We look at the titans running the tech behemoths as if they are ancient prophets. We forget that they, too, are merely mortals—slaves to the "Quarterly Report," the "Board of Directors," and the "Market Sentiment." They aren't steering the ship; they are just trying to stay on deck while the waves toss them about.

"Call me whimsical, but this grand experiment—the frantic race to make a silicon rock think in five hundred different ways—seems a bit short-sighted. It might produce the smartest rock in history, and that rock might even show a profit for the next three months. But tell me, when the time comes, will we actually listen to the rock when it suggests we stop killing our own kin?"

User Experience (UX) should never be used as a band-aid for core product or service failures.

Imagine a fancy barbershop. You walk in: the aroma is pleasant, the staff is polished, and there's no wait time. You're nestled into a soft, cushioned chair so cozy you drift off to sleep while ordering your cut. An hour later, you wake up, look in the mirror, and the haircut is terrible.

As a customer, would you ever return? No. You would quickly switch to a simpler barbershop that consistently delivers a great cut.

UX: the nice smells, soft seats, and zero wait time can and should never be used as a stand-in for an average or poor-performing experience. Sooner or later, especially with competition, users will notice the difference and switch to a quicker, more reliable, and ultimately more valuable experience.

I’ve spent years moving in and out of the gym—on the floor, off the floor, starting again, stopping again. But this stretch? This one’s been the longest. Two years now. A quiet rhythm.

Most people keep to themselves, focused on breath and metal. However, every once in a while someone approaches me—kind words, praise, or curiosity in their eyes. They ask if there’s a secret. A magic powder. A meal plan. A forbidden food. Something they can follow. And every time, I hate to disappoint. Because there’s no shortcut. No capsule. No ritual I perform that guarantees results.

Truth is, I was born with the strange blessing (and curse) of a body that rarely gains fat. A blessing, yes—but also a lifelong sentence — a bullseye on my back. The taunts, the labels, the jokes I didn’t ask for—they started early and stayed late. Bullying has a way of slipping into your bloodstream, even when you think you’ve left it behind.

Coping wasn’t easy. Still isn’t. But somewhere along the way, I stopped fighting myself. I stopped resenting the mirror. Acceptance, as tired as the word sounds, became survival. This body—this unchosen gift—is still the only vessel I have. It lets me move, travel, laugh, cry, play. It has carried me through joy and pain, and for that, I owe it reverence, not resentment.

To hate this vessel would be to bite the hand that feeds me. And yes, I’ve fallen for the illusion—chased the idea that I could bulk my way out of my genetics. That maybe with enough effort, enough protein, enough obsession, I could cross some imagined finish line. That idea wasn’t always mine; it was sold to me. By trainers I never sought. By bigger guys lifting louder weights. By influencers selling dreams dressed as advice. All of it, rooted in the soft rot of dysmorphia.

I’m grateful I came of age before Ozem and Tren began to be sold like candies. Before biohacks and shortcuts became the currency of self-worth.

Now? I wake up. I show up. I push a little harder than I did yesterday—not for results, not for size, but for honesty. For me.

And that, I’ve learned, is enough.

It’s always been enough.