A few weeks ago, I wrote that being ahead professionally doesn't necessarily mean you're ahead personally. I still believe that.
But I've been asked a version of the same question enough times now that I think it deserves a straight answer: why do I feel so far ahead for someone my age?
It isn't the companies. It isn't the acquisition, or the software, or the teams. Those are outcomes, and outcomes can disappear.
What I actually have is a short list of rules. Most of them are almost embarrassingly simple. And nearly all of them share the same structure: do the thing as though someone is watching.
Not because I want an audience. Because eventually, someone always is.
The List
- Obey the Ten Commandments like God is watching.
- Brush your teeth like your dentist is watching.
- Shower each morning like you're washing off the negativity of yesterday.
- Get dressed like your crush is waiting outside.
- Work like your kids are going to need it someday — because they will.
- Work out like your trainer is watching.
- Read like the next chapter has the answer.
- Lead like your circles are going to write a book about you.
- Speak like every word is going to be held against you in the future.
- Take the stairs like the elevator is broken.
- Spend time with your loved ones like it's the last day you'll have with them.
None of these are original. You've probably heard versions of most of them. The point was never originality. The point is that I actually do them.
The Witness Principle
There's a reason almost every rule on that list imagines a witness.
Left alone, most people negotiate with themselves. You skip the floss because nobody will know. You take the elevator because it's one floor. You say the careless thing because it's a private conversation.
Each of those decisions is small. That's exactly what makes them dangerous. Standards rarely collapse all at once. They erode one reasonable exception at a time.
Imagining someone watching removes the negotiation. It's not about performing for them — I've written before about how much I distrust performance. It's about borrowing their standard on the days my own feels flexible.
A dentist, for the things that seem too small to matter. A trainer, for the moments I'd rather quit. A future reader, for the way I treat the people I lead.
The witness is a tool. The discipline is mine.
The First Rule
There's one witness on the list that isn't imagined, and it's the reason the first rule comes first.
I don't write much about faith here. Not because it isn't important to me, but because it's one of the things I've generally kept private. It's also, honestly, the foundation the rest of the list is built on.
The Ten Commandments aren't complicated. Don't lie. Don't steal. Don't covet what someone else has. Honor your parents. Keep a day of rest. Most people would agree with nearly all of them in principle. The difficulty has never been understanding them. It's keeping them when nobody else would ever find out.
That's where believing God is watching changes things. Every other witness on this list is someone I can disappoint and recover from. A trainer forgets a skipped workout. A dentist only sees the result. But obeying God isn't about being caught. It's about knowing that the private version of me and the public version of me are supposed to be the same person, and that there's no room where the standard stops applying.
I'm not perfect at this. Nobody is, and I'd distrust anyone who claimed otherwise. But having a standard that doesn't move with my mood, my schedule, or my age has done more for me than any productivity system I've ever tried.
Some of the commandments read differently now than they did when I was younger. "Don't covet" used to sound like a rule about stuff. Now it sounds like a rule about comparison — about the other founder who raised more, the other person who seems further ahead. It turns out an ancient rule has a lot to say about a very modern anxiety.
And "keep a day of rest" is the rule I most need and most resist. For someone who has spent years treating free time as something to optimize, being told to stop isn't a restriction. It's permission.
Everything else on this list is a habit. This one is a conviction. The habits work because the conviction holds them up.
Starting the Day Clean
The morning rules — the shower, getting dressed — sound like hygiene advice. They're not, really.
A shower is the closest thing I have to a daily reset. Whatever went wrong yesterday, whatever conversation didn't land or decision didn't work out, I get to stand there and decide it's done. Yesterday doesn't get to follow me into today unless I invite it.
Getting dressed like someone is waiting outside is the same idea, applied outward. How you present yourself is a signal — mostly to yourself. It's hard to treat a day seriously when you didn't treat getting ready for it seriously.
Neither of these takes more than twenty minutes. Both change how the next twelve hours go.
Working for Someone Who Doesn't Exist Yet
I don't have kids. I'm not close to having kids. But I work like they're going to need what I'm building, because someday they will.
That reframe changes what work feels like. It stops being about the next milestone or the next person who seems further ahead. It becomes about something that outlasts the anxiety of the moment.
The same applies to leadership. If the people around me were going to write a book about how I led them, I'd want it to be honest and I'd want it to be good. That's a higher bar than "did we ship on time." It includes how I handled the disagreements, the mistakes, and the people who left.
Most leaders are evaluated in the moment. The ones worth remembering are the ones who behaved as though they'd be evaluated later.
Words Last Longer Than You Do
Apart from the first rule, the one I think about most is the ninth.
Speak like every word is going to be held against you in the future.
That might sound paranoid. It isn't. It's an acknowledgment of how permanent things have become. Messages get screenshotted. Posts get archived. Things you say at sixteen get read back to you at twenty-six.
But it's not only about protecting yourself. Words you'd be uncomfortable seeing quoted are usually words you shouldn't have said in the first place. The rule doesn't make me quieter. It makes me more deliberate.
That's the same thing I've said about privacy: it isn't silence. It's choosing.
The Stairs and the Next Chapter
Take the stairs like the elevator is broken. Read like the next chapter has the answer.
These are the two rules about effort when nobody is asking for it.
Nobody needs you to take the stairs. Nobody is grading you on whether you finished the book. That's exactly why they matter. They're practice for choosing the harder path when the easier one is right there and completely acceptable.
And reading like the next chapter has the answer keeps me curious. Sometimes it does have the answer. Most of the time it doesn't. But the habit of looking — of assuming there's something worth finding if you keep going — is one of the most useful things I've built.
The Last Day
The final rule is the one that keeps the rest of them honest.
Spend time with your loved ones like it's the last day you'll have with them.
I've written a lot about ambition, and about how easy it is to treat the present as preparation for the future. This rule is the counterweight. Everything else on the list is about building something. This one is about not missing what's already here.
It's not morbid. It's just accurate. You don't know which conversation is the last one. You only know whether you were actually present for it.
What "Ahead" Actually Means
So, why do I feel ahead?
Not because I've figured everything out. I said it a few weeks ago and I'll say it again: I'm still figuring out who I want to be.
I feel ahead because I've already decided how I'm going to show up while I figure it out. The standards came first. The outcomes followed.
Most people wait until they're older to decide what kind of person they want to be on an ordinary Tuesday. I decided early. That's the whole advantage.
Live like someone is watching.
Eventually, someone is.