Xavier Bertels

You’re staring at the final build before launch. It’s midnight. The microcopy feels off. The animation doesn’t quite land. The loading time is 20ms slower than your goal. You could fix it, but your team is waiting. And the deadline was yesterday.

When you’re building a product, you make trade-offs. All the time. It’s important to zoom out in these contexts and remember that not everything is critical to the success of your product. Shipping something, at some point, is part of your trade-off matrix.

It is also important to do things to the best of your ability. Even when others don’t seem to mind. If you’ve sent a Slack message to colleagues and you notice spelling mistakes: correct them. If you’ve designed a signup flow and it’s being developed, but you notice a mistake: go fix it. If a colleague is doubling down on a terrible idea, try to talk them out of it one more time.

A negotiable standard isn’t a standard. So yes: ship. Move fast. Make the trade-offs. But when your gut whispers that something isn’t right, even if no one else notices? Listen. The difference between good and great often hides in those ignored corners.

AI isn’t the problem. It’s just revealing our inability to ask better questions.

Great questions have always mattered. They drive curiosity, innovation, and clarity. They build careers, transform businesses, and shape cultures.

Right now, there’s a clear split between those who simply ask AI to complete tasks, and those who push AI to elevate their work. Smart people switch from “write this email,” to “make this email resonate with a busy designer.”

The skill we need to build isn’t about mastering the machine. It’s about learning how to ask questions worth answering. Are we?

The more we write, the less people pay attention in meetings when it matters. It’s because they expect to get a written briefing afterwards, with their tasks neatly listed. You see this in businesses, universities, at conferences and other contexts as well. Will you send us the slides/PRD/summary afterwards? is probably the most-heard question at the start of many presentations.

There’s a time and place for written documents, of course. And when there’s a good document, we should go read the document, comment on it, and try to build a better document together with our colleagues. Better yet: build a prototype.

But when we do have a meeting, then out of respect to ourselves and our own time we should pay attention.

So I’ve got a new rule. When we have a meeting, the meeting is what you get. You won’t get a summary and a neat list of tasks or a fully finished PRD. Our job is to work together to ship excellent software for our customers. We’ll talk about what we have to build and how to build it. And afterwards everyone in the meeting should do their part. Fuck the PRD. Start shipping.

When I graduated high school in Belgium, there was one clear expectation: go to university. It wasn’t even a choice. It was just what everyone did. Our education system, although strained, is undeniably strong. We invest tremendously in our students, spending between €1 500 to €1 800 every single month during the academic year. That’s almost €15 000 each year per student, multiplied over three to five years. But lately, I’ve been haunted by one question: Is this the only path worth investing in?

I started thinking about all the friends I had who didn’t fit into that mold: brilliant people, bursting with energy and ideas, yet sitting uncomfortably in lecture halls designed for someone else’s dreams. What about those who wanted to forge their own paths, perhaps start their own ventures right away? Who invests in them?

Imagine being nineteen, fresh out of high school, with a head full of dreams and ambition but limited resources. Now imagine someone handing you €45 000. Simply to test, experiment, and learn through entrepreneurship. At nineteen, even €5 000 would’ve felt life-changing for me.

But of course, higher education isn’t just about lessons and degrees. It’s about the lifelong friendships forged in crowded dorm rooms, spontaneous adventures, late-night conversations that shape who you become. It’s about serendipity and finding your identity in unexpected moments. Can entrepreneurship offer something similar, something as meaningful?

What if we imagined an entirely different kind of educational environment? A community designed for young innovators in stead of classrooms led by expensive faculty buried in paperwork and tests. Spaces that give budding entrepreneurs resources, mentorship, and most importantly, the permission and freedom to fail and learn. A place driven by curiosity and passion for forward motion.

Sure, I admit this might sound like Silicon Valley meets Hogwarts. A bit idealistic. Perhaps naïve. Yet, isn’t true education fundamentally about experimentation, exploration, and growth?

Maybe the future doesn’t demand an overhaul of traditional education. But maybe—just maybe—it deserves room for another path, another choice, another dream. Perhaps investing in people’s passions rather than strictly their diplomas is not only possible but necessary. What would happen if we genuinely gave young people the resources to chase their unique visions early on?

We can get so caught up in work that we sometimes forget: Sundays are for playing in the garden.