Skills in the toolbox
Why learn something new at this age?
Love me some late night self reflection…There is a question I started asking myself: What was the last thing I taught myself to do - and why did I bother?
The obvious answer is always some functional skill: a piece of software, a new lift in the gym, a instrument I hadn’t used before. But the truth underneath is simpler and older: I think I enjoy learning things because there is no one coming to save me - and one day (I’d hope) small faces will look at me expecting that I already know how.
Competence is a form of love, it’s a sign of respect for yourself and the respect you have for those who depend on you. That is how I see it now in my thirties.
Children are the perfect example. When I imagine having my own, I don’t picture Instagram-perfect weekends or framed milestones. I picture the day one of them is in tears because something isn’t working - a broken shoe, a school assignment, a big life decision - and they look to me by reflex. That automatic turning toward you is one of, in my opinion, the most important responsibilities a person can have. When someone relies on you by default, you owe it to them to be someone worthy of that reflex.
My question to myself: You will know what to do, right? And instead of panic, I want to feel the quiet inner nod of someone who has been here before in other forms. Someone who can step into the unknown because he has rehearsed newness so many times that novelty no longer scares him.
Creativity forces the brain to explore alternatives, which strengthens problem-solving skills and builds cognitive flexibility that translates into better decision making in everyday life. It reduces stress by giving the mind a constructive outlet for emotion, while also increasing a sense of agency and self trust because you learn to make something from nothing. In professional settings, creative thinkers are often the ones who identify new opportunities and side-door solutions when obvious paths are blocked. Over the long term, practicing creativity builds resilience: when you are used to making, iterating, and adapting, you become more comfortable with uncertainty and more confident in your ability to shape outcomes rather than wait for them.
That - more than curiosity, more than ego, more than career - is why I want to keep adding tools to my head.
People say “jack of all trades” like it’s a consolation prize. I don’t think you is should learn to be impressive but to be useful under uncertainty. Life does not pre-announce the category of the next problem. The next hit to your finances might not resemble the last one. The next emotional crisis in your home won’t respect your existing skill set. The world throws trouble in dialects - financial, mechanical, psychological, relational - and someone in the house must be multilingual in solving.
You see adults who waited for experts. Plumbers for leaks. Accountants for every small decision. Therapists for every crack in their life. Consultants for every risk. I do not judge them, I completely understand it - I simply know I wouldn’t have much purpose if I was to be them. Reliance on others is fine when optional. It is fatal when compulsory. I am also completely aware there is the old school Italian mentality of my father speaking here.
Learning, then, is a rehearsal for self-reliance - not because I intend to do everything myself, but because I want to live from the position of could, not must ask permission.
And I am not naive: learning is clumsy and humiliating. Real mastery is built from stacks of mistaken attempts we don’t keep. I have erased and restarted versions of myself dozens of times. Jobs. Companies. Skills. Beliefs. Identities. Even friendships. I do not archive my drafts. My life is a palimpsest.
When something scares me - new languages, new industries, new responsibility - I remind myself of the baby-logic: growth does not feel like growth from the inside. It feels like incompetence and discomfort and repetition without visible reward. I am not “behind.” I am inside the part that looks like failure when viewed up close.
One day my kids - or even just my own older self - will need the version of me that kept going here.
So what was the last thing I taught myself?
The surface answer changes monthly.
The correct answer never changes: I am not finished.