Life in Seasons

Creating the right version for now

At different points in my life, I’ve been very clear on who I was becoming. Other times, I only knew that something needed to change.

This season feels different. Quieter. It’s not about finding a new version of myself or chasing some next identity. It’s about being more intentional with the one I already am—and paying closer attention to how I’m actually living day to day.

Over the last few weeks, I’ve noticed small signals that made me pause. Not big enough to call a crisis. Just enough to create friction. Falling back into habits I usually have under control. Feeling quietly frustrated that certain things weren’t moving as fast as I expected. Catching myself mentally drifting during family dinners, even though I know that time is a choice, not a default.

Nothing felt broken. But something felt off.

The Myth of a Final Form

I think many of us carry this idea—often subconsciously—that there’s a version of ourselves we eventually arrive at. The disciplined one. The balanced one. The one who finally has it all figured out.

But when I look back honestly, my life hasn’t worked that way at all. It’s been a series of versions, shaped by the season I was in at the time.

Middle school Ivan: trying to fit in and understand where he belonged. He played the baritone sax, and love playing Magic The Gathering.

High school Ivan: a wild man, not the best school kid, but loved to work. First job was selling car stereos at Sound Advice. Frequent trips to the Bahamas.

College Ivan: social and experimental, learning just as much from what didn’t work as what did. Making movies, Canes football games, and hanging with friends all the time.

LA Ivan: a full reinvention—new environment, new friends, new confidence.

Preemo Ivan: deep in builder mode, intense and relentless, defining himself through work. 18 hour days, networking constantly, and making tons of mistakes.

Dad Ivan: more grounded, more aware, learning how to balance ambition with presence. Lots of time with wife + kids. Less time for me.

Each version mattered. Each one taught me something.

None of them were wrong.

And none of them were final.

When Growth Changes Shape

I still believe deeply in a growth mindset. That hasn’t changed. What has changed is what growth looks like now.

Earlier in life, growth meant more—more output, more intensity, more availability, more tolerance for chaos. It meant saying yes often and trusting I’d figure out the consequences later.

Now, growth feels quieter. It looks like fewer open loops, cleaner transitions between roles, and better containment of energy. It’s about being fully present where I’ve chosen to be, instead of mentally living in three places at once.

That shift hasn’t been easy. Part of me still equates intensity with progress and worries that presence might cost momentum. But I’m starting to see that uncontained growth doesn’t feel like growth anymore. It feels like leakage.

A Random Tuesday Night Test

I’ve been grounding myself with a simple mental test. I picture a random Tuesday night dinner with my family.

The version of me I respect isn’t doing anything heroic. His phone is in another room. His energy is calm and focused. He notices how lucky he is. He lets business wait without resentment—not because it doesn’t matter, but because this moment does too.

That version of me isn’t less ambitious. He’s more deliberate. His intensity still exists; it’s just aimed, not spilling into everything.

The Zigzag Is the Point

For a long time, I believed progress was linear—or at least steadily upward. In reality, it’s a zigzag. Good weeks followed by sloppy ones. Awareness, regression, recommitment. Wins that create new problems, and problems that create new clarity.

That doesn’t mean I’m failing. It means I’m paying attention. And paying attention might be one of the most important skills in the later seasons of life.

Creating Yourself, On Purpose

I don’t think life is about finding yourself. I think life is about creating yourself.

And creation isn’t a one-time act. It’s iterative. Seasonal. Ongoing.

There’s no final form waiting at the end of the road. What matters more than where you are is the direction you’re moving in.

Trajectory matters more than position.

Right now, my work isn’t about becoming someone new. It’s about aiming what already exists, protecting what matters, and continuing to move intentionally—even when the path zigzags.

No final form. Just the version I’m creating this season.