During a keynote last week, someone in the audience asked a question I’ve heard many times before:
“What advice would you give your 17-year-old self?”
I get why this question is popular. We love the idea that age brings wisdom—that if we could just go back in time with all we know now, we’d make fewer mistakes and take smarter bets.
I paused and thought about giving the same answer I’ve given before.
But then I surprised myself.
“You know what?,” I said. “I think the better question is. . . what advice does my 17-year-old self have for me?”
And just like that, the past came rushing back.
That 17-year-old was courageous in a way I sometimes forget to be. He packed up his life, left his entire family behind, and immigrated to the United States, with nothing more than a suitcase and a burning desire to explore the universe—not just the one above but also the one within.
When he found out that he got into Cornell, he started searching—not for a dorm room or a dining plan, but for opportunity. He found out that a Cornell professor was in charge of a Mars mission. There was no job posting. No open door.
He cold-emailed the professor, attached his resume, and asked to be a part of that mission. He got the interview—and then he got the job.
And the rest of the story? Well, you’re reading it.
If 17-year-old me hadn’t taken that shot, I wouldn’t be here. There would be no Think Like a Rocket Scientist. And that book launched everything that followed—my career as an author and the journey I’m on today.
He didn’t wait for permission. He didn’t play it safe. He followed his curiosity like his life depended on it—because, in many ways, it did.
As I got older, I got “smarter.” More strategic. More measured.
But also . . . more hesitant. Less willing to leap without a plan. Less open to pursuing something just because it lit me up.
There’s a quote I love by Antoni Gaudí: “Originality consists of returning to the origin.”
For me, the challenge isn’t becoming someone new. It’s remembering who I was before the world got so noisy. Before “practicality” edged out possibility. Before fear dressed up as responsibility.
What would that 17-year-old tell me now?
He wouldn’t offer a five-year plan or a productivity framework.
Instead, he’d say:
Joy is your strategy.
Wonder is your metric.
Aliveness is your funnel.
Not book sales. Not follower counts. Not keynote bookings.
Joy. Wonder. Aliveness.
We tend to think of growth as a straight line—up and to the right. More wisdom, more polish, more experience.
But we don’t just gain things as we get older. We lose things, too.
We lose our ability to dance with uncertainty, to act even when the outcome is unknown, and to follow what excites us—even when it doesn’t make sense on paper.
In the end, the best advice I’ve ever gotten didn’t come from a mentor or a book.
It came from a kid with a suitcase and a dream.
He’s still in there.
Waiting for me to listen.
P.S. Just a handful of spots remain for The Awakening, the intimate in-person experience I’m hosting at our home in Portland from June 26-28.
We designed it to help you shed what no longer fits—and reconnect with the version of yourself who moved with wonder, not a roadmap.
If this email stirred something in you, that’s your sign.
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