2024; my year-in-review
Everything I accomplished in 2024 + important lessons that I learned along the way!
My watch history tells me I’ve watched The Good Place finale three times this year. Each time, Eleanor’s realization hits differently: that what makes life meaningful isn’t the certainty of forever, but the delicate balance of having just enough time. In January, that thought terrified me. By December, it feels less like a countdown and more like an invitation — a quiet reminder that it’s not about how much time we have, but how we choose to experience it.
This shift in perspective floored me. It’s not that I found clarity in every choice or purpose in every moment, but looking back at 2024, I’ve come to see something unexpected: the magic of hindsight doesn’t just lie in the patterns it reveals. It’s also in the space it creates for the moments that didn’t immediately seem significant — the ones that linger not because they were perfect but because they were real.
January me would have worried about wasting time. December me sees how even the “wasted” moments — scrolling through playlists for hours, starting projects I didn’t finish, or walking aimlessly when I couldn’t decide what to do next — added texture to the year. They were the spaces where life unfolded without expectation, teaching me that just enough time doesn’t mean rushing to fill every second. It means letting life breathe.
Hindsight has a way of making the ordinary extraordinary, not because it rewrites the past but because it reframes it. What felt chaotic at the time — the decisions I agonized over, the days I thought I’d wasted — now feels purposeful in a way I couldn’t see before. Even the moments that scared me, the ones where I felt like I was fumbling through the dark, became the seeds of change when I wasn’t looking. This year was full of those seeds—moments of uncertainty that, in hindsight, were growing into something meaningful. I worked on projects that stretched my understanding, such as:
Worked as a RA to do forensic anthropology research using Machine Learning
Interned as a data scientist at the federal government
Finished my sophomore year at UofT
Worked at Fallyx as a MLE and developed fall detection algorithms for senior citizens
Taught as a TA at UofT (for the first time!)
Mentored students in Singapore about AI
Collaborated with the Human Feedback Foundation to build an AI-agent framework to create sympathetic LLMs
Began my role as a Research Scientist at Vector Institute
Wrote 4 in-depth articles about implementing ML models from scratch on my medium
Spoke at AI-Tinkerers in November (demo’d the AI-agent framework project)
Became the President of UofT AI
Spoke at UofT AI’s conference earlier this year
So, no, looking back at 2024 doesn’t feel like thumbing through a well-worn book with neat chapters. It feels more like piecing together a puzzle that’s still missing a few pieces — messy, incomplete, but unmistakably mine. And if Eleanor Shellstrop taught me anything, it’s that maybe the point isn’t to finish the puzzle but to keep finding joy in the act of putting it together.
As I reflect on these lessons, I realize how they’ve shaped not just my view of 2024, but my approach to living itself. This piece unpacks the lessons I’ve gathered throughout 2024 — through my experiences, reflections, and even the moments that felt inconsequential at the time. From navigating uncertainty to finding unexpected meaning in the mundane, these insights paint a picture of a year that was far from perfect but undeniably transformative. Let’s dive into what this year taught me, one moment at a time.
Table of Contents
Suffering as a Catalyst for Change
Less Fear, More Alignment
Your Outer World is a Reflection of Your Inner-Self.
The Quiet Lessons of Time.
The Push of Impossible Standards.
Suffering as a Catalyst for Change.
This year taught me many things, but perhaps the most important was this: growth often starts in discomfort. I’ve been grappling with a thought related to this idea: why is it that we often ignore advice, no matter how sound, until the moment comes when we’re finally ready to hear it? Time and time again, I’ve found myself dismissing well-meaning guidance — only to come back to it later when life has served me a sharp reminder of why that advice mattered in the first place. It’s almost as if we need to feel the sting of consequence before we can fully grasp the value of wisdom.
The more I’ve thought about this, the more I’ve come to believe that suffering is one of life’s most effective motivators. There’s something primal about it — something that dates back to our earliest instincts. Early humans didn’t forage and hunt just for the sake of it; they acted because they had to avoid the pain of hunger and the threat of death. Pain drives action, and often, it’s not until we feel discomfort that we’re willing to take the steps necessary to improve our circumstances.
This realization hit me in a deeply personal way when I faced setbacks at work this year. For months, I ignored the small signs that I was overcommitting — saying “yes” to too many projects, missing deadlines, and brushing off constructive feedback with a “I’ll figure it out later” attitude. I convinced myself that if I just worked harder, everything would fall into place. But eventually, the cracks became impossible to ignore. A missed opportunity, a tense conversation with a colleague, and the mounting stress of unfinished work forced me to confront what I had been avoiding.
The very issues I had tried to push through became the wake-up call I couldn’t ignore. It’s funny how pain works. It’s not just a teacher; it’s a megaphone, amplifying what we’ve ignored until we’re forced to pay attention. For me, those setbacks made me stop and ask myself the hard questions I’d been avoiding: “What am I doing wrong? How can I fix this?” And for the first time, I started to truly listen — to advice from others, to my own instincts, and to the warning signs I had brushed aside for far too long.
But here’s the catch: humans are remarkably adept at ignoring pain until it becomes unbearable.
We’ll tolerate small discomforts, delay changes, and convince ourselves it’s not that bad yet. It’s only when the suffering becomes significant enough — when the consequences are undeniable — that we finally spring into action. This pattern isn’t unique to me; it’s woven into human nature. We change our habits when a health scare forces us to. We reconsider our priorities after heartbreak or loss. We only start to value advice when life presents us with proof of why it was worth taking.
This isn’t to say that suffering is the only motivator, but it’s certainly one of the most persuasive. Pain strips away the noise and excuses, leaving us face-to-face with reality. And while it’s not pleasant, it’s a powerful force for clarity and transformation.
The lesson I’ve learned this year is simple but profound: listen to the whispers before they turn into screams. Whether it’s your body telling you to slow down, advice from someone who’s been there, or a situation that feels like it’s teetering on the edge, don’t wait for the pain to escalate. It’s human to learn the hard way, but it’s also human to grow, adapt, and make better choices once we’ve felt the sting.
Suffering may be a great motivator, but it’s also a reminder — a chance to pause, reflect, and act before the consequences become too great to bear. And if we can learn to hear its lessons early, we just might save ourselves a lot of unnecessary pain.
Less Fear, More Alignment.
Throughout this year, I’ve felt a quiet certainty that I’m on the right path. The work I’ve done — the challenges I’ve tackled and the opportunities I’ve seized — aligns with where I want to go. But alignment, I’ve realized, isn’t a destination. It’s a dynamic, shifting state, one that requires constant adjustment and self-awareness. Progress isn’t just about moving forward; it’s about staying attuned to when and how to pivot, recalibrate, or even pause.
This past year, my goal has been singular: to grow into a great machine learning researcher. Every project I’ve taken on, every late-night debugging session, and every hard-earned breakthrough has been a step toward that vision. Working at companies where real-world stakes heightened the complexity of problems, diving into research that demanded new ways of thinking, and most recently, collaborating at the Vector Institute alongside brilliant, driven peers — all of these experiences have shaped my understanding of not just machine learning, but of myself.
But here’s the thing: progress in research isn’t linear, and neither is growth as a person. I used to think that the hardest part of becoming a great researcher would be the work itself — the long hours, the tough problems, the inevitable failures. And while those are difficult, I’ve come to understand that the real challenge lies in mastering the spaces in between: the moments of uncertainty, the pauses where nothing seems to be moving forward, and the decisions about where to invest your limited energy and time.
This year has taught me that fear, friction, and doubt aren’t just obstacles; they’re signals. They tell you where you’re stuck, where you need to grow, and where you might be holding yourself back. Ignoring them doesn’t make them disappear; it only delays the lessons they have to teach. What’s changed for me isn’t the presence of those barriers — it’s how I interpret them. Doubt no longer feels like a warning to stop but an invitation to explore. Friction isn’t just resistance; it’s a sign that something important is happening beneath the surface.
One of the most valuable insights I’ve gained is this: progress isn’t about eliminating uncertainty but about learning to live with it. In research, you’re constantly working at the edge of the unknown. The answers aren’t handed to you — they’re uncovered through experimentation, failure, and persistence. The same is true in life. The times I’ve grown most this year weren’t when I felt fully prepared but when I stepped into the discomfort of not knowing. It’s in that discomfort that clarity, confidence, and creativity begin to emerge.
Looking back, I see that alignment isn’t a fixed state; it’s a practice. It’s not just about being on the right path but about recalibrating as the path shifts beneath your feet. For me, the goal isn’t just to become a great researcher — it’s to do so with the courage to embrace uncertainty, the resilience to navigate setbacks, and the self-awareness to recognize when it’s time to step back and reassess.
Each lab, each collaboration, and each long night has been part of that practice. I’m not there yet, but this year has shown me that the process — the struggles, the questions, the moments of stillness — isn’t just part of the journey. It is the journey.
Your Outer World is a Reflection of Your Inner-Self.
As I grow older, I’ve noticed something peculiar about decision-making. It’s not that the choices themselves have become more numerous or complex — it’s that the line between right and wrong has started to blur. When I was younger, the decisions were often binary: this or that, yes or no, right or wrong. But now, the choices I face feel uniquely tied to who I am and what I value, which makes them harder to navigate. There’s no clear “correct” answer anymore because every path seems to align with a piece of my identity.
I first started noticing this shift earlier this year during a period when everything felt overwhelming. I had so many decisions to make — projects to take on, relationships to nurture, paths to explore — and none of them felt obviously right or wrong. Every option seemed to have its own merit, its own alignment with the person I was trying to become. I remember spending hours weighing these choices, feeling more stuck with each passing day, until it finally hit me: the reason these decisions felt so hard was because I hadn’t spent enough time figuring out what truly mattered to me.
That realization taught me something unexpected: the hardest decisions aren’t hard because we lack clarity — they’re hard because they demand self-awareness.
They ask us to know ourselves deeply enough to discern what we truly want versus what we’re simply accustomed to pursuing. And that kind of clarity doesn’t come from the noise of the external world; it comes from solitude.
Spending time with myself has become less of a luxury and more of a necessity. I’ve started to see solitude not as isolation but as alignment — a way to reconcile the parts of me that often feel pulled in different directions. When I take the time to sit with my thoughts, to ask myself the difficult questions like How am I doing? What do I need more or less of? What’s truly fulfilling me right now? — it’s like resetting my internal compass. Without those moments, I risk losing sight of my values, and when that happens, my external world suffers too.
One thing I’ve realized is that the external world is always playing catch-up to the internal. It’s like a lagging mirror — what I see around me today is a reflection of who I was and the choices I made yesterday. If I neglect my inner self, that neglect will eventually show up in my relationships, my work, and the way I move through life. This realization has made me more intentional about prioritizing my internal world. It’s not always easy to choose solitude, to say “no” to plans or opportunities so I can spend a night reflecting and recalibrating. But I’ve learned that it’s in those quiet moments that I find the clarity I need to move forward.
The irony is that this process of aligning my internal and external worlds is itself a balancing act. It’s easy to pour all my energy into one and let the other falter. If I focus solely on my external world — chasing goals, maintaining relationships, and fulfilling obligations — I lose touch with myself. But if I retreat too much into introspection, I risk disconnecting from the people and opportunities that bring my values to life. The challenge lies in maintaining both, in understanding that my inner world is the foundation for everything else, but my external world is where those values are tested and realized.
What I’ve started to appreciate is that solitude isn’t just about reflection — it’s about preparation. It’s about equipping myself to engage with the world in a way that feels authentic and grounded. When I spend time with myself, I’m not withdrawing; I’m strengthening the part of me that faces the blurred lines of decision-making with confidence. I’m reminding myself that clarity doesn’t come from trying to control every aspect of my external world — it comes from ensuring that the life I’m living is rooted in what matters most to me.
At its core, this journey of aligning my internal and external worlds has taught me one thing above all: every choice I make, every path I take, is an opportunity to reflect my values. And while that responsibility can feel heavy at times, it’s also what makes life deeply meaningful. Because when my inner and outer worlds align, I’m not just moving forward — I’m moving forward as the person I want to be.
The Quiet Lessons of Time.
There’s something uniquely bittersweet about watching time pass. It doesn’t happen all at once, but in a quiet, persistent way—like a tide pulling back from the shore, grain by grain, until you suddenly realize how much is gone. This year, I’ve been thinking a lot about how time shapes us, not just in the big moments, but in the quiet moments, the ones we barely notice.
I’ve realized that youth isn’t defined by age—it’s defined by the way time feels when you’re living it. In youth, time feels expansive, like every hour contains infinite potential. You believe there’s time to do everything, to see everything, to be everything. But as I’ve grown, that expansiveness has started to contract. Time feels heavier now, each passing moment carrying more weight because I’m more aware of what it means to spend it.
This awareness brings a strange kind of urgency—not the frantic kind, but a quieter, more deliberate one. It’s the urge to make time matter. To make this season of life memorable, even if just for myself. Because the truth is, the moments we think we’ll never forget—the laughter with friends, the triumph of a hard-won success, the warmth of a perfect day—they’re often the ones that slip through the cracks. Time has a way of erasing the details if we let it.
I’ve come to see that life isn’t just defined by its dramatic highs or lows. It’s the quiet moments: the evenings spent walking home, the unremarkable Tuesdays, the fleeting conversations that subtly shape who you are. These seemingly minor moments, while easy to overlook, are the ones that truly build the foundation of a meaningful life. But the trick is, they don’t preserve themselves. You have to notice them. You have to capture them.
This year, I’ve been trying to do just that: pay attention, really pay attention, to the way time feels as it moves through my life. I’ve realized that memories don’t keep themselves alive; you have to meet them halfway. For me, that’s meant writing—not just about what happened, but about how it felt, what it taught me, why it mattered. Because when I look back years from now, I don’t want to just remember the big events. I want to remember the texture of this time in my life: the quiet triumphs, the slow growth, the messy, beautiful in-between.
It’s startling how much time can teach you when you really listen to it. I’ve learned that it doesn’t slow down when you’re not ready, but it does wait for you to catch up if you’re paying attention.
I’ve learned that even as you grow older, you can hold onto the spirit of youth—not by clinging to the past, but by staying curious about the present. And I’ve learned that time passing doesn’t have to feel like a loss; it can feel like a gift, a chance to keep discovering yourself over and over again.
Looking ahead, I know I can’t stop time from moving forward. But I can meet it where it is, capturing the moments that matter, letting the smaller ones breathe, and reminding myself that every hour is an invitation—not just to live, but to notice.
The Push of Impossible Standards.
There’s a strange, almost paradoxical feeling that comes when you witness someone doing something extraordinary—something that feels so far beyond what you could imagine yourself achieving. At first, it’s humbling. Then, it’s unsettling. But if you sit with it long enough, it becomes something else entirely: motivating.
This year, I’ve been thinking a lot about what it means to be inspired by greatness, particularly the kind of greatness that feels almost unrealistic. Watching others achieve at an extraordinary level can feel like a spotlight on your own limitations—like a subtle nudge reminding you of how much further there is to go. And yet, instead of discouraging me, I’ve learned to lean into that discomfort, to let it challenge me in ways that I wouldn’t have otherwise considered.
The idea of being “shamed into greatness” isn’t about comparison or insecurity. It’s about recognizing the gap between where you are and where you want to be—and using that gap as fuel. It’s about seeing someone push the boundaries of what’s possible and asking yourself, What would it take for me to get there? What am I not doing right now that could bring me closer to that level of ability, ambition, or impact?
This mindset has shifted how I approach my work, especially in a field like machine learning, where the pace of progress is staggering. Every paper published, every groundbreaking project, every conference presentation feels like a glimpse into what’s possible when ambition is paired with relentless effort. It’s easy to look at these examples and feel small in comparison, but I’ve come to realize that feeling small isn’t the enemy—it’s a sign that you’re standing next to something worth aspiring to.
Greatness, I’ve learned, isn’t about catching up to those examples. It’s about letting them recalibrate your sense of what’s possible. It’s about letting them expand your vision of what you can achieve. The goal isn’t to replicate someone else’s path but to use their success as a mirror, reflecting what you could do if you gave yourself permission to think bigger, aim higher, and push further.
But here’s the catch: ambition without action is just a dream.
Letting examples of greatness inspire you only works if you’re willing to close the gap between admiration and execution. This year, I’ve tried to take that idea to heart—treating every moment of inspiration as a call to action. Whether it was diving deeper into research, taking risks in my projects, or stepping into opportunities that intimidated me, I’ve made a point to channel that uncomfortable admiration into tangible effort.
The truth is, the people who inspire us most didn’t get there by accident. They worked for it, sacrificed for it, and believed in something bigger than themselves. They embraced the idea that greatness requires discomfort—that reaching for something extraordinary means being willing to feel out of your depth, to fail spectacularly, and to keep going anyway.
Looking back on this year, I can see how those examples of unrealistic ability and ambition shaped my own growth. They didn’t just make me want to do better; they showed me what “better” could look like. And in doing so, they reminded me of the most important lesson of all: the only limits that truly matter are the ones we impose on ourselves.
So, if you’re ever in doubt about whether you can reach the heights you admire in others, remember this: the people you look up to started somewhere too. Let their ambition unsettle you. Let their ability humble you. And then, let their example shame you—gently, constructively, purposefully—into realizing your own potential.
Looking Ahead
As I reflect on this year, I keep coming back to that realization from The Good Place: what makes life meaningful isn’t the certainty of forever, but the delicate balance of having just enough time. It’s a reminder that time, finite as it is, holds more value than we often realize—not because we can control it, but because we can choose how to live within it.
This year, I didn’t find clarity in every decision or purpose in every moment, but I did find something better: an appreciation for the messy, incomplete beauty of the process. Like Eleanor’s puzzle analogy, my 2024 was less about finishing the picture and more about finding joy in putting the pieces together.
Each experience—whether a quiet triumph, a sharp lesson, or an unexpected pause—added depth to the year. From moments of suffering that became catalysts for growth, to learning how alignment requires constant recalibration, to understanding the quiet power of noticing the in-between, 2024 taught me that life is built on the ordinary just as much as the extraordinary.
And time, while relentless, offers us a profound gift: the chance to grow into ourselves, over and over again. Looking back, I see how every choice, every challenge, and every moment I thought I’d wasted shaped me in ways I couldn’t have planned. The puzzle isn’t complete, and it never will be—but that’s the point.
As the year turns and a new one begins, I carry this lesson with me. Life’s meaning isn’t found in perfect answers or completed pictures—it’s in the act of piecing it all together, one moment at a time. So here’s to another year of questions, growth, and the quiet moments that, someday, will tell their own story.
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amazing piece, needed to hear a lot of this too!!