Over time
There’s a lot of bacanora out there.
And there are a lot of ways to end up with more of it.
You can rush fermentation, keep more than you should when you distill, or stretch what you got.
It works. It pays quickly.
Doing it right doesn’t.
Letting it finish takes time you don’t control. Being strict about what you keep means throwing part of it away. Sometimes you just have less to sell.
And most people won’t catch it on the first sip.
So the question isn’t whether you know how to do it right.
It’s whether you’ll keep doing it right when it doesn’t show yet.
Because the payoff isn’t in the first taste.
It’s later.
When no one checks.
Most producers don’t hold the line that long.
No owner
The problem is easy to see.
It shows up everywhere.
In slides. In panels. In conversations.
It has a name.
It belongs to government. Or to industry. Or to universities. Or to someone else in the room.
Solving it would help many.
The cost falls on one.
No headline if it works. Only yours if it fails.
So it stays.
Discussed. Revisited.
Not because it’s unclear.
Because no one claimed it.
Worth saying
You hope people talk about the work.
Naturally.
So you point at it. Explain it. Ask people to notice.
But remarks rarely happen that way.
People don’t mention something because it helps you.
They mention it when saying it helps them.
It makes them insightful. Or the one who noticed.
That’s when the remark happens.
Not when the work asks for attention.
When saying it does something for the person saying it.
A gift
Perfectionism can look like caring about quality.
Often it’s about protection.
If the work is never finished, it can’t be judged.
If it’s never shipped, it can’t be rejected.
So the work waits.
And waits.
Until the moment feels safe enough.
“Here I made this.”
A pause.
Waiting to see if it’s good enough to exist.
Or,
“Here I made this. It’s a gift.”
No negotiation.
The work enters the world.
Perfectionism has very little power over gifts.
Notes to myself
People don’t need authenticity from me. They need the story of me to be true.
Choose a role you can inhabit. One people would miss if you stopped playing it, and one that takes you where you want to go.
In ordinary moments, ask: If I were playing the role well, what would I do here?
The role might feel like acting at first.
Doing it again makes it natural.
The place you live, the people around you, and the rhythm of your days make some roles easier to play than others.
If the role you chose is hard to inhabit, change the conditions around it. Hard, but worth it.
The story people believe about you and the story you believe about yourself is written by what you do
again
and again.
But/And
“I need a job, but no one is hiring me.”
Now you're stuck with it.
Nothing to do but live with it.
Try the other word.
“I need a job, and no one is hiring me.”
Same reality. Different move.
So you learn something new. You help someone for free. You start something small.
“But” closes the story.
“And” leaves it open.
Reality didn’t change. Only the sentence did.
Sometimes the sentence decides.
Speaking up
It’s easier to speak after.
After retirement. After the board seat ends. After you leave office.
Then the truth arrives.
The system is broken. The policy was wrong. The incentives were wrong.
Maybe they’re right.
But something important changed between then and now.
The risk disappeared.
Speaking up when it’s safe isn’t courage.
It’s observation.
The real work is speaking when it’s inconvenient.
When the promotion is still possible. When the board is still watching. When the room suddenly gets quiet.
Because speaking up isn’t a personality trait.
It’s a practice.
And most people start practicing only after it no longer matters.
Complicated enough
It used to be simple.
A drink. A horse. A cup of coffee.
Someone who knew what they were doing would show you once.
Then you did it.
Now it comes with rules.
Use this grinder. This temperature. This saddle. This method.
Miss a step and you’re told you’re doing it wrong.
So people stop trying.
They defer to the expert. Buy the equipment. Take the class. Watch the video.
Which raises a quiet question.
When something simple becomes complicated, who benefits from your hesitation?
Because sometimes complexity improves the craft.
But sometimes the complexity isn’t about improving the thing.
It’s about monetizing the expertise around it.
What shows
When you’re born, you look like your parents.
You inherit the face. The name. The starting point.
None of that is your decision.
But something else begins to accumulate.
Quietly.
The people you spend time with. The standards you accept. The compromises you make.
One decision rarely changes much.
But decisions repeat.
They pile up.
Over time they become visible.
Not all at once.
Slowly.
And eventually people stop seeing where you came from.
They start seeing what you’ve been choosing.
By the end,
you look less like your parents
and more like your decisions.
Unpaid work
Imagination is unpaid work.
No one assigns it.
No one schedules time for it.
No one rewards the first draft of a strange idea.
You’re rewarded for shipping.
For answering the question.
For doing the task correctly.
Imagination happens earlier.
Before the assignment.
Before the process.
Before anyone knows if the idea makes sense.
Which is why most people avoid it.
Imagination is work you do before anyone agrees it’s worth doing.
Smallest viable tribe
Small enough to look each other in the eye.
Small enough that effort is visible.
Small enough to notice when someone doesn’t show up.
Small enough that promises are remembered.
Small enough that trust has to be earned.
Small enough that respect accumulates.
Small enough that when direction shifts, everyone feels it.
Small enough that it’s obvious who is building it— and who isn’t.
Trust requires visibility.
Visibility requires small groups.
Looks easy
Some people assume you’ve had it easy.
Not because they know your story.
Because you don’t carry it the way they expect.
You don’t bring it up at dinner. You don’t build an identity around it.
No bitterness. No rehearsed grievances.
It confuses them.
They’ve learned to recognize hardship by the marks people display afterward.
Anger. Cynicism. A permanent sense of being wronged.
When those signals are missing, the conclusion comes quickly.
Maybe it wasn’t that hard.
But surviving something difficult doesn’t require bitterness.
Sometimes the strongest move is quieter.
You keep going.
And leave the wound behind.
Small moves
A startup ecosystem doesn’t appear.
It accumulates.
One founder who tries.
One investor who believes.
One conference where people meet.
One fund that raises a second fund.
Add enough of these pieces together and something new happens.
Not a company.
A system.
Mexico’s entrepreneurial ecosystem didn’t exist forty years ago.
Now it does.
Not because someone launched it.
Because enough people kept adding pieces.
Ernesto Stein and his coauthors trace that story well in this new paper.
Three lifetimes
Some work takes longer to learn than a single life allows.
Horses are like that. So is bacanora.
You can study it. Work hard at it. Spend years at it.
And still be learning things others absorbed as children.
Not because they’re smarter.
Because they inherited judgment.
Their father learned something the hard way. Their grandfather learned something even earlier.
Mistakes paid for long before they arrived.
When someone seems to “just know,”
you’re not watching one lifetime of experience.
You’re watching three.
You might not have inherited that.
But someone will inherit what you start.
Already started
You usually know early.
Ten minutes into the meeting. Six months into the job. Two versions into the product.
Something’s off.
But leaving feels expensive.
You’ve already invested time. Energy. Reputation.
So you stay.
One more meeting. One more improvement. One more quarter.
Continuing starts to feel like progress.
Moving target
Most of us live better than kings once did.
Still unhappy.
Because happiness doesn’t track what you have.
It tracks what you want.
And want expands.
The moment you see better, better becomes baseline.
Nothing broke.
The target moved.
Desire spreads faster than gratitude.
It keeps moving.
To whom?
Loyalty feels noble.
Stand by your people. Protect your own. Don’t switch sides.
It sounds strong.
Until the standard slips.
A deadline missed. A shortcut taken. An excuse defended.
Now it gets quiet.
Because loyalty to a person and loyalty to the standard aren’t always the same.
One protects relationships.
The other protects the work.
Most drift doesn’t happen loudly.
It happens one exception at a time.
“He’s one of ours.” “Just this once.” “It’s not that bad.”
Loyalty feels warm.
Standards feel cold.
Over time, you can tell which one an organization chose.
You don’t hear it.
You see it.
At stake
You look serious.
Calendar full. Language sharp. Deadlines everywhere.
You talk about standards. Sacrifice. How much it matters.
It sounds convincing.
But seriousness isn’t posture.
It’s risk.
What have you started that looks almost impossible to pull off?
What are you building that could embarrass you if it fails?
Looking committed is easy.
Real commitment makes failure visible.
If nothing is at stake,
it’s a performance.
Somewhere else
Ask about heroes.
The names travel.
Another city. Another country. Another accent.
Rarely next door.
It’s not a lack of talent.
Distance is safer.
If greatness lives far away, it asks nothing of you.
It doesn’t raise the bar. It doesn’t remove excuses.
Local success is different.
It collapses the distance.
If someone built something remarkable here, then “here” isn’t the constraint.
That’s uncomfortable.
So we wait.
For them to leave. To win somewhere else. To be approved.
Then we celebrate.
Not because they changed.
Because we did.
Signed
Most work is anonymous.
It’s produced. It’s delivered. It’s forgotten.
No one asks who made it.
Then there’s the other kind.
The kind you would sign.
When your name is attached, you work differently.
You notice the edge you almost ignored. You fix what no one else would see.
Because now it follows you.
Scale removes names.
Responsibility puts them back.
And once it’s signed,
it’s no longer just the work.
It’s you.