should make our partners feel like we're listening to them.”

I've definitely felt this when I'm talking but also when I'm listening. That 24% figure doesn't surprise me at all. Often, during chats, my mind drifts elsewhere. And in many conversations, I feel the distraction of others. I see the glances at phones after the undeniable vibration sound of a notification coming into their device.

Take Zoom meetings, for example. I'll be mid-discussion, and suddenly, a notification pops up, or a text buzzes on my phone. My focus shifts instantly.

We all know it's crucial to avoid distractions while driving. Many states have laws against texting behind the wheel. Cars and phones now have features to block notifications when you're driving. Yet, we still see drivers glued to their phones. It's universally agree, even by those drivers, that this is dangerous. People can get killed.

While zoning out during a Zoom call or dinner with family isn't as lethal as distracted driving, it sends a damaging message to those we're with. When we're not fully present, it undermines trust. Trust is the foundation of any strong relationship. Being attentive shows we value and respect the other person. When we're distracted, it signals disinterest, making others feel unimportant. Over time, this erodes trust and weakens bonds.

I've caught myself drifting off in meetings, conversations, and even at the dinner table. And these are with the people I care about! The ones who bring me joy from their friendship. The ones I work with every day.

The forces at work

Social media platforms, media organizations, and other apps have built their business plan economics around engagement. The point is to get your eyeballs (and your attention) back to their site.

These days everything is now “Breaking News”. Last month, I was in the middle of an important 1:1 meeting with a colleague and a New York Times Breaking News Alert popped up on my phone…telling me that the Oscar Nominations were announced.

This is insanity. I’m a bigger film buff than most but this alert caused me to not only turn off notifications, but also to delete the app and my subscription.

These are the forces at work against us.

In today’s world landscape (especially the sh*t-show here in this country where I am torn between outrage and the desire to tell the ones who voted for this “I told you so”) everything seems “breaking” and “news”.

Yes, almost of all of these changes will directly affect people I care about. But I feel knowing about it that night or even later in the week versus immediately after it happens does not make me any less outraged or any less of an ally for those that need one. There’s mental health benefits for not being always on all the time. But there are also benefits to the things that we definitely CAN control: the relationships we have with our loved ones.

Busyness ≠ Importance

We've all been conditioned to equate busyness with importance. Saying "I'm busy" often implies we're successful and in demand. But this mindset is misleading and harmful. Constant busyness can lead to stress, burnout, and strained relationships. It's a path that pulls us away from meaningful connections and self-care.

I want to challenge this notion by leading through example. Prioritizing quality over quantity, setting boundaries, and making time for rest and relationships are crucial. By doing so, we can foster a healthier, more balanced life that's both productive and fulfilling.

Embracing a culture that values meaningful engagement over mere activity can enhance our well-being and strengthen our connections with others. Realizing that distractions hurt my relationships and focus has pushed me to make some changes.

Ways I am fighting against this.

I might not eliminate that 24% mind-wandering entirely, but I can aim to get close to zero. Here's what I'm doing:

In-office meetings: Instead of taking the meeting from behind my desk, I step away from my desk, leaving my computer and phone behind, to give full attention to the person I'm with.

Workplace meetings: I leave my devices in the office and bring only a notebook. It not only affects the way I listen (free from distraction) forcing me to handwrite notes imprints the comprehension of what I am hearing.

Coffee shop or restaurant meetups: If my car's nearby, I leave my phone in it. My watch is set to notify me only if my wife, kids, or parents call. And if I have a hard stop, I also set an alarm on my watch, so I don't need my phone to check the time.

Managing notifications: I've turned off all alerts except for calls from my immediate family. Push email is disabled too.

These tweaks help me stay present and focused, showing respect to those I'm with and improving my own attention span.

Let’s keep this conversation going.

I’d love to hear your thoughts—have you noticed distractions affecting your relationships or work? What steps have you taken to be more present? Drop a comment below and share your experience. If this resonated with you, consider restacking it so we can inspire more people to strive for presence, connection, and balance in a world that’s constantly pulling us in every direction.

Thanks for listening and reading! -Greg