You can read all the books you want, take all the courses you can afford, and still be changed more by a single conversation than a year of formal learning.
When I look back at the inflection points in my life, they rarely came from a plan. They came from people—sometimes mentors, sometimes strangers—who dropped an idea, a question, or a challenge that rewired how I saw the world.
Here are some of the lessons that stuck.
“If You Can’t Explain It Simply, You Don’t Understand It.”
The first person to make me rethink my communication style was a senior client in my early consulting days. After I’d delivered a 40-slide strategy deck, she smiled and said, “That’s nice. Now explain it to my 12-year-old niece.”
I stumbled. I realised I’d been hiding behind jargon, thinking it made me sound credible. She taught me that certainty—both for you and your audience—comes from distilling complexity into clarity.
Now, every pitch, every chapter I write, every idea I test runs through this filter: could a smart teenager understand it? If not, I go back and sharpen.
“Never Be the Smartest Person in the Room.”
A mentor in my first startup told me this over lunch. I thought he meant humility. He meant strategy.
If you’re always the smartest in the room, you’ve built a cage for your own growth. You’re protecting your status instead of expanding your capacity.
Since then, I’ve deliberately sought rooms where I’m the least informed on the main topic—whether it’s AI ethics panels or ESG compliance roundtables. I leave with ideas I didn’t know existed, and connections I couldn’t have predicted.
“Your Calendar Shows Your Real Priorities.”
A fellow founder once asked me to open my calendar for the next week. After a quick glance, he said, “There’s your problem—you say writing is your priority, but your schedule says it’s admin.”
That was a punch to the gut. I had been telling myself a story about what mattered, but the data—my own calendar—proved otherwise.
The shift was immediate: block creative time first, let the rest fight for space. That single change gave me autonomy over my week, and I’ve protected it ever since.
“Reputation Arrives on Foot and Leaves in a Ferrari.”
An old client, blunt and brilliant, told me this after I complained about a rumour that wasn’t true. He wasn’t being comforting—he was warning me.
Reputation is built slowly, often without you noticing. But the moment it’s questioned, it can vanish at terrifying speed. And it’s rarely “fair” in how it falls apart.
That conversation made me hyper-aware of how I show up—online, offline, in private meetings. Fair or not, people connect dots fast. My job is to make sure they connect the right ones.
“Don’t Confuse Movement with Progress.”
This came from a senior executive I once shadowed. He watched me fire off emails, update trackers, and tick off tasks at lightning speed. Then he asked, “If you stopped doing all that for a week, would anything important actually stall?”
It was uncomfortable, but it gave me certainty about how much of my “work” was just motion. Since then, I ask weekly: what three things will create the most actual progress? Everything else is noise.
“The Relationship Starts After the First Sale.”
A veteran sales coach drilled this into me. Too many founders treat the close as the victory lap, then move on.
But real growth happens when clients become advocates, partners, and collaborators. That’s relatedness—the long-term bond that makes business more resilient than any contract clause.
Now, I measure my success not by the number of deals I close, but by how many people come back or refer others without me asking.
“Your Comfort Zone Is a Coffin with Cushions.”
This came from a speaker I barely knew, during a panel backstage. He said it casually, but it’s stuck for years.
Comfort zones feel safe because they validate our status—we’re good at what we’re doing. But stay there too long, and that comfort starts to suffocate growth.
Every 6–12 months, I now take on something that makes me visibly inexperienced again—whether that’s a new market, a different writing format, or a skill that forces me to start from zero.
“You Don’t Need More Ideas, You Need More Executions.”
A fellow author gave me this one over coffee. I had been talking about all the books I wanted to write, the businesses I wanted to start, the workshops I wanted to launch.
He listened, smiled, and said, “You’re drowning in potential energy. Convert it.”
That’s autonomy in its purest form—turning intention into action. I now keep a short “execution list” alongside my idea bank. For every three ideas, at least one must move into active execution within 30 days.
People Are the Curriculum
None of these lessons came from a syllabus. They came from conversations, sometimes only a few minutes long, with people who saw something I didn’t.
They weren’t always soft landings—some were uncomfortable, even humbling. But they changed my thinking in ways no book or podcast could, because they were personal.
If I’ve learned anything from this, it’s to stay open. The person who changes your next year—or your next decade—might be sitting across from you right now, about to say something that feels small and lands like a thunderclap.