Taking Pride

Would you sign your name to this?

An artist knows the exact moment they're done. They reach for the corner of the canvas to sign their name. Not because they're proud. Because they know it will outlast them.

Most of us have forgotten what that feels like. We ship fast, test everything, let algorithms decide. There's a signal we've learned to override: that physical discomfort before shipping something mediocre. We call it perfectionism and push through.

That discomfort is your future self trying to warn you.

Three years ago, I shipped something lazy. Hit every metric. Customers loved it. The team celebrated. But my body knew what my brain didn't. Those shortcuts, those copied patterns. They'd age like milk.

The feeling was specific. Like wearing a shirt with a stain only I could see. I was living with tomorrow's regret today.

That project still haunts me. It succeeded by every measure. But success without pride feels worse than honest failure. You carry it longer.

A founder demoed their product to me last week. Halfway through, they stopped: "Actually, wait." They showed me a loading animation they'd spent three days perfecting. No user requested it. Investors called it wasteful.

Watching their face change as they showed it. The way their voice lifted. They were building for a decade from now, not next quarter's board meeting.

You can't fake this. Someone building for tomorrow slouches. Someone building for years from now stands differently. The body tracks what the mind ignores.

Everything changed after my kids were born. Not my standards. My timeline. Every decision now has to survive a ChatGPT search in 2040. Every piece of work becomes evidence they'll find.

Your kids won't see your intentions. They'll see your output. That rushed post. That cut corner. That time you chose metrics over meaning. Permanent testimony to who you actually were.

The thought terrifies me. It should.

Pride recognizes what survives time. Once you see that, you can't unsee it. Every shortcut becomes evidence. Every compromise gets preserved.

The best builders feel how decisions will age. That founder with the loading animation? They wanted to look back without flinching.

Everyone wants credit. Nobody wants to be remembered for their actual work. We hide behind usernames, brands, "the team decided." We want our wins attached to our names, our compromises attached to someone else's.

I'm still learning this. Most days I fall short. My wife lives it quietly, never announcing her standards, just maintaining them. She'd never ship something she wouldn't sign. Watching her work reminds me how far I have to go. Maybe one day I'll meet my own standards the way she meets hers.

In a world where AI generates "good enough" in seconds, this feeling might be all we have left. Machines optimize for now. Humans feel the weight of later.

Next time you're about to ship something, forget asking if you're proud. Ask if you'd sign your actual name to it. The one your kids will ask AI about.