We like to think we’re either good at something or not. Skilled or unskilled. Talented or talentless. But reality—like all things worth exploring—is layered.

The Four Stages of Competence is one of those deceptively simple models that packs a lifetime of wisdom into four steps. It doesn’t just describe how we learn a skill; it offers a lens into how we become the kind of person who is good at things. And more importantly, how we become blind to what we don’t know.

Let’s walk through each stage.

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1. Unconscious Incompetence

“You don’t know that you don’t know.”

This is where every beginner starts. It’s not just lack of skill—it’s lack of awareness that a skill even exists. The person who can’t swim and doesn’t think it’s a big deal. The executive who doesn’t realize emotional intelligence is a thing. The entrepreneur who thinks marketing is just posting on Instagram.

This is the most dangerous place to be—not because you’re unskilled, but because you’re unaware. It’s the Dunning-Kruger pit.

The antidote? Humility. Curiosity. Feedback loops.

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2. Conscious Incompetence

“You know that you don’t know.”

Now the lightbulb flickers. You attend a workshop, watch someone code, or try to cook a simple meal… and realize how much you suck. This is when awareness kicks in—and with it, discomfort.

It’s also the most fertile stage for growth. But many people quit here. The pain of realizing your incompetence is too much for the ego.

The people who stay are the ones who learn. Because now, finally, you’re teachable.

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3. Conscious Competence

“You know that you know.”

This is the awkward adolescent stage of mastery. You’ve learned the skill. You can do it. But it takes effort. It’s slow. You’re mentally ticking boxes as you go.

This is the language learner who can hold a conversation—but only if they mentally translate each word. The developer who can write decent code—but needs to double-check syntax.

You’re capable, but not fluid.

Deliberate practice lives here. So does repetition, coaching, and process. This is where you build the muscle memory required to level up.

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4. Unconscious Competence

“You don’t know that you know.”

Welcome to the flow state.

You’re not thinking about your skill. You are the skill. The pianist doesn’t think about scales. The speaker doesn’t rehearse sentence structure mid-talk. The coder doesn’t Google “for loop syntax” anymore.

You are competent without conscious effort.

But here’s the twist: this stage can make you a bad teacher. Because you’ve forgotten what it’s like to not know.

That’s why the best coaches often hang out in stage 3—they’re good enough to perform, but still close enough to the struggle to explain it.

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The Climb Never Ends

Here’s the punchline: every time you start something new, you go back to stage 1. The ladder resets. You might be a master chef, but if you start writing fiction, you’re back at “unconscious incompetence.” That’s the deal.

The goal isn’t to get stuck at the top, nor to avoid the bottom. The goal is to climb, again and again, with grace.

Because awareness isn’t just about skill—it’s about who we are when we don’t know.

And that’s where growth begins.

Here’s something you probably didn’t wake up worrying about today:
Soap bars.

Specifically, those tiny hotel soap bars, no bigger than a credit card, wrapped in enough plastic to survive a nuclear event.

You know the ones. You check into your room, maybe after a long flight. You find a neat little bar sitting on the sink like a soldier awaiting orders. You tear it open, give it a quick lather, and… that’s it.
One use.
Maybe two if you’re disciplined.
And then?
Straight to the trash.

Here’s the thing:
The manufacturers know.
They know that 90% of that soap’s life will be spent sitting there, slowly drying out, or being tossed half-used into a bin. Yet they still dutifully design, produce, and distribute millions of them every year.

It’s not incompetence. It’s not carelessness. It’s designing for discard.

The point was never that the soap bar would be fully used.
The point was that it would be available.
There. Present. Making you feel cared for. Hygienic. Safe. Even if you barely touch it.

In product development, there’s a hidden lesson here:
Sometimes the function of a product is not what you think.

The soap bar isn’t just a cleanser.
It’s a signal.
It tells you, “We thought about you.”
Even if you don’t finish it, even if you barely use it, the soap served its real purpose the moment you saw it.

It’s the same reason most car owners have spare tires they’ve never touched.
Or why high-end gadgets ship with velvet bags no one ever uses.
Or why luxury brands sell handbags so delicate you’d be insane to actually carry them daily.

Utility isn’t always the goal.
Sometimes it’s reassurance. Status. Presence. A little nudge to your limbic system that says: you made a good choice.

The tragedy, of course, is that the soap bar, unlike the spare tire or velvet bag, is actually useful.
In a better world, maybe we’d have a communal soap jar that refills itself like magic. (Or a tiny “hotel soap seed” you plant in water to grow a full bar overnight.)

But for now, the poor travel soap will continue its short, tragic life: born in a factory, flown across oceans, briefly admired, hastily unwrapped, used once, and abandoned forever.

A reminder that in product development — and maybe in life — it’s good to ask:
Am I building something to be used…
or just something to be seen?

And more importantly:
Would I want to be the soap bar?

Why Shadow Integration Is the Most Important Work You’ll Ever Do

There’s a quiet force steering your life. You don’t hear it. You don’t name it. But it’s running the show.

Carl Jung called it the shadow—a storehouse of everything you’ve rejected, repressed, denied, or disowned about yourself.

Not just the “bad” stuff.
Not just the violent urges or inappropriate desires.
But also the raw power you were told was “too much.” The tears you swallowed. The laughter you muted. The dreams you shelved.

And here’s the truth no one tells you:
What you bury doesn’t die. It takes the wheel.

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The Mirror Is Always On

Ever wonder why certain people get under your skin?

It’s probably not about them.
It’s about you.

• You get angry at someone for being arrogant—but it’s your own suppressed need to stand tall.
• You roll your eyes at someone’s selfishness—while quietly resenting that you never put yourself first.
• You mock someone for being “too emotional”—because you learned that vulnerability equals weakness.

This is projection.
Your unconscious pushes your disowned traits onto others.
You turn them into villains so you can keep your mask clean.

But here’s the real kicker:
The world is not full of monsters.
You’re just haunted by your reflection.

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The Shadow is Not the Enemy

Most people treat the shadow like toxic waste.

Lock it up. Throw it out. Pretend it’s not there.

But Jung didn’t see it that way. He saw it as your unlived life.
A psychic basement filled with both your darkness and your dormant power.

That rage? It could become clarity.
That envy? Fuel for growth.
That shame? A map to your unmet needs.

The shadow isn’t there to destroy you.
It’s there to complete you.

But only if you have the guts to face it.

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Integration Over Exorcism

This is the part no Instagram reel tells you:
They’ll call it healing.
It’s not.
It’s reckoning.

You don’t “cure” your shadow. You confront it.
You don’t banish it. You integrate it.

Let’s say you’re the peacemaker, the “nice one.” But you keep erupting over small things. That’s not random. That’s your ignored anger banging on the walls of your psyche.

Or maybe you give until you’re empty—then resent everyone. That’s not sainthood. That’s self-erasure.

Integration is not indulgence. It’s ownership.

You look your darkness in the eye.
You name it.
You stop running from yourself.

And something radical happens.

You stop needing others to behave a certain way to keep you safe from your own emotions.

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What Happens If You Don’t

The shadow you ignore doesn’t fade.
It festers.
It metastasizes.

Eventually, you become the very thing you claim to hate.

• You condemn arrogance while quietly chasing validation.
• You virtue-signal generosity while manipulating others with guilt.
• You crusade against toxicity while quietly poisoning your own relationships.

Jung warned:

“Until you make the unconscious conscious, it will direct your life and you will call it fate.”

And that’s how “good” people become bitter, performative, and dangerous—first to others, then to themselves.

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The Cost of Growth (and the Reward)

Shadow work is not a vibe. It’s a blood sport.

You’ll face your shame.
You’ll admit things you swore were “not you.”
You’ll see how much of your life was built to protect a self-image you never chose, just inherited.

But if you stay in the fire long enough…

You get your life back.

You reclaim:

• The voice you muted
• The anger that could’ve set boundaries
• The envy that pointed to forgotten dreams
• The sensuality, courage, clarity you were told to shut down

You stop being a curated version of yourself.
You become real.
And real is magnetic.

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You Can’t Do This Alone

Start alone, sure. But don’t try to finish alone.

Some shadows are too slippery to catch without a mirror.
That mirror can be a therapist, a coach, or someone trained to see what you can’t.

This isn’t about being “fixed.”
It’s about getting honest.

A good therapist won’t tell you who you are.
They’ll ask the question you’ve been avoiding.
And sit with you in the silence after the answer.

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What Happens After

When the shadow is integrated, everything changes.

You stop flinching at feedback.
You stop playing emotional ping-pong with your triggers.
You stop making other people responsible for your peace.

You become…

• Less reactive
• More discerning
• More grounded
• Less easily manipulated

You don’t need the world to coddle you anymore.
You’ve met your darkness—and lived to tell the story.

And here’s the twist:

People feel it.

Some are drawn closer. They feel your authenticity.
Some pull away. You’ve stopped playing their game.

Either way, you’re free.

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Final Word

This isn’t about becoming perfect.
It’s about becoming whole.

There is no peace while you’re at war with yourself.
And no freedom without truth.

The shadow will run your life—until you choose to run toward it.

You don’t have to stay fragmented.
You don’t have to stay exhausted.
You don’t have to stay small.

But you do have to choose.

So here’s the question:
What part of you are you still afraid to meet?

(Source mentioned at end of post)

Have you ever had that persistent, silent feeling that you are wasting your life?

No matter how hard you try to keep yourself busy—surrounded by people, goals, obligations—deep down it feels like something essential is missing. As if you are merely existing, not truly living.

Perhaps you’ve tried to explain this as anxiety.
Maybe a doctor has called it depression.
And perhaps they prescribed something to silence that discomfort—a pill in the morning, another at night.
And time goes by, numbing what you should be urgently listening to.

But what if I told you this suffering is not a mistake?
What if I told you it is not something to be suppressed—but rather, a calling?

Carl Gustaf Jung—one of the greatest names in depth psychology—believed that what we call mental disorder is often not a pathology. It is an attempt by the psyche to heal itself. A warning that your life, as it is, does not serve your soul.

You may be living a routine that was imposed on you—a job that consumes you, relationships that drain your energy, dreams that aren’t even yours. Meanwhile…

Your essence screams for freedom.
But no one taught you to listen to that scream.
On the contrary, they taught you to silence it—to function, to adapt, to not disturb.
And so, you become ill in silence while the world applauds your productivity.

This is where Jung comes in.

For him, healing does not come from denial, but from diving in. It is not about masking the symptoms, but about understanding what they are trying to say. Because in Jung’s own words:

“Neurosis is always a substitute for legitimate suffering.”

In other words, you are sick because you are running away from the pain you need to feel in order to transform your life.

As long as you keep running, you will keep suffering.

This post is not for those who want distraction. It is for those who are tired of pretending—for those who feel they are sinking, but still hold a spark of hope that there is a way.

And there is.
But it starts with a brutal decision:
To stop running, and start listening.

Listening to yourself.
Listening to the unconscious.
Listening to the pain you tried to silence with medication, with addictions, with routines.

If you’ve made it this far, you may have already realized:
The emptiness you feel is not weakness.
It is the absence of yourself in your own life.

And it is time to change that.

You’ve been feeling sad—for days, weeks, maybe months.
You go to the doctor. He listens to you for 15 minutes—if he listens at all.
You talk about insomnia, anxiety, the tightness in your chest that appears for no reason, the constant feeling of being out of place, disconnected from your own existence.

He nods. Types a few words on the computer.
And then comes the verdict: “It’s anxiety. Let’s start with this medication.”
Done.

In a few days or weeks, your pain has been reduced to a “chemical imbalance.”
And what was once an existential cry becomes a number on a prescription label.

What no one tells you is that this type of treatment is not interested in your soul.
It is interested in your functionality.

The logic is simple:
You need to keep working.
Keep consuming.
Keep producing.
Keep the gears of the system turning.

The medication allows you to endure the unbearable.
And that’s why it is offered as a definitive solution.

But this solution, as Jung said, is a trap.

Jung believed that most modern neurosis does not arise from an internal failure of the brain, but from the disconnection between the life we lead and the life we should be living.

When you ignore your vocation, your most authentic impulses, your inner truths—the soul begins to sicken. And since it has no literal voice, it speaks through the body and mind:
Anxiety.
Panic attacks.
Hopelessness.

But instead of listening, we are trained to silence it.
To neutralize any discomfort with chemicals.
To return to “normal” as quickly as possible.

But what is this “normal”?

A job you hate but can’t quit.
Superficial relationships that serve to maintain appearances.
Empty goals.
Mechanical routines.
And a constant feeling that you are surviving instead of living.

The anxiety you feel is not a failure.
It is your soul telling you:

“This life is not yours. You are betraying me.”

And if you ignore this for too long, the body starts to scream louder.

But the system is always ready—with a new dose, a new label, a new sedative.
And the more you adapt to this model, the further you distance yourself from yourself—until you feel nothing anymore.

Neither pain.
Nor pleasure.
Just this chronic numbness they call “adult life.”

Carl Jung warned that by medicating the symptom without understanding its root, we create an illusion of healing.
The person improves on the outside, but inside remains lost.

And in the long run, this division—between what is felt and what is lived—generates an even greater collapse.

Because there is no way to escape the soul forever.
It will demand its price—whether in the form of burnout, emotional collapses, or through an emptiness that nothing, absolutely nothing, can fill.

This mass medicalization is a reflection of something deeper:
A culture that does not know how to deal with suffering.
That fears pain—because it has lost the sense of its transformative value.

For Jung, suffering was necessary.
It was the beginning of the journey.
It was the call to individuation.

But in modern society, any discomfort is labeled as pathological.
And by fleeing from suffering, we also flee from the chance to become who we should be.

Source – Credit to Psyphoria for their amazing video production with this fantastic script, link. The passage has been reproduced verbatim from the script of the video. While modifying the language was possible, preserving the original essence of the video and its words felt more important. All credits and copyrights belong to the original author.

How to manage motivation, distraction, and the myth of obsessive focus.

The brain isn’t built for clarity.
It’s built for survival. For pattern-matching. For saving energy.

Which means most of the time, the brain behaves like a tired bureaucrat — sluggish, addicted to shortcuts, and content with checking boxes that look like work without producing anything of real value.

Add ADHD, poor sleep, or even just overstimulation — and this bureaucrat becomes a saboteur.

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1. The mind is a prediction machine, not a truth engine.

Thoughts are not instructions.
They’re noise. Often shaped by hormones, distractions, unprocessed inputs, and social programming.

Sleep-deprived brains spin into self-doubt. Overstimulated brains become emotionally erratic.
The modern world constantly feeds this — with its infinite scrolls, urgent notifications, and dopamine-on-demand platforms.

And in this environment, “focus” becomes less about discipline and more about resistance training.

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2. Inconsistency + Circular Work = Burnout

Two patterns quietly wreck momentum:

• Inconsistency: Starting things without finishing.
• Circular Work: Tasks that feel like progress but lead nowhere.

Picture this:
A person puts real effort into solving a problem adjacent to the main task. It’s noticed. Appreciated even. But then comes the response:
“Let’s first wrap up the existing work. We’ll pick this up later.”
That moment — of being seen but sidelined — kills momentum.

When feedback loops are delayed or disconnected, people stop shipping.

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3. Obsessive focus is overrated.

“Go all in” sounds heroic, but tunnel vision is rarely strategic.

Spending an entire day obsessing over one piece of work — especially if it’s low-leverage — leads to burnout, blind spots, and decision fatigue.

Over-optimization on one front leads to underperformance on others.
Creative and cognitive systems thrive on cross-pollination, not isolation.

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4. Sisyphus and Side Projects

Albert Camus reframed the myth of Sisyphus — doomed to roll a boulder up a hill forever — as a metaphor for meaning.

Most impactful work feels repetitive. Progress is invisible. Appreciation is delayed.
And yet, the act of pushing — of showing up — matters.

But here’s the twist:
To prevent burnout, introduce side projects. Not as escapes, but as mental counterweights.

Never do only one thing obsessively in a day.

Shifting gears refreshes perspective.
Returning to the main task with a cleaner lens often makes it better — and lighter.

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5. Tools That Help

• Pomodoro: Forces the brain into structured sprints.
• Medication (if needed): Neurodivergence is not a moral failing.
• Content as nourishment: Curate, don’t binge.
• Sleep: The real productivity hack.

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In conclusion:

The modern mind doesn’t need more willpower.
It needs better architecture.

It doesn’t need total silence.
It needs cleaner signals.

And it doesn’t need the world to clap.
Just a rhythm it can return to.

Push the boulder. Then rest. Then push again.

There’s a strange expectation floating around, especially in India:
That if you build something, you must be that thing.

Start a Sanatani platform?
“Are you a brahmin? Do you do daily puja?”
Found a mental health app?
“Oh, so you must have struggled with depression, right?”
Launch a farming startup?
“Which gaon are you from, bhai?”

This romanticized notion — that the founder must be the ultimate user — is seductive. It flatters our desire for purity, for “authenticity.”
But it also misses the point.

The founder’s job isn’t to be the product.
The founder’s job is to build the product.

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System Builders, Not System Subjects

The founder of Zepto doesn’t need to know how to ride a bike through potholes to ensure your milk arrives on time.
Bhavish from Ola may not be a cabbie — but he understands networks, price signals, and logistics.

Likewise:

1. The founder of Urban Company isn’t a plumber or a beautician.
   They built the backend, not the blow dryer. What they bring is orchestration.
2. Nandan Nilekani didn’t build Aadhaar by verifying identity on the ground himself.
   He created a digital infrastructure that let others do it at scale — securely, rapidly, and affordably.
3. The founders of Duolingo aren’t polyglots of every language on the app.
   They built feedback systems, engagement loops, and gamified flows that make language learning addictive.
4. The creator of Zerodha wasn’t the best stock trader in India.
   But he knew what Indian traders were frustrated by — opaque charges, clunky UIs, lack of trust — and he solved those.
5. Even in cinema: directors aren’t always the best actors, singers, or camera operators.
   They’re conductors — making sure the whole thing works in harmony.

A founder is not the domain expert.
They’re the domain enabler.

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The Founder as a Conduit, Not a Guru

We often mistake the founder for the priest.
But maybe they are more like the temple builder.

The priest performs the ritual.
The founder builds the platform so that millions can perform their own rituals — digitally, physically, communally.

This distinction is vital.

When the Wright brothers built the airplane, they weren’t birds.
When Steve Jobs built the iPhone, he wasn’t a telecom engineer.
They weren’t the product.
They built the conditions for the product to exist.

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The Market Doesn’t Care Who You Are. It Cares What You Do.

Here’s a harsh but liberating truth:
Your users don’t care about your identity.
They care about your delivery.

If your Sanatan app helps a seeker reconnect with their roots, if it makes their puja easier, their pilgrimage safer, their spiritual knowledge richer — they will use it.

They’re not asking for your Kundli.
They’re asking for your product to work.

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Founders as Infrastructure

The best founders don’t center themselves.
They create infrastructure so that others can thrive.

They’re more plumber than poet. More builder than philosopher.

In a world full of personal brands and founder selfies, this is easy to forget. But the real power lies in building something that works, even when you’re not in the room.

Something that aligns with users’ needs, honors the system it represents, and grows bigger than you.

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Closing Thought

If a founder builds a bridge over a river, do you ask if they know how to swim?
If they design a school, do you ask how many exams they’ve topped?

Let’s stop measuring founders by their personal resemblance to the system.
And start measuring them by the clarity of their thought, the care in their execution, and the value of what they make.

Because in the end, it’s not who you are —
It’s what you build that lasts.Why a Founder Builds

The Rungs Between Earth and Everything Else

There’s an old story in Genesis.
A man named Jacob, on the run, falls asleep with a stone for a pillow. He dreams of a ladder reaching from the earth to the heavens. Angels ascend and descend. God stands at the top. When Jacob wakes up, he declares: “Surely the Lord is in this place, and I was not aware of it.”

That image—of a ladder between the mundane and the divine—has echoed through centuries. But like all great metaphors, it isn’t just a symbol for the faithful. It’s a blueprint for those seeking meaning.

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The climb

Ladders are simple things. They don’t lift you.
You climb them.
Step by step.

They don’t promise shortcuts or escalator-speed. They demand effort. Focus. Rhythm. One rung at a time.

And unlike a staircase, a ladder feels vulnerable. You’re exposed. The ground feels far. The top feels uncertain. One hand wrong and you slip. But it’s also the most honest structure: transparent, minimal, and direct.

Which makes it the perfect metaphor for ascent—of any kind.

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What are you climbing?

For some, the ladder is spiritual.
For others, it’s intellectual.
For some, it’s career. Or healing. Or love.

The point is not what you call the ladder.
The point is whether you’re climbing one at all.

Most people, when you really look, aren’t climbing anything. They’re just switching ladders at the base. They shop for better-looking ones. Shinier rungs. They wait for elevators. Or worse, they convince themselves there’s nothing worth climbing toward.

But real growth doesn’t happen on the ground. It happens between rungs. In the space where you’re stretched. Where you’re unsure if the next step will hold. Where you hear the angels but haven’t yet reached them.

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Descent is part of it

In Jacob’s dream, angels were going up and down.

We don’t talk enough about that second part.

Descent is not failure. Descent is part of the system. The myth of continuous up is what breaks people.

The real ladder—whether of faith, or mastery, or inner peace—is cyclical. You climb, you descend, you learn, you climb again. Each time, the same rungs. But you bring something new to them. A different self. A clearer intent.

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The ladder is already here

Jacob wakes up and says: “The Lord is in this place, and I was not aware of it.”

He thought he was in a random field, fleeing danger. But the ladder was already there. The connection between earth and everything else wasn’t something he had to build—it was something he had to notice.

That’s the part we miss.

Most people are waiting for the right tools. The right mentor. The right sign. But the ladder isn’t out there. It’s in your backyard. It’s in your daily practice. It’s in the thing you quietly care about, but haven’t dared to name sacred.

You don’t need new dreams.
You need to wake up to the ones already under your head.

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So…
Pick a ladder.
Climb it slowly.
Let it shake you.
Let it change you.
And remember—angels go up and down.