We use the same language for time and money: spend, save, invest.

So why are we so careful with money and so careless with our time?

The world measures wealth with money. Money buys visible things—cars, houses, clothes, jewelry.

Monetary wealth is a single number. A balance in an account, or an estimate of net worth.

Time is much more difficult.

We are all given time, and so money becomes the constraining factor in our lives.

The money constraint never seems to disappear—there is always more to buy.

We avoid talking about how much time we have left, because no one likes talking about death.

But that is exactly the antidote.

The Stoics were fond of a Latin saying: “Memento mori.”

It means “remember death.”

The point is to remember that we all die at some point. And that while money can be lost and gained at any time, we never get back tim

We use the same words for time and money.

But we must remember that we cannot earn time; the best we can do is spend it wisely.

I graduated with a degree in mechanical engineering from McGill University in Montreal.

I chose the right subject. If I had to do it again, that wouldn’t change.

But there are a few things I’d do differently.

The first: do more real engineering.

I had a scholarship at McGill, which turned out to be both a blessing and a curse.

The blessing, of course, was the money. The curse was that it required a specific GPA to keep it, which meant that when it came down to how I spent my time, I’d prioritize studying.

There were lots of fascinating design teams at McGill. They built race cars, dune buggies, electric snowmobiles, underwater vehicles, aircraft—all kinds of things.

I joined one of the teams, but ended up spending little time with them, because I’d be studying. 

In hindsight, this was what I was most disappointed about with my engineering degree—not building much. We built things during projects in specific classes, but it wasn’t the kind of long-term, iterative work that I wanted. 

Second: do more computer science.

We got a little bit of exposure to programming and computer science as part of our engineering degree. But it wasn’t enough.

I knew little about programming prior to university—we didn’t have any exposure during high school.

Working in the tech world, programming knowledge holds much more value than mechanical engineering.

Ultimately, programming is how you build things in the modern world. Even if you’re building hardware, you need software to power it. 

It remains one of my top priorities to learn. And I could have spent more time doing so during university.

Third: slow things down.

Another requirement of the scholarship was a full course load. 

The problem with a full course load, at least for me, is that it left little time for other things.

Joining design teams. Exploring things like computer science in my free time. Taking a class or two in another domain, like business or economics.

It is expensive to do this, of course.

But there are few times in life where there are so many resources available to explore and learn. 

An alternative way to gain some time is to spread courses out by doing some in the spring and summer.

Either way, university is a unique opportunity. 

I got the broad strokes right. 

But I’d do things a little differently another time around.

It’s said you can never be more than 67km (~40 miles) from the ocean in Nova Scotia.

Thankfully, where I grew up it was much, much less.

In fact, I grew up right next to the ocean. I could walk down about forty steps, and be on the beach.

At the age of 8, I started sailing lessons at the yacht club across the bay. I sailed with my parents much earlier than that. 

At age 16, teaching sailing became my first summer job.

Sailing, swimming, boating—the ocean has always been a big part of my life.

The town I lived closest to—Lunenburg—is a historic fishing town. Lunenburg's most famous schooner, The Bluenose, is on the Canadian dime.

When you grow up near the ocean, it becomes a big part of the places you feel most comfortable. 

It’s like your childhood home, or your city neighbourhood, or where you went to school. Spend enough time somewhere, and you start to feel at ease.

I’m sure the same is true of people who grow up near mountains, or in the middle of farmland. 

Being back in those kind of environments makes you feel at home.

Of course, the best part about the ocean, compared to other environments, is you can find it all over the world.

Some speculate there is a special quality about the ocean that resonates with us. 

It’s well-known that nature in general has a calming effect.

Whatever the reason, the ocean remains very special to me.

Sailing, surfing, diving, swimming—they’ve always been a source of relaxation.

It helps that they often force you to leave your phone behind.

In a world where it has become harder to disconnect, that has only made the ocean more special.

We love the things we’re good at.

We dislike the things that we’re not good at.

Competence drives passion.

But how can we be good at something without having done it before?

How can we be good before we're passionate?

Some skills are transferrable. And sometimes we have natural talent.

I learned to love sports at an early age. Much of it was due to some early success.

Skills in sports aren't as transferrable as in professional life.

But coordination and athleticism are.

A ‘natural’ athlete will be quick to pick up a new sport. 

And someone who lacks coordination is going to struggle.

I started playing sports at a young age. I did gymnastics and swimming lessons and skating lessons starting around 3 years old.

By the time I reached organized sports around age 6, I’d already developed some coordination and athleticism.

Compared to others who were just starting, I had an advantage.

That kind of competence advantage makes something more enjoyable.

And it’s a virtuous cycle. As you improve, you enjoy it more, so you practice more, and then improve faster.

Sports taught me that loving something often had to do with being good at it.

But they also taught me you shouldn’t expect to love something right away, when you’re not good at it.

Patience in the beginning.

Then competence, and the passion it brings, can take you through the middle and end.

By the time I was in my early teens, most of my friends had chosen their sport.

They began playing hockey in the spring and summer, as well as winter.

Others started played soccer year-round.

While it made sense for many—it was often necessary to play at higher levels—it never held much appeal for me.

I looked forward to the change of sports in spring and summer. The switch from those that required a rink or a gym to those that could be out on the water or a field.

In some ways, this probably hurt me.

Specialization, at some point, is necessary to reach the top of any field, including sports. There’s only so much time in a day, and to reach the highest levels, you have to choose.

There are benefits to cross-training, of course, but in a limited capacity and up to a certain point.

Skill transfer is limited within sport. A cyclist might have the leg strength required to be a hockey player, but they’re going to lack skills. 

A badminton player might pick up tennis fast, but they’re not going to be playing in Wimbledon next year.

In real life, skills do transfer: you can combine skills in unique ways and create your own competition.

Here, my love of variety is valuable. 

I love going from knowing little or nothing, with little or no skill, to competence. 

Not mastery, but being able to do and understand something well. 

Knowing enough design to offer mockup suggestions, or build some concepts myself.

Knowing enough about a data pipeline to know what is easy, and what is hard.

In sport, my love of variety likely held me back.

In the modern professional world, it’s an invaluable asset.

(you can listen to this is audio form here)