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2 days ago
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I tore through Isaac Asimov’s Foundation series when I was about twelve. At first, I assumed the story would follow Hari Seldon, the brilliant mathematician who kicks off the series by predicting the collapse and rebirth of galactic civilization. Twelve-year-old me loved Hari, and I couldn’t wait to see his story unfold.
Then the books leapt forward … by centuries. Seldon slipped from living legend to myth, from myth to footnote, and finally into near‑obscurity. Part of my twelve-year-old self was offended by that. I’d been invested in Hari, and how could he become so obscure? Underneath it all, I was grappling with something: If even Hari Seldon—a towering hero—could vanish into the background noise of history, what chance did I have of leaving a mark?
After my twelve-year-old brain processed this, I surprisingly didn’t find the thought depressing. I found it freeing. The futility of chasing an eternal legacy felt like permission to let go. The real point, my twelve‑year‑old self decided (and my adult self still believes), is to live fully in the sliver of time we’re given—to savor our brief window of human experience rather than worry about being remembered forever. That little epiphany has stayed with me.
That insight became an internal compass. When I start taking myself too seriously, it nudges me back into alignment. By now, it’s so ingrained that I seldom notice it, yet it quietly shapes my decisions and my ability to live in the moment.
It colors my work as well. I don’t expect any Field Guide I write to alter the course of humanity, but I can help real people, right now, who face the same messy challenges I do. There’s a quiet nobility in that: sharing what I’ve learned, offering what might help, and trusting readers to judge its value.
Recognition is nice, but I try not to clutch it. Anything I build stands on the shoulders of others, and I’m happy to spread credit around. If someone finds my work useful, that’s enough. After all, in just a few generations I’ll be much less remembered than Hari Seldon, and that’s okay.
Looking back, that early revelation about impermanence was probably my first real philosophical insight. Not a bad takeaway for a twelve‑year‑old.
