Compound Emotion
Weekly essays on money, time, energy, and the decisions that compound over time.
Read time: 3 minutes
The morning after my book launched, I reached for my phone before I even got out of bed. I wanted to see whether the rankings had changed overnight. They had moved a little, but a couple of hours later, I checked again, and then again before going to bed.
For the next few weeks, that became part of my routine. I'd look at sales, reviews, category rankings, newsletter subscribers, and website traffic. It felt productive, but eventually I realized I was measuring the things that moved quickly simply because they were easy to measure. The things that mattered most—trust, reputation, and relationships—were moving much more slowly.
While I was checking rankings multiple times a day, I noticed another pattern. Everywhere I looked, complicated topics were being reduced to simple answers. A short video would confidently explain a nuanced issue in less than a minute, and millions of people would nod along as though there were only one reasonable conclusion. I usually kept scrolling.
Not because I necessarily disagreed, but because I've become skeptical whenever an important subject is presented as though there's only one obvious answer.
After 15 years in finance, I've learned that the people I respect most are rarely the ones who sound the most certain. They're usually the ones who ask better questions, make their assumptions explicit, and are willing to change their minds when the facts change. Investing, careers, relationships, parenting, and health all have principles worth learning, but they also require judgment, context, and tradeoffs.
The older I get, the more I notice that the internet rewards certainty while real life rewards nuance.
Over the past few months, AI has made this even more interesting to me. I use AI multiple times a week to research ideas, organize my thinking, and refine my writing. It has dramatically lowered the cost of creating information, but information has never been the entire problem. Knowing isn't the same as deciding.
That realization also made me think differently about some of my own decisions. Some of the best decisions in my life didn't make much sense on paper. Coming to the United States for graduate school was uncertain, and writing a book certainly wasn't the highest-return use of my time if measured only in dollars. Looking back, those decisions seem obvious, but at the time they weren't.
The difference wasn't that I had perfect information. It was that I had to make a judgment with incomplete information.
Over the past few months, I've noticed the same pattern in many areas of life. Fast feedback isn't always the most important feedback. Health, trust, relationships, and reputations all compound quietly. Most of the things that have changed my life moved so slowly that I almost missed them while they were happening.
I've also noticed something similar in conversations about AI. Some people are certain it will replace nearly every job, while others are equally certain it's mostly hype. I suspect reality will be more complicated than either prediction. History usually is.
When I listen to thoughtful people discussing AI, investing, or economics, what impresses me isn't how certain they sound. It's how carefully they think. They're comfortable acknowledging uncertainty without becoming paralyzed by it.
Over time, I've started using a simple filter for almost everything I read online. Whenever someone presents a complicated topic with absolute certainty, I pause before accepting it. Not because they're necessarily wrong, but because the subjects that matter most usually deserve more than a headline.
The older I get, the less I trust people who always have the answer—and the more I trust people who think carefully before giving one.
Maybe that's one thing AI won't make obsolete. Information may become abundant, but judgment still has to be earned. AI may accelerate the creation of information, but it doesn't accelerate the rate at which judgment and trust compound.
Looking back, I don't think I've become less confident over the years. I've simply started distrusting simple answers. I've found that the most important decisions in my life—about my career, investing, writing, and even parenting—rarely came with complete certainty. They required judgment, patience, and the willingness to move forward without knowing exactly how things would turn out.
That's a lesson I'm still learning.
If someone came to mind while reading this, I'd be grateful if you forwarded it to them. Most of the books I read, podcasts I listen to, and newsletters I enjoy came from someone I trust.
P.S. I'd love to hear your perspective. What's one topic where your thinking has become less certain over the years—not because you've learned less, but because you've learned how much there is to understand? Just hit reply and let me know.
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See you next Tuesday.
Bill