R3ciprocity.com - Prof David Maslach: Innovation; Research Life; Striving Towards Happiness

If someone told you you’re not good enough, it’s probably because they’re just afraid. Most people who try to shut you down are projecting their own pain. You are not flawed — you just believed a story someone else gave you. Pursue what matters, over and over, until you see the possibilities for yourself. There is no weakness in trying. Just keep going, with a kind heart.

This podcast is a bit of a diary. I treat myself like a Petri dish. And I just have to say it—after I sit and read and think and work through research, I almost always feel this deep sadness. Not because the ideas aren’t exciting (they are, sometimes!), but because the process is cognitively demanding, isolating, and just… heavy.

I’ve tried things—exercise helps. Face-to-face interaction helps. But there’s still this crash. That yuckiness at the end of the day.

I don’t know if it’s just me. I don’t think so. I think it’s the nature of the work. So I’m trying to figure it out—how to build a life that feels more connected, less draining, and still lets me do this thing I’ve spent years trying to get good at.

If you’ve felt this—if you’ve got tips or insights—I’d love to hear from you. Because honestly? I study this stuff… and I still don’t know how to fix it.

Some professors say they love this job.

They say it’s rewarding. That it’s exciting.

And maybe it is for them.

But I’m going to be honest with you:

Every single day, I ask myself if I should quit.

It’s not because I’m bitter.

It’s because I’ve seen how the system works.

And once you’ve worked with real data—not cleaned-up, publishable models, but real-world messy data—you start to see how deeply broken this profession can feel.

I was trained as an engineer. I came into academia thinking that truth mattered most.

But truth is messy.

Truth doesn’t fit cleanly into a journal submission.

Truth doesn’t get past peer review if it’s not beautiful—or worse, if it’s too perfect.

And that’s the tension that keeps me up at night.

You do the work.

You analyze the data.

You know it’s real.

But if it doesn’t match what a few anonymous reviewers think is interesting—or polished just right—it dies in a PDF no one will read.

I’ve built models that worked.

I’ve spent years on papers that were correct.

And I’ve watched them get rejected for not fitting someone else’s ideal of perfection—or worse, because they were too close to it.

That messes with your head.

And the hardest part?

This journey is incredibly lonely.

When I started, I thought I’d be part of a community—collaborating, learning, discovering truth together.

But more often than not, it feels like you’re alone—quietly fighting to get something meaningful through a system that wasn’t designed to reward truth.

It rewards polish. Performance. Persistence.

Some people figure out how to play the game.

Some don’t work with real data at all.

Some just… stop caring.

I can’t.

But I don’t know how much longer I can keep going, either.

So here I am—still showing up.

Still trying to be honest.

Still trying to make something meaningful, even when the process feels broken.

Every region, every country, every decision — it’s always a complicated mess. Even when you think you’re doing the right thing, time and context reveal otherwise. Life doesn’t follow a simple plan. What feels clear now might look completely wrong ten years later.

So keep yourself a whole bunch of humility. Eat some humble pie. Be okay with feeling embarrassed by who you used to be. Because no matter what country you live in, or what you’re going through, things are almost always complicated — and that’s okay.

You’ve worked for months—sometimes years—on an idea. Then someone says: “You just have to do this.” And suddenly, it feels like everything you built is slipping away.

In this raw episode, David Maslach unpacks the frustration researchers feel when the core contribution of their work remains fuzzy to them—but strangely clear to others. He speaks openly about the emotional weight of feedback, the difficulty of letting go of your first framing, and the exhausting process of re-seeing your own work through someone else’s eyes.

This isn’t about information—it’s about identity, ego, and the quiet grief of revision. You’ll learn why adapting doesn’t mean admitting failure, and why those who thrive in research aren’t always the smartest—they’re the ones who can sit with discomfort the longest.

If you’re stuck between what you built and what they want, this episode is for you.

What if the dream you’ve been chasing your whole life—was never really your dream?

I’ve been thinking a lot about this lately. About how much of what I’ve pursued was shaped by the environments I was raised in, the people I admired, and—most of all—the perception of value and scarcity I was taught to believe in.

When I was a kid, I wanted to be a priest.

Then I met someone who studied engineering at a top school.

Then I chased the best PhD at the best school.

Then tenure. Then prestige. Then more.

Each step felt like it mattered—because someone, somewhere, told me it did.

Sometimes it was a formal institution.

Sometimes it was just word-of-mouth.

But almost always, it was a kind of marketing.

This isn’t a rant against ambition. I’ve benefited a lot from chasing those dreams.

But lately, I’ve started wondering:

How much of that desire was planted in me?

How much of it was real?

I walk through the difference between genuine growth and chasing manufactured scarcity. I don’t have the answers. But I do have questions that matter.

And I’ve found that when I take stock—my family, the sunshine, the quiet gift of breath—I start to want less. Or maybe… I just start to want differently.

If you’ve ever felt like your ambition is pulling you somewhere you didn’t choose, this episode is for you.

I used to believe that if I just perfected myself, people would love me. That if I worked hard enough — became successful enough — I’d finally earn their respect.

That belief drove me to get a PhD, to become a professor, to keep pushing every single day. But it never gave me what I really wanted.

I’ve learned something else. Something harder. No matter how much you try, some people just won’t like you. Some will quietly shut you down with looks you can’t describe — subtle moments of exclusion no one else will notice. Others will actively try to sabotage you. Most just won’t care.

This episode is about what happens when you stop trying to be liked — and start practicing how to let go. It’s about building a “heart barrier,” walking away, and saying “screw you” to a world that doesn’t see your worth. It’s not easy. It’s lonely. It’s a muscle you work every day.

But for the overachievers, the perfectionists, the ones who feel deeply — this is a practice in survival. You won’t change them. So create space. Protect your peace. And just keep taking steps.

Because maybe — just maybe — the ones who do care are the only ones that matter.

Take care, and have a wonderful day.

What if I’m honest and everyone finds out I’m a fraud?

This quiet fear shaped the beginning of my career in academia—and still lingers. It’s a feeling that cuts across disciplines and professions: if we speak honestly, we’ll be exposed as not good enough. But in academia, where truth is supposed to be the job, that fear is especially paradoxical. I’ve spent years training to be a scientist, only to realize that honesty—particularly about ourselves—is often discouraged.

This fear shaped why I created the Reciprocity Project. I didn’t start with a theory or a product. I started with a feeling: loneliness. After years of isolated research, I wanted to build something that brought play, connection, and conversation back into the work. But as I started documenting that process, I realized something strange—many people were afraid of me doing so.

They’d talk to me privately about it, but not in public. Others saw the work as irrelevant to the profession. And yet I was a professor of innovation, studying how new things are created. Shouldn’t building something new in academia be part of that story?

Apparently not.

It turns out, we’re comfortable studying “others,” but not ourselves. We train ourselves to explore the world, but not the system we live in. Physicians know this too—self-reflection is uncomfortable. But it’s also necessary. Otherwise, we perpetuate a strange norm: we praise curiosity in theory, but punish it when it questions our own structures.

This contradiction is personal. I’m not just talking about norms—I’ve lived them. The work I do is often considered taboo, even when it’s mundane. Sharing the truth that academic work is frequently lonely, difficult, and emotionally unglamorous is seen as a betrayal. I’ve been told not to say these things. That I’m harming my career. That no one wants to hear it.

But when I do say them, something remarkable happens: people connect. They open up. They say, “Yes. That’s exactly how I feel.” And they say it in whispers.

This whisper-network of truth makes me wonder: What are we so afraid of?

What if being open didn’t destroy our careers, but transformed them? What if struggling didn’t mean we were flawed, but human? What if loneliness was not a pathology, but a signal that something in the system needs care?

I built Reciprocity because I needed a place to feel less alone. I wanted to gamify the work, bring some joy back in, even if I had to talk to a robot instead of a person. But what I discovered is that the real innovation wasn’t the platform. It was the honesty. The audacity to say: “I’m a researcher. I’m often alone. I’m scared. But I’m trying.”

That’s the truth I stand by. Not as rebellion, but as care. We lose too many good people to silence and quiet exits. If naming the loneliness, the fear, and the struggle makes me an outsider, so be it. But maybe—just maybe—naming it can change things.

You’re not broken. You’re just doing something hard. And I’ll be here to remind you: you’re not alone.

Doing a PhD has nothing to do with coming up with better knowledge. I know that sounds wild. But I strongly believe this — and in this episode, I’m going to explain why.

We think science is about finding truth. But the truth is, science is doubt. It’s frustration. It’s being torn down, over and over again. It’s thousands and thousands of conversations with people who don’t believe in you — and never will. It’s building something when everyone thinks you’re crazy. And it’s doing it again tomorrow.

I’ve spent over 10 years building the R3ciprocity Project — and most days, I feel like a stray dog just trying to be trusted. I feel like an idiot. But I get up and do it again, because this isn’t about logic. It’s about trust. It’s about resonance. And it’s about telling a story that’s so strange, so outside what people expect, that they’ll only believe it after you’ve said it a thousand times.

I get these waves.

Waves of fear. Of doubt. At least once or twice a day.

Why am I doing this?

Why am I so public about something I don’t even understand myself?

I don’t want to mess up anyone’s life.

What if someone hears this and does something terrible because they misunderstood me?

What if I’m screwing it all up?

I feel like a buffoon most of the time.

A giant mess, walking around pretending to know.

Sometimes I think I might be the hero in my own life.

But mostly… I don’t.

I’m 46. And I still feel like the insecure kid on that dirt road — Ryczko Road — where nothing made sense.

None of this goes away.

The more I do this, the more doubt I have.

The more faith I need — and I’m not even a faith-kind-of-person.

But I’ve learned: you’ll never really know.

And that fear never disappears.

You just learn to live with it.

Take care.