I remember my first year at the Ministry. Everyone warned me about it. "The first year is always the hardest," they said. "Just get through the first year and it gets easier." And they were right—the first year was hard. New systems to learn, new relationships to build, figuring out how things actually work versus how they're supposed to work. Constantly feeling behind, constantly adjusting, constantly in that uncomfortable state of not quite knowing what I'm doing.

Someone asked me last month what success looks like to me five years from now. It was a professional networking event, the kind of setting where you're supposed to have an impressive answer ready. So I gave the answer I'm supposed to give. The ambitious one. The one that sounds good when you say it out loud: "I want to be leading major innovation initiatives, speaking internationally, published extensively, recognized as a thought leader in my field."

I've tried six different morning routines in the past year. First it was the 5am CEO routine. Wake up before the sun, exercise, journal, meditate, plan the day. Be the most productive version of yourself before most people even wake up. I lasted two weeks before I started hitting snooze and feeling guilty about it. Then it was the meditation-first routine.

I was at dinner with friends last week when someone mentioned they'd gotten a raise. Good news, genuinely worth celebrating. And then the conversation shifted to salaries, apartment costs, how expensive everything's gotten. And everyone did this weird dance. One friend immediately said "Oh, I don't really think about money that much. As long as I can pay my bills, I'm happy." Another jumped in with "Money's the only thing that matters—I'm just trying to maximize income." Someone else deflected entirely: "Can we talk about something else?

My mom told me something when I was twenty-two that I completely dismissed at the time. I was starting my career, full of ambition and energy, ready to prove myself. And she said, with that tone parents use when they're trying to warn you about something they learned the hard way: "You can't sustain yourself on ambition alone. Eventually you'll need more than work to make life feel worthwhile."

There's someone in my department who doesn't attend many meetings. She's not on high-visibility projects. She doesn't position herself for promotions or make sure leadership knows about her contributions. In a room full of people talking about strategy and innovation, she's usually the quiet one taking notes. If you looked at our org chart or read her job description, you wouldn't think she was particularly important.

I don't know what AI is going to do to the job market. I don't know if it's going to be humanity's great salvation or our downfall. I don't have predictions about where this technology is heading or what it means for society. But here's what I do know: AI is making it possible for regular people to create things they couldn't create before.

I was at a wedding last month, standing on the edge of the dance floor during the reception. The music was loud, the lights were flashing, and I was doing that thing where you're not quite dancing but also not quite standing still—that awkward half-movement people do when they're deciding whether to commit. And then I looked around and realized: everyone was dancing.