Eat a Slice of Humble Pie

When I look back on my life, I’ve made countless mistakes, some more costly than others. One theme I’ve noticed is that in my younger years—my 20s and early 30s—I let my ego grow a little too large. This post serves as a letter to my younger self, containing reflections I wish I had internalized sooner.

I grew up in the 90s when computers and the Internet were on the cusp of upending every aspect of life. Because I taught myself to code at a young age, people thought I was some kind of computer savant (which I hardly am). In reality, I was just a socially awkward kid with few friends who took to computers as a way to entertain myself, stimulate my mind, and perhaps find human connection through the Internet.

During those formative years, people constantly told me I was special, simply because I had some basic computer skills. To them, what I could do seemed like magic. The reality? No magic—I had merely spent countless hours reading and tinkering online, acquiring knowledge through persistence rather than innate brilliance. After years of having my ego inflated, I began to believe I really was exceptional, and it wasn’t until my 30s that I recognized I was primarily lucky, not particularly brilliant.

To be fair, I did work hard and make things happen, but my success had less to do with extraordinary abilities and more to do with timing—being a young, tech-curious person growing up alongside the Internet. These days when I read stories about “genius,” I’m skeptical. Having been called a “genius” many times myself, I’ve learned there’s rarely such a thing as pure genius—only people with opportunities, persistence, and sometimes outsized egos.

For some people, initial success creates a wave they can ride indefinitely. In my interactions with various “successful” individuals, I’ve found most are quite ordinary once you look past their public persona. The stories of their success are often more dramatic than the reality of how they achieved it. And “success,” typically defined as some combination of money and fame, doesn’t necessarily reflect exceptional talent or character.

Some people do possess remarkable talents or skills, but society doesn’t consistently reward these gifts. Countless talented artists, scientists, researchers, and thinkers struggle to make a living pursuing their passions. History is filled with brilliant individuals who lived difficult lives and received little recognition during their lifetime. Often, the most successful creative people are those who had financial security from other sources—family wealth or unrelated business ventures—that allowed them to freely pursue their interests without financial pressure.

The most valuable lesson I learned (regrettably late) is the importance of staying humble. It’s easy to forget how quickly circumstances can change while things are going well. If I could advise my younger self, I’d emphasize gratitude for present blessings rather than anxiously comparing myself to others who appeared more successful. In retrospect, I was doing quite well, even when it didn’t feel that way. And I’ve learned that beyond meeting basic needs, additional wealth or recognition rarely increases happiness significantly.

There’s a delicate balance between healthy ambition and contentment. Ambition drives growth, but there’s profound wisdom in appreciating your current circumstances—especially when you’re already in a fortunate position with your fundamental needs met. The humility to recognize this balance has brought me more peace than any achievement ever did.