The Year I Stopped Chasing and Started Compounding
For most of my life, I was chasing something.
Chasing revenue.
Chasing validation.
Chasing the next big idea.
Chasing people who didn’t even know they were being chased.
And I thought that was ambition.
If you are reading this from New York, Texas, California or even from a small Midwest town, you know this culture. Hustle. Scale. Optimize. 10X. Exit. Repeat.
We celebrate velocity.
But nobody talks about durability.
The American Dream vs The Compounding Dream
The American Dream is powerful. Build something from scratch. Work hard. Make it big.
But somewhere along the way, “make it big” quietly replaced “make it sustainable.”
I learned this the hard way.
There was a time in my life when everything collapsed at once. Business, relationships, reputation. It felt like falling from the sky without a parachute. And what shocked me was not the fall.
It was the realization that I had built speed, not strength.
Speed impresses.
Strength survives.
The Quiet Power of Compounding
Compounding is boring.
It does not trend on Twitter.
It does not go viral on Instagram.
It does not get you invited to podcasts.
But it changes everything.
Compounding is:
Writing one thoughtful post every week
Investing small amounts consistently
Showing up for your family even when you are tired
Learning one concept deeply instead of ten concepts superficially
In finance, compounding turns 100 dollars into millions over decades.
In character, compounding turns small discipline into unshakeable confidence.
In relationships, compounding turns simple trust into lifelong loyalty.
Why This Matters in 2026
We live in a time of:
AI shortcuts
Overnight creators
Instant monetization
Algorithm driven fame
But the world is also quietly rewarding consistency again.
Businesses that survive are not the loudest. They are the most resilient.
Creators who last are not the most viral. They are the most authentic.
Leaders who endure are not the flashiest. They are the most grounded.
Compounding does not care about geography.
It works the same in Silicon Valley and in a small town in India.
That is the beauty of it.
My Shift
The year I stopped chasing:
I stopped saying yes to everything
I stopped trying to prove my worth
I stopped running behind fast money
Instead:
I built systems
I reduced unnecessary risk
I invested in health
I rebuilt trust
I chose fewer, deeper relationships
Nothing dramatic happened overnight.
But something powerful happened slowly.
Stability.
The day you stop chasing and start compounding is the day your life begins to feel less fragile and more intentional.
ATM With Emotions – Please Press Cancel
There is one skill I seriously need to upgrade in life.
Not business.
Not investment.
Not AI automation.
The art of saying NO.
I don’t know why, but whenever someone calls me — especially those long-distance “Hi da… remember me?” connections — I already know what is coming.
Not “How are you?”
Not “Let’s meet for coffee.”
It is always:
“Bro… small help…”
Small help.
That word has destroyed many budgets.
The 20-Year EMI Without Return
There are people who borrowed money from me 20 years back.
Yes. Two decades.
If that money was invested in SIP, it would have retired by now.
But instead, it is peacefully sleeping in someone else’s memory — because clearly, they don’t remember it.
And I?
I remember everything. Even the amount. Even the day.
But I never ask again.
Why?
Because I feel awkward.
See the comedy? I give money comfortably. Asking it back feels like a crime.
The Legendary Deduction Incident
One day, I actually tried something brave.
A friend owed me money for years. One fine day, I borrowed a small amount from him. In my head, I was doing advanced accounting.
“Okay. I will adjust from what he owes me.”
Brilliant plan.
After one year, this gentleman calls me.
“Machan… when are you returning my money?”
I waited for him to laugh.
He didn’t.
He had forgotten the 10-year pending amount.
In that moment, I had two options:
- Fight.
- Pay and disappear.
I paid.
Then I disappeared.
That was my bold rebellion.
The Monthly Charity Subscription
Even after all this experience, every month someone calls.
And somehow, my mouth says:
“Okay… I’ll transfer.”
Why?
Maybe I don’t want to hurt people.
Maybe I don’t want to look selfish.
Maybe I want to be seen as the “good guy.”
But here is the hidden truth:
Every time I say yes, a small part inside me says, “Why did you do that again?”
It is funny on the outside.
Inside, it is tiring.
The Real Problem
It’s not about money.
It’s about boundaries.
If someone says no to me, I understand.
But when I have to say no, I feel guilty.
Why is that?
Somewhere, I built an image of myself as:
“Helpful Anand.”
But I forgot to add:
“Helpful with limits.”
The Hard Realization
If someone borrowed 20 years back and never returned,
and still has no intention…
That is not generosity.
That is poor boundary management.
If someone forgets what they owe me but remembers what I owe them…
That is not friendship.
That is selective memory with financial clarity.
I want to become an ATM machine does not feel bad when it says:
“Insufficient funds.”
It just displays the message.
Maybe I should learn from machines.
I don’t want to stop helping people.
I just want to stop helping in a way that hurts me.
Learning to say no might be the most profitable skill of my life.
1,447 Times I Pressed Publish
On 25 February 2000, I wrote my first blog.
There was no strategy.
No SEO.
No audience metrics.
Just a simple PHP script called Blogger
and a young man with more thoughts than direction.
I didn’t know that one day
those thoughts would become 1,447 posts.
In 2009 alone, I wrote 349 times.
Almost one post a day.
As if silence itself was a risk.
I wrote about startups before I understood business.
I wrote about money before I had any.
I wrote about ambition before I knew its cost.
I wrote about trust before I experienced its fracture.
Still, I pressed publish.
Some posts were sharp.
Some were emotional.
Some were naïve.
Some were unnecessarily intense.
But they were honest.
Between 2008 and 2011, I wrote like someone in motion.
Not escaping life —
chasing it.
The blog became my thinking space.
My therapy.
My argument room.
My confession booth.
My rehearsal stage for dreams that hadn’t yet taken shape.
Across 1,447 posts, there were 433 comments.
Not viral.
Not explosive.
Just steady and quiet.
Which means most people read without speaking.
Or maybe they simply passed through.
Either way, I kept writing.
Then something shifted.
Life matured faster than my sentences.
Responsibilities layered themselves.
Experience sharpened me.
Trust became selective.
Energy became intentional.
The frequency dropped.
The tone changed.
From exposure to reflection.
From reaction to analysis.
From “Here’s what I feel”
to
“Here’s what I’ve learned.”
The writer did not disappear.
He evolved.
Somewhere between risk and responsibility,
between optimism and realism,
between dreaming and accounting —
a different Anand emerged.
Less impulsive.
More deliberate.
Less open.
More layered.
But here’s what I’ve realised:
Every version of me still exists inside those posts.
The young optimist.
The restless entrepreneur.
The bruised learner.
The structured planner.
The reflective father.
When I lost the first five years of writing during a platform migration,
I thought I had lost memory.
Now I understand —
The memory isn’t in the missing files.
It’s in the transformation.
From 2000 to 2026,
I did not build a blog.
I documented a becoming.
1,447 times I pressed publish.
Not for applause.
Not for algorithms.
But to leave evidence that I was thinking, trying, evolving.
And I am still here.
— S.Anand Nataraj
When I Used to Write Without Thinking
I wrote my first blog on my birthday — 25th February 2000.
There was no WordPress then.
There were no themes, plugins, or analytics.
There was a simple PHP script called Blogger.
I wrote because I wanted to.
Not because I had an audience.
Not because I had something to sell.
When I eventually moved to WordPress, I lost everything I had written in those first five years.
Those words are gone forever — like notebooks misplaced during a house move.
Today, it’s 26 years later.
What remains is not a perfect archive, but a living memory.
And below is my reflection on what it felt like to write — and to change — between 2000 and 2026.
I started blogging when the internet still made noise.
In those days, I didn’t think about branding.
I didn’t think about positioning.
I didn’t think about audience psychology.
I just wrote.
In 2009 alone, I wrote 349 posts.
Three hundred and forty-nine.
I don’t even remember writing half of them.
I was young.
Not in age alone — but in openness.
I wrote about business dreams I didn’t fully understand.
I wrote about failures while they were still bleeding.
I wrote about friendships, risks, banks, emotions, optimism.
I wrote like someone who believed the world was listening.
And maybe it was.
Not loudly.
Not virally.
But quietly.
Those years were not strategic.
They were volcanic.
Some posts were raw.
Some were immature.
Some were embarrassingly honest.
But they were alive.
Then life happened.
Responsibilities grew.
Losses matured me.
Experience sharpened me.
Trust became selective.
I didn’t stop writing.
I just stopped exposing.
The words became slower.
More structured.
More guarded.
Young Anand wrote to release.
Today’s Anand writes to reflect.
Back then I was open.
Now I am layered.
And sometimes I miss that reckless courage —
that version of me who hit “Publish” without overthinking permanence.
But maybe this is growth.
Not becoming silent.
Just becoming intentional.
If you’ve been around since those early days —
thank you.
If you’re new here —
you’re reading a man who once wrote 349 times in a year
and now writes when it truly matters.
Either way…
This is not a comeback.
This is continuity.
— S.Anand Nataraj
Three Ways to Become ‘Successful’ — Sweat, Setback, or Shaadi?
There are three kinds of “successful” people in this world.
The first kind works hard. Relentlessly. They wake up before sunrise, sleep after midnight, build, rebuild, and keep building. They believe in compounding effort. They trust process.
And they grow.
Not explosively. Not dramatically.
Just steadily.
“They don’t trend. They endure.”
Their life is less fireworks, more sunrise. Not flashy — but dependable. They are the kind who build brick by brick. Slow growth, strong roots.
The second kind works just as hard.
Maybe harder.
They sacrifice sleep, relationships, comfort. They dream big. They bet everything. And sometimes… they lose.
Market shifts. Partners betray. Timing misfires.
And the fall is brutal.
“Hard work guarantees growth of character, not always growth of bank balance.”
These are not failures. They are warriors with scars. They carry depth. They understand gravity. They are the ones who know what it means to fall from the sky and still stand up again.
Empathy belongs here. Respect belongs here.
Because trying and failing builds a different muscle — resilience.
And then… there is the third kind.
The lucky ones.
They marry into wealth.
They inherit position.
They hold property in someone else’s name.
They wake up rich on a Tuesday.
No sweat. No scars. Just destiny saying, “Beta, VIP entry.”
“Some people climb mountains. Some start at the top.”
To be fair, luck is also a skill — mainly in choosing the right wedding venue.
But here’s the humour hidden in truth:
Luck can open doors. It cannot build capability.
And life eventually tests everyone.
In the long run, success is not about how fast you rose.
It is about whether you can stand when the wind changes.
The slow builder? Stable.
The fallen warrior? Stronger than before.
The lucky one? Depends.
Because borrowed power shakes.
Built power roots.
And if you ask me —
I’ll bet on the one who knows how to rebuild.
26 Years of Blogging… Hello? Echo? Hello?
I started blogging in the year 2000.
That was when:
- Internet made sounds like a dying robot.
- “Upload speed” was a philosophical concept.
- And blogging meant typing your soul into HTML.
For 26 years, I’ve written through dial-up, broadband, 3G, 4G, and now whatever-G we are in. I’ve written during my golden years, my rebuilding years, my confused years, and my “what am I even doing?” years.
Some posts were read. Some were shared. Some probably helped someone. Some probably confused even me.
But here’s the truth.
Somewhere along the way, the world moved.
From: Reading → Listening
Listening → Watching
Watching → Scrolling
Scrolling → Forgetting
And I stayed here. Typing.
Not because I can’t make videos.
Not because I can’t shout into a mic.
But because writing feels honest.
When I write, I think. When I think, I slow down. When I slow down, I become real.
But lately, I have a doubt.
Am I still writing to humans?
Or just to:
- Google bots
- SEO algorithms
- Or my loyal WiFi router blinking in sympathy?
So this is not a motivational post.
Not a business insight.
Not a life lesson.
This is a reality check.
If you’re still here… If you still prefer reading over reels… If long-form thoughts still matter to you…
Drop a comment.
Just say: “I’m here.”
No drama. No philosophy. Just proof of life.
Because after 26 years, I don’t need virality.
I just need to know — Is the tribe still alive?
– S.Anand Nataraj
The Season of Social Shrinking
There was a time when my phone was always busy.
Morning calls.
Random evening check-ins.
Late night “dei macha, free ah?” conversations.
If I missed three calls, someone would message: “Are you alive?”
I was that guy.
I could sit with a class topper and discuss marks, then walk to the last bench and laugh about nothing. I was friends with introverts, extroverts, loud guys, silent guys, toppers, backbenchers — I never saw categories. I saw people.
My circle wasn’t small. It was massive.
And I made sure it stayed that way. I would call. I would follow up. I would organize. I would remember birthdays. I would maintain.
Connection was not accidental in my life. It was intentional.
Then somewhere around 2021, something changed.
Not dramatically. Not with a fight. Not with a single event.
It just… thinned.
Some friendships faded because of geography.
Some because of ego clashes.
Some because marriage and children took priority.
Some because life simply moved in different directions.
But here’s the part that surprised me.
The phone slowed down.
And I didn’t try to fix it.
At first, I noticed it like background noise disappearing.
Earlier my phone would ring even if I stepped into the bathroom. Now I can leave it in another room and nothing happens.
And when it rings?
I don’t feel excited.
I don’t feel irritated.
I just don’t feel like talking beyond five minutes.
That shocked me.
Because for most of my life, I enjoyed conversations. I enjoyed being needed. I enjoyed being in the middle of networks.
Somewhere along the way, that desire reduced.
Not because I hate people.
But because I no longer have the same appetite for noise.
The uncomfortable truth is this:
My identity was partially built on being “well connected.”
I was the bridge between groups.
The guy who knew everyone.
The one whose phone never slept.
When that stopped, I had to face a strange question:
If my phone doesn’t ring, who am I?
That question is not dramatic.
It’s quiet.
But it’s heavy.
I’ve also noticed something else.
I don’t have patience for surface-level conversations anymore.
“Enna da news?”
“Same old, machi.”
“Ok ok, catch up soon.”
That loop feels exhausting now.
If I talk, I want depth.
If I meet, I want meaning.
If we connect, I want alignment.
Otherwise silence feels better.
I recently read a line by Jim Rohn:
“You are the average of the five people you spend the most time with.”
Maybe midlife is when you consciously choose those five.
Not because others are bad.
But because your time becomes precious.
There’s another layer to this.
In the last few years, I’ve seen enough — professionally and personally — to understand that trust is fragile. You invest in people, and sometimes the return is confusion, distance, or disappointment.
You don’t become bitter.
You become selective.
That’s different.
Now when my phone doesn’t ring, I experience mixed feelings.
Sometimes there is relief.
Sometimes a small pinch.
Sometimes peace.
But I also notice this:
I think more.
I reflect more.
I plan more.
I observe more.
My external world reduced.
My internal world expanded.
Maybe this is not loneliness.
Maybe this is compression before redesign.
Maybe life is moving me from being socially available to being internally anchored.
I didn’t lose friends overnight.
I lost the need to be everywhere.
And I’m still figuring out whether that is decline…
Or growth in disguise.
Narrative vs Karma: What Kind of Entrepreneur Do You Want to Be?
Western business runs on narrative.
Indian thinking runs on karma.
One controls perception.
The other trusts consequence.
As entrepreneurs, we stand in the middle of this crossroads every single day.
Let me start with a man who mastered narrative correction.
The Man Called “Merchant of Death”
Alfred Nobel invented dynamite.
Technically brilliant.
Commercially successful.
Morally… complicated.
In 1888, a French newspaper mistakenly published his obituary (they confused him with his brother). The headline reportedly called him:
“The Merchant of Death is Dead.”
The article criticized him for profiting from explosives used in war.
Imagine reading your own obituary… and discovering the world thinks you are a villain.
That moment changed everything.
Nobel rewrote his legacy.
He set aside most of his fortune to establish what we now know as the — honoring achievements in peace, science, literature, and humanity.
Same man.
Same past.
New narrative.
History remembers him not for dynamite, but for the Nobel Prize.
That is narrative power.
Narrative-Centric Entrepreneurship
Narrative entrepreneurs ask:
- How am I perceived?
- What story is being told about my brand?
- How do I position myself?
- Can I shape reputation before others shape it for me?
They understand something brutal:
“If you don’t write your story, someone else will.”
In the West, this is strategy.
Brand positioning.
PR management.
Thought leadership.
Legacy planning.
It’s not necessarily immoral.
It’s smart.
But here’s the catch.
Narrative can polish image.
It cannot erase consequence.
Karma-Centric Entrepreneurship
In Indian thought, karma says:
“You don’t manage image. You manage action.”
Results follow intention + action.
You don’t rush to fix headlines.
You focus on dharma.
For example:
- Tata Group supporting employees during crises.
- Businesses that extend support beyond legal obligation.
- Founders who choose long-term trust over short-term profit.
No press release needed.
Just silent strength.
Karma-centric entrepreneurs think:
- Would I do this if no one was watching?
- Is this decision aligned with my values?
- What consequence will this create 10 years from now?
They believe reputation is a byproduct of conduct.
The Real Question
Should you be ruthless?
Or moral?
Wrong framing.
The real question is:
Can you be sharp in strategy and strong in values?
Alfred Nobel didn’t deny his past.
He redirected his wealth toward something greater.
That is hybrid entrepreneurship.
The Hybrid Model (My Take)
- Build value ruthlessly.
- Compete intelligently.
- Protect your narrative.
- Never betray your core values.
Because here’s the truth:
Narrative builds brand.
Karma builds foundation.
Narrative gets applause.
Karma gets peace.
Narrative controls headlines.
Karma controls legacy.
And legacy always wins.
Final Thought
You can manipulate perception for 5 years.
You cannot escape consequence for 50.
Choose wisely.
21 Attempts Later: How ChatGPT and I Found the Answer Together
We talk about AI as if it’s magic.
Ask a question. Get an answer. Move on.
What we don’t talk about enough is what really happens when the answer doesn’t come easily.
This week, I learned that the hard way.
What looked simple on paper turned into 21 failed attempts, each one slightly different, each one confidently wrong. ChatGPT responded every time — clearly, logically, persuasively. And every time, something didn’t work.
That’s when I realised the first uncomfortable truth:
AI can sound right long before it is right.
The early illusion
The first few attempts were deceptive.
The responses were structured.
The explanations were neat.
Some even ended with words like “success”.
And yet… nothing actually happened.
Acknowledgement masqueraded as execution.
That illusion alone can waste hours if you’re not careful.
When confidence became the problem
By attempt seven or eight, both of us — ChatGPT and I — were confident.
The logic seemed airtight.
The fixes were small.
We were “almost there.”
That phrase — almost there — is dangerous.
Because it convinces you not to question your assumptions deeply enough.
The conversation changed
Somewhere around attempt eleven, I stopped asking ChatGPT what to do.
Instead, I started telling it what was wrong.
“This assumption doesn’t hold.”
“This part works; this doesn’t.”
“Let’s isolate just this behaviour.”
ChatGPT changed with me.
The answers slowed down.
The certainty softened.
The reasoning became cautious — collaborative.
That’s when it stopped feeling like a tool and started behaving like a thinking partner.
The humility phase
There was a stretch where neither of us rushed.
No clever shortcuts.
No sweeping rewrites.
Just deliberate, line-by-line progress.
I stopped expecting brilliance.
ChatGPT stopped pretending certainty.
Ironically, that’s when progress accelerated.
Attempt twenty-one
The final attempt didn’t announce itself.
No drama.
No celebration.
It simply worked.
And in that quiet moment, something became clear:
Success is often silent.
Failure is loud.
What this taught me about AI
ChatGPT didn’t replace thinking.
It demanded better thinking.
Weak prompts produced confident mistakes.
Better prompts invited reasoning.
Persistent correction reshaped responses in real time.
The miracle wasn’t AI.
The miracle was staying in the conversation.
The real takeaway
This wasn’t man versus machine.
And it wasn’t man commanding machine.
It was a convergence — through frustration, feedback, and patience.
Human intuition corrected AI assumptions.
AI pattern recognition sharpened human thinking.
Twenty-one failures later, the result wasn’t just success.
It was earned clarity.
Final thought:
The future won’t belong to people who use AI.
It will belong to those who can persist with it, long enough for understanding to emerge.
Because intelligence — human or artificial — means nothing without perseverance.
Yesterday in Tirunelveli: Courtesy, Care, and Too Much Good Food
Yesterday was one of those days that quietly reminds you why real-life experiences beat all stereotypes.
I travelled to Tirunelveli to meet the Mayor, to personally invite him for an event we are organising. The meeting itself was smooth, respectful, and reassuring. He was warm, courteous, and graciously accepted the invitation to honour the occasion.
But what followed after the meeting stayed with me far more deeply.
The Mayor asked one of his friends to accompany us — not just to guide us around Tirunelveli, but also to Ambasamudram, where we were to meet another friend. What I assumed would be a simple courtesy turned into an unexpected lesson in hospitality.
From the moment we stepped out, we were no longer “guests” — we were looked after.
Lunch was arranged without fuss. Evening snacks appeared almost magically. Conversations flowed easily, without agendas or urgency. At some point, I realised something important had happened.
I had to break my diet — not out of temptation, but out of respect.
And strangely, I felt no guilt.
There is something about the southern districts of Tamil Nadu — a quiet, unspoken culture of care. No loud displays. No forced politeness. Just a natural instinct to ensure that the person with you is comfortable, fed, and at ease.
What struck me most was that no one made a big deal of what they were doing. There were no announcements, no expectations of return favours. Hospitality wasn’t a performance — it was a reflex.
In a world where meetings are rushed, calories are counted, and kindness is often transactional, this felt refreshing. Almost old-fashioned. Almost sacred.
Some places don’t just welcome you.
They take responsibility for you, even if only for a day.
And Tirunelveli, yesterday, did exactly that.
AnandNataraj 