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Arda

@arda_imo

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On a mission to help men achieve their full potential.

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I thought getting a software engineering job would be the easy part.

I'd spent years studying computer science, building projects, and doing internships. I had a degree, a decent resume, and enough experience to believe I could land something.

All I needed was a chance.

I opened LinkedIn, found a role, uploaded my resume, and clicked Apply.

Then I did it again.

And again.

At first, I read every rejection email, looking for clues. Soon, all I needed to see was the first word.

"Unfortunately..."

My laptop became a graveyard of job tabs, Workday accounts, and cover letters.

200 applications. Then 400. Then 600.

Whenever someone asked how the search was going, I'd smile and say, "Still applying."

But at night, after closing my laptop, one question kept creeping into my head.

What if I'm just not good enough?

I'd worked for years to get here. Now I couldn't even convince a company to talk to me.

By the time I passed 700 applications, I'd received exactly one interview.

One.

I stared at the invitation. All those applications, and everything seemed to come down to this one conversation.

I spent days preparing: technical questions, project explanations, every possible way I might mess it up.

After the interview, I replayed it in my head. The answers I'd nailed. The ones I should've explained better. The little moments that might cost me the job.

A few days later, another email appeared.

I clicked it, already bracing for the familiar opening.

But it wasn't a rejection.

They wanted to hire me.

I read the email twice. Then a third time.

More than 700 applications. One interview. One offer.

For months, I'd treated every rejection as evidence that I wasn't good enough. Yet when I finally had the chance to show what I could do, I pulled it off.

I thought I'd be most relieved that someone finally believed in me.

What surprised me was realizing how much I'd stopped believing in myself.

#NightOwl40Days by @arda_imo

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an hour ago

I scroll through my workout tracker between sets.

Same weight as last week.
Same weight as three weeks ago.
Same weight as two months ago.

“Next week,” I tell myself.

For nearly two years, I'd followed the same three-day full-body program. Monday, Wednesday, Friday. Same exercises, same routine. I knew it by heart.

And for a while, it was great.

I could add weight almost every week. I'd update my tracker and leave already looking forward to the next session.

So whenever I came across a different workout split, I'd shrug it off.

Why complicate something that already worked?

But eventually, the little victories stopped coming.

I'd read about other programs, training frequency, and progressive overload. Then I'd look at my plan.

Two years of consistency. Hundreds of workouts.

I'd close the tabs and tell myself I just needed to push harder.

So that's what I did.

Monday, I loaded the bar and pushed until I couldn't squeeze out another rep.

Same weight. Same reps.

Wednesday, I tried again. Nothing.

Friday, I pushed even harder. Still nothing.

I blamed my sleep. Then my nutrition. Maybe I wasn't trying hard enough.

But weeks turned into months, and I was running out of excuses.

After another disappointing session, I sat on a bench and checked my history. Row after row of nearly identical numbers.

Fuck.

I used to love opening that tracker. Now I almost dreaded it.

And somehow, I still couldn't bring myself to change the program. I'd spent nearly two years on it. Switching felt like admitting all that effort had been for nothing.

That night, I opened those training articles again.

Only this time, I didn't close them.

I built a five-day push-pull-legs/upper-lower split.

The first sessions felt awkward. I kept checking my phone to remember what came next. But soon I was enjoying training again, and my numbers finally started moving.

“Fuck. Why didn't I try this sooner?”

The old program wasn't a waste. It had helped me start, build discipline, and learn how to train.

The mistake wasn't sticking with it for two years.

It was treating those two years as a reason not to question it.

#NightOwl40Days by @arda_imo

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2 days ago

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3 days ago

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4 days ago

When something works for almost everyone else, it's hard not to blame the person who's struggling with it.

That's what I believed going into a coaching call this week.

A teammate had warned me that one of our community members was extremely unhappy with the AI-generated images he'd gotten from our product.

I was expecting complaints, maybe even an argument.

Instead, he calmly walked me through his results.

And honestly? They looked terrible.

But when I looked at the photos he'd originally uploaded, I immediately spotted the problem. The inputs weren't great. Other members were getting fantastic results using the same product.

So I told him exactly that.

I agreed that his results were disappointing, explained how his original photos were likely responsible, and offered to review his next batch before he retrained his model.

He was surprisingly receptive. He listened, asked questions, and seemed genuinely appreciative.

I figured we'd gotten to the bottom of it.

Then, almost in passing, he mentioned that he hadn't even known there was a limit on how many images he could generate.

I stopped for a second.

My eyes went back to the images he'd shown me.

For about five seconds, I tried to imagine the experience from his side.

He'd paid for something, gotten disappointing results, and used up credits without understanding the limitations.

I'd spent most of the call thinking about what he'd done wrong. It hadn't occurred to me that we might have failed to set clear expectations in the first place.

I felt a little embarrassed.

After the call, I reached out to see if we could give him additional credits to try again.

I still believe his inputs were largely responsible for the poor results. But I was wrong to assume that made his frustration his fault.

He had a responsibility to provide good inputs. We had a responsibility to make sure he understood how to use the product and what he was paying for.

Sometimes the problem isn't that one side is wrong. It's that both sides have responsibilities neither fully understands.

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5 days ago

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6 days ago

When someone overwhelms you with messages, sometimes the best thing you can do is stop responding.

At least, that's what I've always thought.

My phone buzzes again.

It's the woman trying to rent my apartment.

I open the conversation. Paragraph after paragraph. Another follow-up. More questions.

"What the fuck is this?"

Have you ever opened a message and felt exhausted before you even finished reading it?

That's exactly how I felt.

I already had enough on my plate. Paperwork to prepare, responsibilities to handle, and barely enough time for everything.

Yet every time I checked my phone, there was more.

The more she messaged, the less motivated I felt to deal with any of it.

So I stopped responding.

One day passed. Then another.

I didn't feel guilty. I didn't even think about it. I buried the conversation and focused on everything else.

After all, I wasn't going to let someone else's anxiety dictate my schedule.

Then another message came through.

This time, I understood what was actually at stake.

She needed written confirmation from me so her company could cover her accommodation. Without it, she was worried about meeting her deadline.

And suddenly, those walls of text made a lot more sense.

She wasn't just being impatient. She was trying to secure a place to live, with a timeline she couldn't afford to miss.

And what had I done?

For two days, I'd been the person she was waiting on. The one person who could give her some certainty had chosen to give her nothing.

Not even a quick message saying I'd get to it.

I'd been frustrated that she couldn't communicate clearly.

Meanwhile, I hadn't communicated at all.

I eventually made sure she received the paperwork on time.

I still think she could have explained her urgency more clearly from the beginning. But that didn't make my silence helpful.

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7 days ago

Another capstone meeting. Another no-show.

We were in our final year of college, working on a project we all needed to finish to graduate.

Every week, we'd divide up the work. Every week, one teammate would barely contribute.

Eventually, we stopped expecting him to show up.

I couldn't understand how someone could care so little about something we were all responsible for.

The rest of us had our own responsibilities too. But we still showed up.

For a long time, I saw him as lazy and selfish.

Then I tried looking at the situation from his perspective.

He was already working at a company and was determined to secure a full-time job after graduation.

To him, every hour spent on our unpaid capstone was an hour he could've spent proving himself at work.

He wasn't avoiding hard work. He was directing it somewhere else.

And underneath that was something I hadn't considered: the fear of graduating without financial security.

I can understand that fear.

But here's where I still disagree with his decision.

He knew we'd do enough work for everyone to pass. So he let us carry his share without discussing it with us.

He could've simply told us what was going on. We could've adjusted expectations, redistributed responsibilities, or found some common ground.

Instead, he made that decision for all of us.

I've realized that understanding someone's priorities doesn't mean accepting how they handle them.

Sometimes showing up for people doesn't mean being physically present or doing everything yourself.

It means being honest about what you can commit to, before it becomes more burden on your team.

Before, I believe he didn't care about us and betrayed the whole group. Now I believe he was scared of his job security and finances after college.

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8 days ago

Another meeting. Another empty chair.

It's our final year of college, and the deadline for our capstone project is getting closer.

One teammate shows a feature he's built. Another walks us through a bug he's fixed.

Then we get to his part.

Nothing.

I open our task list. His assignments are exactly where they were last week.

The rest of us start dividing them up. Another task lands on my plate.

Next week. Same empty chair.

The worst part? He's my friend.

I'd expect this from some random classmate looking for an easy grade. But someone I've known for years?

He knows we're counting on him.

And he's perfectly happy letting us do the work while he gets the same credit.

At least, that's what I tell myself.

Eventually, I stop expecting him to show up. I stop giving him the benefit of the doubt.

He's selfish. Unreliable. The kind of person who takes advantage of his friends.

Case closed.

Except there's one question I can't answer.

Why wasn't he showing up?

Maybe he genuinely didn't care. Maybe he was struggling with something I knew nothing about.

I had plenty of evidence that he'd let us down.

But none that explained why.

His empty chair was a fact. His unfinished assignments were facts.

Everything I'd decided about his character was a conclusion I'd drawn from them.

And I'd stopped seeing a friend who failed to contribute. I'd started seeing a selfish person.

Maybe that judgment was deserved. Maybe it wasn't.

Either way, the work still fell on us. Understanding his reasons wouldn't have made that fair.

But acting selfishly and being a selfish person aren't necessarily the same thing.

I can hold him accountable for the first without pretending I know the second.

Judge the behavior. Question your assumptions about the person.

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9 days ago

Some people just can't let you do anything right.

You could do ten things perfectly, and they'd still find the eleventh to correct.

They call it having high standards. But after a while, it feels like they just enjoy being in control.

My childhood tennis coach was exactly that guy.

“Bend your knees.”
“Move your feet.”
“Again.”

I'd hit a clean forehand, look over for some acknowledgment, and get another correction.

Not even a “nice shot.”

One afternoon, halfway through practice, a horrible smell drifted across our court.

Cigarette smoke.

A man was smoking while playing tennis right next to us.

It smelled like shit.

Little kids were practicing nearby, breathing it in.

I noticed, but kept playing.

My coach didn't.

He stopped the drill and walked straight over.

Of course.

Apparently, correcting us all day wasn't enough. Now he had to tell strangers what to do, too.

He confronted the man.

The conversation turned into an argument. Neither seemed willing to back down.

I stood there watching, racket in hand.

But then I realized what he was arguing about.

Not the man's technique. Not some arbitrary rule.

The kids.

He was confronting a grown adult for smoking around children who couldn't exactly stand up to him themselves.

He could've ignored it. Gone back to teaching. Avoided a confrontation with a stranger.

Nobody had asked him to do anything.

But he stood his ground anyway.

Eventually, he came back and we resumed practicing.

Same coach. Same drills. Same corrections.

Except I wasn't looking at him the same way.

For years, I'd only experienced his stubbornness when it was directed at me.

That afternoon, I saw what it looked like when he directed it at someone on my behalf.

I'd always assumed people who constantly corrected others just enjoyed having authority.

And sometimes, they do.

But strictness alone doesn't tell you whether someone cares.

What matters is what they're willing to do when there's nothing in it for them.

My coach wasn't just willing to be difficult with us.

He was willing to be difficult for us.

#NightOwl40Days by @arda_imo

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10 days ago

I used to think hard work came with a reward.

Put in enough hours. Make something good. The results will follow.

That was the deal.

So when I started making coding tutorials on YouTube, I took it seriously.

One video was about solving a coding interview question.

I spent hours recording, explaining the solution, and editing until I was happy with it.

Finally, I hit publish.

I was proud of it.

I'd done my part. Now it was time for the results.

A while later, I'm back at my computer.

I open YouTube.

There's my thumbnail. My title.

And the view count...

Barely anything.

I stare at the number.

*I worked so hard on this. Why is nobody watching?*

All those hours recording. All that editing.

And this was all I had to show for it?

I close the page, frustrated.

But I keep making videos.

Another recording. Another edit. Another upload.

My explanations get clearer. Editing gets easier.

Yet every time I check the numbers, I'm doing the same math.

Hours in. Views out.

And when they don't add up, I feel cheated.

But cheated by whom?

Nobody had promised to watch my videos.

Nobody had agreed to give me their attention in exchange for my time.

Yet I'd been keeping score as though the world owed me something.

I could spend a hundred hours making a video, give it everything I had, and still get almost no views.

And that wouldn't mean anyone had wronged me.

The strange part?

Those hours hadn't been wasted.

I'd gotten better at explaining code. Better at recording. Better at making videos.

The work had given me something, just not the reward I'd been demanding.

I still wanted people to watch. Of course I did.

But the more I stopped measuring every hour against what I expected in return, the easier it became to keep going.

I couldn't make anyone watch my videos.

I could always choose to make the next one.

The work was still mine to do. I just didn't need the world to promise me anything in return.

#NightOwl40Days by @arda_imo

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11 days ago