Last year, in 2024, after nearly a decade away from YouTube, I found myself compelled to return. Something in me stirred—a familiar desire to create. So I did what felt most natural: I turned on the camera, sat down, and spoke freely for 40 to 60 minutes about whatever was on my mind. No script. No editing. Just raw, unfiltered, spontaneous thought.
It felt deeply satisfying—almost therapeutic. There was no agenda, no strategy. Just a pure stream of consciousness. I wasn’t thinking about monetization. I didn’t care about production value, aesthetics, titles, thumbnails, SEO, or algorithm hacks. I was simply expressing myself authentically in that moment. And in that act of expression, I felt deeply aligned—mentally, creatively, and even spiritually.
It started, as most good things do, with internal motivation. A desire to think out loud. To speak the truth as I saw it, even if it wasn’t clean, concise, or marketable. I wasn’t trying to “grow an audience.” I just wanted to speak freely, for the sake of it.
But then something changed
The more I created, the more I realized I actually enjoyed the process. There was a kind of joy in shooting, editing, and uploading. So I thought: Why not take this seriously? Why not build something around it?
And so I started to optimize.
I began writing scripts instead of improvising. I started editing my videos to look polished and professional. I studied how other YouTubers presented themselves, structured their ideas, and packaged their content. I wanted to do it like them, and make money as a YouTuber.
Most of us, once we find something we enjoy, want to turn it into something “more.” For me, I thought that was a “personal brand” that monetized via online courses & skool communities. I rationalized it as “I wanna do what I enjoy, make money from it and help people along the way”.
But if I’m honest, part of it was me coveting the success that my ex-girlfriend had achieved in the YouTube game.
She started her YouTube channel a year earlier—with no prior experience, no production skills, no camera background. Within her first month, she had already gained 5,000 subscribers. It felt, frankly, unfair.
“It’s because she’s a pretty girl—pretty girls get more views, especially in the ‘self-improvement’ niche.”
“It’s because she has an American accent—mine’s too thick, too rough, too Scottish.”
“It’s because she’s more palatable and seems more likeable than me.”
These were the thoughts that ran through my head. These were my internal justifications. They soothed my ego. But deep down, I knew the real reason.
She understood the market well and tailored her videos to it.
Her videos were short, clean, well-edited, tightly scripted, and easy to consume. She gave the audience what they wanted, in a form they could digest. In contrast, my videos were long, unscripted monologues—raw brain dumps that required patience and attention. They were made for me, not for the viewer.
And that, I thought to myself, was the problem.
So I started adapting
I shortened my videos. From 45 minutes down to 30, then 15, eventually aiming for 10 or less. I began choosing “SEO-friendly” titles first—then structured my script around that title. Everything became reverse-engineered from the outside in (and what the market wanted), instead of the inside out (what I wanted).
I also ramped up production. Where previously I aimed for one video every week or two, I now pushed for 2–3 per week. More volume, more consistency, more output.
On the surface, it looked like growth. Discipline. Commitment.
But inside, something began to die.
The joy I once felt—the freedom, the joy, the self-expression—started slipping away. What had once been fun now felt like a job. Worse: a performance. I was no longer creating for myself. I was creating for a hypothetical audience, constantly wondering what they wanted, what they’d click on, what they’d share.
I started to resent the entire process.
I wasn't saying what I really thought—I was saying what I thought would resonate. I wasn’t creating from the inside out—I was crafting content from the outside in. That subtle shift in orientation—from expression to optimization—was what killed it.
And yet, I told myself it was necessary.
After all, isn’t this what all the gurus say?
“Find your passion. Then monetize it.”
It sounds harmless. And to most people, it’s unquestioned gospel. But over time, I realized something profound about myself:
My brain resists trying to blend passion and monetization. In fact, for me, monetization corrupts the joy of creating.
Why?
Because for me, as an INTP, passion is rooted in intellectual and creative purity. I don’t want to talk about what others want me to. I want to talk about what I want to. I don’t want to optimize for engagement. I want to say what I actually believe—even if it’s long-winded, messy, or unpopular.
Once you introduce monetization, everything shifts. Now you have to think:
- “What topics will get the most views?”
- “What’s safe to talk about?”
- “What should I avoid saying?”
- “How do I stay politically correct yet interesting?”
- “What thumbnail will convert?”
These questions, to some people, are part of the game. To me, they’re a signal of corruption. A subtle filter that begins to dilute the clarity of thought and expression. I didn’t pick up the camera to pander. I picked it up to share my deepest truths—even if nobody would understand.
The real breakthrough came not in front of a camera, but during a Saturday gym session.
Saturdays are my favourite gym days. I usually grab a coffee beforehand, and when I arrive, I have four drinks with me: coffee, water, a BCAA mix, and a separate shaker with three scoops of citrulline malate. Each serves a specific purpose—caffeine for energy, water for hydration, BCAAs for recovery, and citrulline for blood flow.
Yes, it’s annoying to carry them all around the gym. But they’re each optimized for their individual purpose.
Could I have collapsed them into a single “all-in-one” pre/intra workout? Sure. But I’d have to sacrifice dosage, purity, and control. Most all-in-ones cut corners: tiny doses to fit in a single scoop. The result? Something that technically contains everything, but doesn’t deliver sufficient quantities of each.
And that’s when it hit me:
This is how I approach life. My brain compartmentalizes. On purpose.
I want clean, distinct domains. One space for money. Another for joy. When you try to mix everything into one, you dilute the potency of each. You lose the core of the thing.
That’s exactly what happened when I tried to monetize my creativity. It no longer felt pure. It became a bastardized blend of truth and strategy. Even worse, I felt like I was being slowly nudged toward launching some kind of “online course” or digital product just to keep the machine running. But I didn’t believe in any of it. It wasn’t me. Why should I peddle some $999 course teaching others how to “make money as a writer” when I don’t believe everyone is temperamentally suited to be a writer?
So I stopped
And in that phase of doing nothing, I began asking myself harder questions:
- What do I actually enjoy about content creation?
- Do I truly care about “impacting others”?
- Or is that just something I’ve been conditioned to believe I should care about?
- Do I even want to make money from this?
What I discovered surprised me:
I love writing.
Not filming. Not editing. Not marketing. Not “content creation” in the influencer sense. Just writing—plain, raw, direct. The most fun came when I was writing my scripts, not in recording my videos or trying to get b-roll shots. I love thinking deeply and distilling complex ideas into clean sentences. I love the honesty, the solitude, the intellectual friction.
I realized I didn’t want to build a “personal brand”. I didn’t want to market myself. I didn’t want to optimize for reach and subscribers. I didn’t want to publish templates or give away “free value” in exchange for email opt-ins. I didn’t want a Substack funnel, a LinkedIn ghostwriter, or a Notion product.
I just wanted to write.
And if I wanted to keep it pure, I had to find a way to fund it—without monetizing it.
That’s when I turned to investing. Specifically, stock market investing.
I first dabbled in the stock market back in 2015. I don’t remember exactly what drew me in, but I do remember some of the first books I bought as a young adult: The Neatest Little Guide to Stock Market Investing by Jason Kelly, and The Intelligent Investor by Benjamin Graham — both in April 2015.
After that brief encounter, I stepped away from stocks for nearly a decade. But in 2024, I re-discovered my love for the markets — this time with a much deeper appreciation for something I had previously overlooked: the power of passive income through dividend-yielding stocks.
Back in 2015, I remember scoffing at companies like Procter & Gamble or Microsoft offering 1–2% dividend yields. I thought, “Why even bother?” But my re-entry in 2024 coincided with a severe downturn in the Hong Kong market, driven by pessimism toward China. The result? Fundamentally solid companies trading at deeply discounted valuations, offering dividend yields in the 7–10% range.
Now that was something that got me excited again.
By owning shares in businesses that paid consistent dividends, I could build a base of passive income that would fund my life and provide space and time for writing without needing to peddle arbitrary “online courses”. In fact, it meant I could opt out of the entire “audience building” game altogether. No shits given anymore about audience size, views, email opt-ins, or trying to “network” with other content creators to “shout each other out”.
It was clean. Elegant. Pure. And most importantly, authentic.
Most people think investing is cold and mechanical—just spreadsheets and numbers. But for me, investing is a form of applied philosophy. It’s a domain where long-term thinking, independent judgment, and contrarian insight are actually rewarded. It’s one of the few fields where my natural temperament—skeptical, analytical, non-conforming—can make money.
In any other avenue, employee-ship, self-employment or entrepreneurship, I would have to sell my authenticity and contrarianism in some way or another to earn a living. Whether its pandering to customers, investors, team members or other stakeholders.
With investing, I’m paid for my authenticity and contrarianism. It’s the only path in life where being different from the crowd and thinking for yourself yields a higher ROI than conformity. The same cannot be said for any other path.
With investing, I don’t need to pretend it’s some kind of social mission. I’m not here to convince anyone that I’m "making money and helping people" as some blended virtue signal.
Investing, for me, is unapologetically about making money. That’s its function. Full stop.
The difference is: I don’t need my money-making path **to also be my philanthropy. I make money in one domain — and then I channel that capital into the causes I care about. I don’t need to blend the two. I’d rather keep them separate and do each one properly. I make money fully. I then give fully. None of this half-measured, compromised “do both at the time time” nonsense.
So regarding writing, I do it for fun and to clarify my own learnings.
Investing is where I apply those learnings to make money.
I then take observations from investing and write more, which feeds the cycle even more.
They don’t mix—and that’s exactly why they work well together. It’s a perfect cyclical relationship.
So to conclude, I’m not against making money. I like making money, as everyone does, I just don’t want the pressure to make money to dictate who I am and what I say.
That’s the line I never want to cross.