I still remember holding that piece of paper, my own handwriting etched in blue ink, trying to make sense of what I was learning. It was during a school competition for "Boys Leader" among divisions M1, M2, and M3. I was from M1, and honestly? I didn't care much about winning. I wrote myself four pieces of advice that day. Simple words on crumpled paper—notes to myself, reminders of what I was beginning to understand about life.

The First Lesson: Eat Your Own Pie

"Forgotten or [not?] 'Eat your own pie.' First try to do things for yourself because if you don't know yourself first, who will?"

I didn't fully grasp it even as I wrote it. I was too busy trying to impress everyone else, too caught up in what others thought. I was that fool who never thought about position, never thought about what I wanted or who I was.

But now? Now I am that fool who's chasing something greater than any role could offer. I'm learning to eat my own pie first—to understand myself, to prioritize my growth, to know my values before I try to lead anyone else.

The Second Lesson: Be MAD!

"Also, be mad! Don't loose any opportunity whether it's talking to stranger or to become leader of whole 3 divisions. Just take it."

Be mad. Be crazy. Be wild enough to seize every opportunity without overthinking it.

That's what I meant when I scrawled those words. Not careful. Not calculated. Just mad enough to grab life by the collar and say yes before fear can whisper no.

I was afraid back then—afraid of rejection, afraid of looking foolish, afraid of stepping up. I let opportunities slip through my fingers like sand, even as I wrote these words trying to convince myself to be bolder, crazier, more alive.

Be mad enough to talk to strangers. Be mad enough to raise your hand when everyone else is silent. Be mad enough to lead all three divisions if that's what it takes.

The Third Lesson: The World Is Yours

"If you care about yourself, the world is yours!"

I wrote this down like a promise to myself. It seemed powerful in the moment, but I didn't really believe it. How could the world be mine just because I cared about myself?

But I understand now. When you truly care about yourself—your growth, your peace, your purpose—you operate from abundance. You're not desperately seeking validation. You're simply becoming the fullest version of yourself, and somehow, paradoxically, the world opens up.

Yes, I am that fool who never thought about position. Now I am that fool chasing something greater than that role—chasing the knowledge of what this world truly has to offer.

The Fourth Lesson: The Power Paradox

There was competition between divisions for the "Boys Leader" position. Everyone was campaigning, trying to convince the teachers to choose them.

And I remember thinking—actually believing—that I didn't care:

"I don't care about position or something... whether I am leader or not. I will do for my people. Whatever it needs."

I wrote it down like it was noble. Like wanting to help without needing the title made me somehow better than everyone else competing.

But then reality hit me, and I scribbled urgently:

"But now it is partially wrong. If are power you can do lots of things for your people. If not in power, very limited things you can do. So, 'PUT Yourself first.' If you don't yourself first, who will?"

I never finished that sentence. But the realization was clear—I had been lying to myself.

Without power, your good intentions mean nothing. Without position, your desire to help hits a wall. You can care all you want from the sidelines, but if you really want to do "lots of things for your people," you need to be mad enough to chase the power to do it.

The Journey of a Fool

I was a fool. The kind who thought caring about position made you selfish. The kind who convinced himself that not wanting power made him morally superior, when really, I was just scared to try.

I watched that competition happen. I told myself I didn't care about the outcome. And when I didn't get chosen, I told myself it didn't matter because I never wanted it anyway.

But that paper in my hand told a different story. My own handwriting betrayed me. I did care. I did want to make a difference. I just didn't have the courage—or the madness—to chase it.

Now I'm a different kind of fool. The one who's done pretending he doesn't want things. The one who's done playing small to make others comfortable. The one who's learning that true service requires power, and power requires the courage to pursue it without apology.

Yes, I am that fool who never thought about position. Now I am that fool chasing something greater than that role—not for the title, but to know the world and serve from a place of genuine power.

And you know what? It takes a certain madness to do that. To admit you want more. To reach for things others say you shouldn't want. To put yourself first when the world tells you that's selfish.

Be mad, I told myself that day. And I'm finally listening.

The Paper Still Speaks

That crumpled paper sits in my desk drawer now. My own handwriting, urgently scratched across the page as if the realizations couldn't wait to be captured.

I didn't win that competition. I don't even remember who did. But I won something more valuable—a moment of clarity with myself, an honest conversation captured on paper before I could talk myself out of it.

To that younger fool: Thank you for being honest enough to write it down. Thank you for telling yourself to be mad, even when everything in you wanted to play it safe.

And to the fool I still am: Keep chasing. Keep being mad. Keep being honest with yourself, even when it's uncomfortable.

The world is yours. You just had to learn to be mad enough to claim it.

Some lessons we teach ourselves. The hardest ones we write down in shaky handwriting, hoping our future selves will be brave enough—mad enough—to read them and actually live them.