Lately, I've had this strange feeling that I'm the last person everywhere.
The last friend to figure things out.
The last designer to get a good job.
The last entrepreneur to build something meaningful.
The last person in the room still trying to prove themselves.
It doesn't come from jealousy as much as it comes from timing.
You open LinkedIn and someone your age is leading a team. Another is working at a company you've always admired. Someone else just moved to a new city, launched a startup, bought a house, got married, raised funding, won an award, or somehow found clarity about what they want to do with their life.
Meanwhile, you're still sitting in front of a laptop wondering if you're even heading in the right direction.
And the worst part is that nobody is doing anything wrong.
They're not showing off.
They're simply living their lives.
But every success story you encounter becomes another reminder of your own unfinished chapter.
It feels like arriving at a party after everyone has already settled in.
Everyone seems to know each other. Everyone seems comfortable. Everyone seems to have found their place.
You're still standing near the entrance trying to figure out where you belong.
I think this feeling is becoming increasingly common because we can now see everyone's timelines at once.
A hundred years ago, you compared yourself to a handful of people around you.
Today, you're comparing yourself to the most successful person from every city, every company, every industry, all before breakfast.
The result is a constant illusion that everyone is ahead.
But I've started noticing something interesting.
When I look closely at the people I admire, their stories rarely happened when I thought they did.
Some spent years doing work nobody noticed.
Some changed careers completely.
Some failed repeatedly before finding the thing they became known for.
Some looked successful from the outside while privately wondering whether they were falling behind.
The timelines we compare ourselves against are usually compressed versions of reality.
We see the arrival.
We rarely see the wandering.
And yet the wandering is often the most important part.
The years spent experimenting.
The years spent learning.
The years spent building skills when there is no audience and no applause.
The years where it feels like nothing is happening.
I suspect many of the people we admire once felt exactly like the last person in the room.
The difference is that they kept moving anyway.
Not because they were confident.
Not because they knew it would work.
But because the only alternative was to stop.
Maybe being late isn't actually the problem.
Maybe the real problem is believing there is a schedule.
Life isn't a race with a shared finish line.
A designer in Bengaluru, a founder in California, a scientist in Tokyo, and an artist in Paris are not running the same race.
They're not even on the same track.
The moment you stop measuring your progress against someone else's timeline, something changes.
You start paying attention to your own.
And when you do, you notice things that comparison hides.
The skills you've gained.
The mistakes you've survived.
The projects you've completed.
The person you've become without realizing it.
What I'm going to do about it
I've spent enough time wondering whether I'm behind.
For the next year, I want to focus less on where other people are and more on building the things that matter to me.
Three things, specifically.
1. Build a portfolio that is impossible to ignore
Not just another collection of projects.
A body of work that clearly shows how I think, what I care about, and the kinds of problems I want to solve.
I want people to see it and immediately understand that I'm interested in complex systems, physical products, motorcycles, technology, and the intersection between design and engineering.
Not because it will get me a job.
Because it will become evidence of who I am as a designer.
2. Publish my thoughts consistently
The internet is full of finished work.
There is far less documentation of the thinking behind it.
I want to keep writing.
About products.
About design.
About things I notice.
About ideas that are still half-formed.
Not because every article will be great, but because thinking becomes clearer when it's shared.
And because a year from now, I want to look back and see a record of how my perspective evolved.
3. Ship real things into the world
Concepts are easy to admire.
Products are harder.
I want to spend more time building prototypes, testing ideas, and putting things in front of real people.
Even if they're small.
Even if they fail.
Even if only a handful of people ever use them.
A product that exists teaches more than a hundred ideas that never leave a sketchbook.
Maybe none of this will make me feel ahead.
Maybe that's not the point.
The point is that a year from now, I don't want to be known as the person who spent all their time comparing timelines.
I want to be the person who kept building, even when the path wasn't obvious.
Because eventually, the only timeline that matters is the one you're creating yourself.