At some point, someone decided a “strong personality” meant loud opinions, fast answers, and the kind of handshake that says I drink protein shakes with my eyes closed. And the rest of us, with our awkward silences and well-timed nods, just quietly slipped into the background.
For a while, I bought into that. Thought maybe I was missing something. Maybe I needed to speak up more or say things like “let’s circle back” with a straight face. But then I started noticing the quiet people. The ones who listen more than they talk. The ones who sit through a meeting without posturing, then send one sentence afterward that rearranges the whole thing. They’re not weak. They’re just not peacocking.
I wrote this on a Tuesday when I felt like a ghost in a room full of confident noise:
If I am not a mountain’s cry, am I the breeze that passes by? If I don’t shout, or strike, or shine, can stillness be a strength of mine?
Turns out, yes. Stillness sees things. It notices how people shift in their chairs when they lie. It remembers where the scissors were last week. It doesn’t rush to fill silence just to prove it’s there.
I’ve learned to stop asking whether I have a strong personality. It’s the wrong question. The better one might be, am I honest? Am I curious? Can I sit with not knowing and not pretend otherwise?
Strong is relative. Some of us are just the type to quietly move a chair so someone else doesn’t trip. No one claps, but no one falls. That counts.
Anyway. That’s where I’m at. Probably still overthinking it. But at least I’m doing it quietly.
Stumbled on a dusty folder while rifling through an old hard‑drive backup. Inside sat scribbles about Faith Popcorn’s trend bombs, written by a younger me who thought Winamp skins were the height of customization.
Two decades later they still hit, so I stitched the notes into one coherent ramble and kept the timestamp vibe intact.
Cocooning
Back when 56 k modems squealed like wounded robots, parking myself at home felt radical. Work, class, and late night Counter‑Strike all funneled through the same beige tower. It looked like productivity, really it was bubble wrap for the soul. Faith called it the craving for a padded nest against daily roughness. Turns out pizza boxes double as insulation.
Clanning
Even hermits need tribe time. Message boards, LAN parties, and sprawling ICQ lists let miniature crews swap obsessions. One night I am hunting Photoshop tips, next I am deep in a Quake forum arguing rocket splash radius. Clanning hands out membership patches to anyone who shows up and types fast.
Fantasy Adventure
Thornton Wilder nailed it. Safe at home we crave peril, in peril we crave home. My shortcut was EverQuest marathons. Dragons melt stress better than therapy, at least until the server crashes. Imagination never loses.
Pleasure Revenge
We grind, then smash Buy‑It‑Now on something shiny. That impulse feels like justice for commuter traffic and neon deadlines. Consequences get punted to tomorrow‑morning Diego. Tonight is about the dopamine spike.
The disk also held four fresh clicks that push the plot forward.
Mancipation
Suddenly the razor aisle stocks moisturizing gel and magazines tell guys to exfoliate. My grandfather would laugh himself silly. Sharing family gigs and cooking a half decent pasta feels less like rebellion and more like catching up.
Ninety‑Nine Lives
Every browser window wants a slice of the same day. Job, side gig, gym, band practice, grandma’s birthday, password resets. Multitasking is a myth yet I keep chasing it because the alternative boots slower than Windows Me.
Check Out
When the juggling drops a flaming chainsaw, Check Out surfaces. Quit the gig. Nuke the roadmap. Backpack across South America. The reset button is shock therapy for people hooked on busy badges. I have not punched it yet but the fantasy lives on a sticky note beside the monitor.
Living Click
All trends swirl into one gnarly soup. Living Click means syncing the fragments into intent. Less autopilot, more joystick. The buy‑in is attention, the payoff is those rare flashes where everything aligns and the noise cuts.
Why Bother With This List Now
Because the ideas still ring true and because early‑twenties me predicted hoverboards by 2025. Instead we got pop‑up blockers and a thousand passwords. These eight clicks became a crude compass. They do not guarantee bliss, they just flag the fault lines we keep dancing on.
So here is the gist. Build the nest, join the clan, slay the dragon, eat the cake, moisturize, juggle, bail when it turns toxic, then stitch the pieces into something that resembles living. Pull that off and ping me on ICQ. I will be online unless someone picks up the phone.
I recently had a conversation with the global team behind Earth Day, and I left that call completely blown away by the passion and meticulous organization behind the event. They are behind tens of thousands of Earth Day events worldwide, including one right here in my city. It got me thinking about how far I’ve come from those humble days of orchestrating little movie theater sessions for kids at a local fair in Brazil. Back then, I never imagined those early experiments would someday lead to coordinating large-scale Earth Day events with city partners (which always brings back memories of dealing with Brazilian politicians), churches (even though I’m agnostic), and sponsors (since I admittedly suck at pitching).
Cine Ratones The biggest little cinema in town.Ratonarte, Florianópolis, Brazil (2014)
I’ve always had this odd notion that I wasn’t cut out to be an event guy, the idea of organizing something only to see empty seats used to terrify me. Yet here I am, spearheading events run by 100% volunteer-based nonprofits, operating on shoestring budgets, or sometimes, virtually none. Every event is a leap of faith, and despite the occasional panic, there’s a thrill in watching it all come together, even if it means sometimes laughing off the worst-case scenarios over coffee.
The volunteer spirit is at the heart of these events, but even passion comes with a price tag. Sponsorships enter the picture, each with its own mission and set of values. This year, for instance, we were approached by a wide array of organizations, from big sports clubs and banks to electric vehicle companies. It’s a constant balancing act, because while accepting sponsorships can boost our budget and extend our outreach, it can also tether us to partners whose values might not fully align with our environmental or ethical stances.
Declining sponsorships feels like a double-edged sword; on one hand, it might mean fewer resources and a smaller reach, and on the other, it reinforces the pride I take in keeping our mission uncompromised by external interests that delve too deeply into environmental or political controversies.
In the end, these Earth Day events are more than just a calendar date; they are a testament to the unpredictable, often messy journey of turning small beginnings into meaningful, community-driven celebrations. And while the challenges are many and the stakes sometimes feel higher than a teenager’s first crush, the shared commitment of everyone involved makes every moment worth it.
Earth Day at Civic Park, Walnut Creek, CA (2024)
Here’s to the unexpected paths, to volunteers who show up rain or shine, and to keeping our footprint light on the planet and heavy on authenticity.
Bandwidth sounds like a technical term, something to measure internet speed, but lately I’ve been using it to talk about my mental space. Not long ago, I started feeling this low, nagging anxiety, a weird distress that just wouldn’t quit. I blamed it on a temporary mood and went for a run to clear my head. The next day, the feeling was back, kind of like that annoying popup ad you can’t close. While updating my Now page, I realized I was juggling far more than I ever admitted, especially projects that needed my full attention.
A “Now” page is my quick snapshot of what I’m focused on at the moment, a sort of last page of my journal. Inspired by Derek Sivers, it’s a way of sharing what’s driving my attention and energy right now. I try to keep it fresh, updating it as my focus shifts, even if it means sometimes admitting I overdid it.
A few years back, I dove headfirst into a bunch of projects. I started volunteering, advising startups, and chasing new business ideas, some that worked and others that, well, ended up being my own little disasters I’m too embarrassed to share. I love diving deep into something, getting lost in the details, and burning the midnight oil until my brain begs for mercy. It feels like an endurance race sometimes, with no official finish line, just me chasing that moment when everything finally clicks.
I reviewed my goals and initiatives and found that some were simply left behind. That neglect stirred up more stress, so I decided to slow down on a few fronts, pausing projects like learning Korean or switching from cycling (yes, cycling, my beloved sport) to running. These two activities require quite a lot of time. Cycling, for example, isn’t just a quick loop for me. I end up on half-day rides where my legs and schedule both pay the price, but I love the endurance high I get. That feeling of pushing a bit further when my body insists it’s done can be addictive. Even better when it’s a full day of riding, I feel like I’m on a day trip.
The issue with pausing or reducing some projects is that they’re sometimes social events, and the downside of that is meeting less with those friends. To be honest, switching from cycling to running wasn’t my best idea. I miss the group rides, the banter, and the coffee stops that are half the reason we even ride. It’s a bittersweet trade-off, but for now, it’s helping me keep my stress in check.
Talking about them, one of my cyclist friends said some people seem to have endless bandwidth, and it got me wondering: do they learn how to manage their energy, or were they just born with extra batteries?
“Nothing in life is as important as you think it is while you are thinking about it,”
– Daniel Kahneman
Simple research tells us that our brains aren’t built to do everything at once. Every time we switch tasks, we lose a bit of focus. Experts like Daniel Kahneman (The guy from Thinking, Fast and Slow) remind us that our attention is limited and needs careful management. In other words, having more bandwidth isn’t about some secret magic power, it’s about making choices that protect what little mental space we have, something I’m still suck.
So, I’ve tried a few tricks to keep my energy in check. I schedule downtime, set clear boundaries, gave meditation a shot and even switch coffee for ginseng (Ginseng helps rats handle stress, so I figured it might help me handle the rat race.)
Well, none of these turned me into an ultra marathoner (thank goodness), but they did help me realize that trying to do too much just leaves me running on empty. One time, I promised a nonprofit I’d build their website in the same weekend I was juggling another project. By Sunday, I was microwaving my tea for the third time and realized I hadn’t eaten a real meal in 24 hours. That was my wake-up call.
“Dieguito, I’ve done that before, you are a 3x burnout survivor, pay attention.”
– Me
Life shifts, and so does my capacity to handle it. Maybe bandwidth isn’t something we master once and for all, but something we renegotiate as we grow. Right now, I’m just glad I’m recognizing those signs of overload before they knock me out. If my future self is reading this, I hope you’ve learned a few more tricks. If not, at least you can smile at how far we’ve come.
Will I ever fully figure out my bandwidth? Probably not. Knowing me, I’ll keep piling on random projects and then wonder why my schedule looks like an abstract painting. But at least now, I can laugh at the irony while sipping a cup of ginseng tea and secretly planning my next half-baked scheme.
Fifteen years ago, I went down a rabbit hole that was mostly larvae. Specifically, Hermetia illucens, better known as Black Soldier Flies. I was obsessed. Not in the “cute pet bug” way, but in the “what if this insect could help save the world” kind of way. I read everything I could find, told anyone who would listen, and probably came uncomfortably close to trying one on toast.
Then, like most fixations that aren’t actively paying my rent, it faded into the background. The flies flew away and ruined my neighbor’s orange production. 🤷♂️
And now here they are again.
They’re buzzing through headlines as the next big thing in sustainable food systems. The BBC recently put out a piece painting them as miracle workers. They eat food waste at astonishing speed, turn it into compost and protein, and don’t demand much in return. No water. No land. No feelings about being farmed. It’s the kind of efficiency that makes engineers giddy and environmentalists hopeful.
Another group, the Stray Dog Institute, offers a colder take. They argue that industrializing insect farming doesn’t magically clean up the ethics or the waste problem. Feeding bugs to livestock still props up factory farming. And food waste isn’t just a disposal issue. It’s systemic. Solving it with bugs may just be tech-washing a deeper problem.
Still weirdly into these flies. Still not eating them. Still wondering if our future involves more systems thinking and fewer silver bullets. I think both articles are worth reading. The optimism and the criticism. The innovation and the discomfort. That’s usually where the real stuff lives.
What fascinates me most isn’t just the bugs. It’s the recurring pattern. We find something promising. We scale it. Then we realize scaling anything comes with trade-offs. Then we’re left to decide if the trade-offs are worth it or if we’re just trying to avoid the harder questions.
For now, I’m just glad the flies are back. And that I still care.
