A quiet end-of-year reflection on work, fatherhood, identity, and learning to move forward with fewer prompts.

I was watching my son the other evening, seated at his desk, eyes moving effortlessly between two screens, fingers tapping away as he spoke to friends I couldn’t see. There was confidence in how he navigated it all — the game, the conversation, the technology — a fluency that felt completely natural to him and quietly foreign to me. He wasn’t asking for help. He wasn’t looking for approval. He was simply figuring things out in real time.

It struck me how different his world already is from the one I grew up in — not just technologically, but emotionally. He’s learning independence earlier, processing complexity faster, and forming his sense of self in a world that is louder, more connected, and far less forgiving. As a father, there’s pride in watching that capability take shape. There’s also an unfamiliar weight — the awareness that guidance today is less about instruction and more about trust.

That moment stayed with me because it mirrors where I find myself as well. Professionally, personally, even spiritually, this year has felt like standing between chapters — closing something significant while sensing the pull of what comes next. Like my son, I’m learning to operate with fewer prompts, fewer certainties, and a greater responsibility for the values I carry forward. As the year draws to a close, I’ve found myself pausing more often — not to tally achievements, but to ask quieter questions about who I am becoming in a world that no longer moves at a pace I fully recognise.

Closing a four-year programme in a finance ERP deployment brought an unexpected mix of emotions. There was deep satisfaction in seeing it through — especially given how much fear and uncertainty I carried at the start. I had little grounding in accounting, and for a long time it felt improbable that we would ever reach the end. When we finally did, there was pride — but also relief. The work had begun to feel repetitive, even stagnant, and I knew it was time for something new.

The biggest takeaway from those four years wasn’t technical knowledge or process mastery. It was the power of relationships. Progress came not from ego or authority, but from being comfortable as the least knowledgeable person in the room — asking questions, getting hands dirty, owning mistakes, and, most importantly, getting people to actually talk to one another. Honest conversations moved things forward when plans and documentation stalled. It reinforced a simple truth: almost anything is deliverable when trust exists and ego stays out of the way.

Moving into a new role has been both familiar and disorienting. The surface is the same — programmes, workshops, deployments, delivery pressure — but the dynamics are different. For the first time in a long while, I feel a step back, maybe even two. My working day is no longer dictated by back-to-back calls or chasing status updates. Instead, it demands thinking, designing, and building — often in ambiguity.

That shift has been harder than I expected. Technology is moving so fast that any plan risks becoming outdated before it even starts. I feel eager to deliver, yet aware that I need time — time to learn, observe, and think properly. The familiar fear of failure has returned, along with the discomfort of once again having only surface-level knowledge. In some ways, it feels like the start of every new role I’ve taken on — except now the prompts are fewer. The responsibility to create momentum sits more squarely with me. It’s a subtle change, but a significant one, demanding discipline and intent.

Beyond work, the wider world feels increasingly uncertain. Prices continue to rise, political tensions feel closer to home, and the social climate carries an edge that’s hard to ignore. On a personal level, being a second-generation immigrant — with a name and appearance that don’t always fit neatly into ideals — brings an undercurrent of unease. It shows up in small, everyday moments, and sometimes in more serious settings. It’s rarely overt, but it’s present enough to be felt, shaping how you move through the world.

At the same time, my son has entered his teenage years. Watching him navigate what it means to be a thirteen-year-old today — in a world so different from the one I knew — brings both pride and weight. I feel a growing responsibility not just to provide stability, but to help prepare him for the realities he will face, and to guide the kind of person he is becoming. Professional success matters; it creates security and opportunity. But it has become secondary to the deeper investment of time, presence, and values.

There are no neat conclusions or magic answers here. What I find myself returning to instead are guiding principles — choosing values over certainty, integrity over speed, and presence over performance. In a world that feels increasingly loud and impatient, these quieter anchors matter more than ever.

As this year closes, I’m less concerned with defining what comes next and more focused on how I move forward — at work, at home, and within myself. If progress is to be made, it will come not from having everything figured out, but from showing up consistently, staying grounded, and remaining willing to learn — even when the prompts are gone.

I wish you and your loved ones a peaceful end to the year, clarity, steadiness, and good health in the year ahead. Peace&Love.