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There’s a question I’ve often been asked—sometimes directly, sometimes in the silence of a raised eyebrow or a passing glance at yet another one of my reflections posted online:

“Who do you write for?”

And it’s a fair question. In a world saturated with content, algorithms, noise, and performance-driven posts, what’s the point of writing anything that doesn’t explicitly seek to go viral, capture leads, or rank on search engines?

Let me answer it simply:

I write for myself, and for those who will come after me.

A Space to Think Out Loud

My blog is not a media company. It is not a self-help empire or a newsletter machine. It is my thinking space—a public journal of sorts, where I allow myself to think out loud, unfiltered, and in long form.

There is no editor telling me to trim down my paragraphs or dilute the soul of what I want to say for broader appeal. There is no marketing team asking me to be more “on brand.” What I post here is not dictated by keywords but by moments—moments of insight, pain, realisation, or transformation.

I write to make sense of things.

I write to clarify what I believe.

I write because thoughts that are not expressed tend to ferment.

And in the fermentation, they can become toxic—or they can become truth.

Writing helps me discern the difference.

Brainstorms, Not Broadcasts

You’ll notice that not everything I publish is polished or perfect. That’s intentional. Sometimes I am brainstorming. Other times I am wrestling with ideas too large to tame in one sitting. I am less concerned with being right than I am with being real.

Writing, for me, is not about broadcasting a message.

It’s about inviting others into my process of becoming.

I write to capture moments of clarity before they dissolve in the noise of daily life. And I share them publicly not out of ego, but out of generosity—in case someone else, somewhere, is navigating a similar moment and finds resonance or direction in my words.

A Dialogue With the Future

But more than anything, I write as a dialogue with the future.

I am building a blueprint—a trail of ideas, insights, failures, hopes, and hypotheses that I hope my children, and their children, will one day read. Not because they will agree with everything, but because they will know I thought deeply about life.

They will know I tried.

I tried to understand.

I tried to heal.

I tried to build.

I tried to pass something meaningful on.

Even if all I leave behind is a map of my own imperfect thoughts, at least they’ll have something to trace their roots to. Something more than DNA and family photos. They’ll have philosophy, principles, and ponderings—evidence of a father who didn’t just exist, but reflected, wrestled, evolved, and cared enough to document the process.

Legacy Is Not Just Property—It’s Perspective

In our world, legacy is often mistaken for wealth. But the real treasure we leave behind isn’t in bank accounts or bricks and mortar. It’s in how we make sense of life. It’s in the lens we pass down—the way we understood love, failure, growth, success, suffering, and meaning.

I want my legacy to include property and opportunity, yes. But I also want to leave behind a library of thoughts.

Not to be worshipped—but to be studied, challenged, improved, or even laughed at.

Because that’s what true legacy invites: continuation, not imitation.

An Invitation to Witness, Not Just Consume

If you are reading this, know that you are not an audience—I did not write this to perform. I wrote it to be witnessed. And there’s a difference.

An audience expects a show.

A witness accepts the truth as it unfolds.

So consider this your invitation—not to follow me, but to walk beside me. To witness my growth. To engage with my questions. To challenge my assumptions. To share your own truths.

And if, one day, my children read this—may they feel a little less alone in the world. May they understand that even when I couldn’t give them all the answers, I was always searching. Always thinking. Always loving, through the words I left behind.

Who do I write for?

I write for my future self.

I write for my children.

I write for the quiet thinkers.

I write for those who feel deeply and need language for their feelings.

I write for anyone who dares to pause, reflect, and grow.

But most of all…

I write because I care.

Because some truths only exist when they are spoken.

And this is where I choose to speak them.