This is going to sound a bit overdramatic, but when I look back at myself from five to ten years ago, I see a stranger. Not just someone less experienced or less ambitious, but someone operating in a completely different world.

He was the king shit of fuck mountain. To him, it felt effortless to be seen. He didn't question whether people were watching, or why they were watching. They just were. His work traveled faster than he could follow it. Like a river current, it carried him downstream. It was so smooth that he never had to think about how hard it would be to actually swim.

It felt like his work was everywhere. All his favorite YouTubers were showcasing his creations. People he never met were debating his work in public. Some loving it, others calling it overrated. Both felt like proof of existence. And he was content with it. He needed that proof.

And I'm not that guy anymore.

Back to today

There's just something weird about being more skilled than you've ever been, but having a fraction of the audience for your work. It's deeply humbling to finish a project you're deeply proud of, put it out into the world, and watch it land without that explosive fanfare.

I don't owe the world constant hits. But I do feel the pressure of having that reach. Not because I need to prove anything anymore, but because, at this point in my life, that reach is the only thing that will allow me to keep doing what I love.

I lied to myself. I told myself that my work would speak for itself. That it would be enough. That if I kept my head down and made things I believed in, the rest would follow naturally. That belief felt noble. It was also wrong.

Once attention became a given, my goal became growth. Improvement. Progress. Not for any specific reason other than that being the obvious way forward. After all, my work was what made my existence worth something in the first place.

The cost of moving forward

But growth comes at a cost too. As you move closer to your goals, you don't always bring everyone with you. After all, it's hard to celebrate your own growth without making others feel like they've been left behind. You show them what you built, and they don't see the work, they see a mirror reflecting what they haven't done.

Some told me as much. That watching me move forward made them feel stuck. Others weren't as direct. They dismissed my work, insisted they had better ideas. It was easier to diminish what I'd done than to confront what they hadn't.

With that, the distance widened. And it became hard not to wonder if I was actually the villain. Was I being too arrogant now? Had my ego ballooned? Was my ex right? I never bragged about my progress, though. I never lorded it over friends who just wanted to enjoy their lives. I simply lived my own, kept doing what I loved. And I never got a proper answer as to what I did wrong.

I spent 2025 navigating the silence that comes when you stop being who people expect you to be. Hoping that my work could stand on its own legs without the shadow of a mascot behind it. Hoping that as I grow, I don't alienate people whom I hold close and dear to me.

A new voice

Toward the end of the year, something happened. I was reminded, not by numbers, but by those who stuck around with me through all these years, that my work does matter. I do matter, and that what I've been doing hasn't gone unnoticed. Sure, it didn't bring my old reach back, nor did it reconnect me with those who had already left. But it connected me to new people. And it anchored something that had been drifting for a while.

I was never really afraid of losing my edge. I knew I still had the sauce, or at least I hoped so. I wasn't afraid of running out of reasons to keep going either. I never needed a reason. The act of creating was enough. My actual fear was way simpler than that. It was the fear that I might not be able to sustain this anymore. That one day, I might have to give up.

By the end of 2025, I realized I had crossed a line without marking it. I left behind roles that no longer fit. I created things that once felt impossible. I was given incredible opportunities that I unfortunately had to miss. I made a bunch of things, just for the love of the game. I proved some things. I lost others.

I don't know exactly when my new voice showed up. But 2025 was when I realized it doesn't sound like it used to. And I'm happy to have it.

There's still so much I don't know. Whether I'm going to survive this journey, whether my ego has quietly inflated past my awareness, or whether I'm on the right path. The answers haven't arrived yet, and maybe they never will.

Regardless, I still want to move forward. I still want to make things. I still want them to be seen. But I don't feel like I need to be someone I no longer am for that to be the case. I know there are people who will accept me for who I am. And if you've read this far, you're probably one of them. So, thank you.

Doubling down

2026 will be the year where I double down on my new voice. I want to release another game on the Switch. I want to go to Japan again, meet more people, make more friends. I want to finally reveal our next big 3D project, and get it closer to becoming a reality. I have a lot of plans, and I'm excited to see where they will take me.

It's quieter here than it used to be, but that's only for now. I'm certain the best is still ahead.