Most people watch a beautifully animated film and think, “That was cool.” But they rarely think about what it takes to make it. Especially in 2D animation, where every frame is drawn by hand, one at a time, sometimes 12 to 24 frames just for a single second of smooth motion. It’s an art form that demands more than just skill. It requires obsession.

In many ways, it’s a dying art.

In today’s media landscape, 3D animation often dominates. It’s more scalable, and in some cases, even cheaper. Software tools have come a long way, and big studios can produce beautiful 3D sequences with relative efficiency. Meanwhile, 2D is still done one painstaking drawing at a time. The market for it has shrunk—not because it’s less powerful, but because it’s harder.

But that difficulty is part of what makes it so special.

The price of great 2D content isn’t just money, it’s one obsessive creative’s absolute full attention. Attention to every detail, in every single frame. And the thing most people don’t realize is that animation isn’t just about drawing. It starts with writing – tight, smart scripts that create the foundation. Then comes sound design, voice acting, timing, and editing. Each second of a 2D animation can be critiqued across five different disciplines. So when you’re creating a 10-minute piece, you’re not just reviewing 600 seconds—you’re analyzing 3,000 unique decisions.

It’s really why the best creative work in history, animated or not, often has one person at the center who obsesses over every aspect. Christopher Nolan spends a year just writing. Hayao Miyazaki famously storyboards and directs every frame of his films. Matt Stone and Trey Parker do almost everything in South Park, from writing to voices. The visionary doesn’t just show up with an idea – they relentlessly and obssesively shepherd it through every stage, refining relentlessly.

I’m nowhere close to that level. But I’m actually trying to get there.

Right now, I’m working on my first animated series, Degen Galaxy – a satirical, fictionalized take on the tech and VC world, told through 2D animation. I’ve always been obsessed with the tech ecosystem, and I wanted to cover it like a historian, but through something that feels wildly creative. At the same time, I’ve always believed that 2D animation, when done right, is one of the greatest art forms. There’s a texture and care to it that you can’t fake.

I’ve put together a small team: 13 incredibly talented creatives. Our goal? Just one 10-minute episode per month. That doesn’t sound like much until you do the math. It’s an enormous amount of work. And honestly? It’s costing me a stupid amount of money. But I believe in it. I believe in the process. I want to get better, I want the team to get better, and I want to build something lasting. A series that’s not just funny or clever, but crafted.

Because the truth is: when animation hits, it hits harder than most forms of storytelling. When you watch a great animated moment, you’re not just watching characters move. You’re seeing craft.

And sure, people might scroll past it. That’s the world we live in. But I also think people know when something has love in it. You can feel it. You can tell when someone cared deeply about the frames, the timing, the insides jokes, the visual gags, the tone, the transitions. It might be subtle, but it’s there.

That’s why I’m doing it. That’s why, despite the cost, the time, the risk, I’m chasing this vision. I do think it will go viral and do well as a series, but it won’t make me nearly as much money if I put the same time and attention into anything else. It’s simply worth spending time creating things you personally want to see in the world.

The Long View

The earlier I have kids, the more time they might get to spend with my parents, the more time I might have to spend with my grandchildren. I was close with my grandparents. I mean really close. They were a huge part of my life growing up, and I was the last family member to see all three of them alive. I saw the look in their eyes as they passed, and that moment left a mark on me.

I know that one day, that will be me. I’ll be the one whose eyes are closing, and I think about what I’ll want to see before they do. I hope I’ll get to meet my grandkids. I hope I’ll get to know them, root for them, and watch them find their way. There’s something deeply motivating, about that long view. It makes me want to build a life where there’s enough space for those connections to grow, where time can stretch a little further between the generations.

Sometimes I feel a sharp sadness when I think about my grandparents not being around to see what I’ve built so far. They were my first real believers not even expecting to see the payoff one day. All three of them passed right before there was anything material I could point to that might have made them feel proud in that conventional way—successes, stability, the kind of external markers that get celebrated. But deep down, I know that wasn’t what mattered to them. They were already proud. I was a kind, brave, creative, determined kid, and they noticed that before anyone else did.

Still, I carry both truths: gratitude for the love I had, and longing for just a little more time with the people who helped raise me. It’s why I try to pay attention now, to build a life that doesn’t race ahead of itself, and to create space for the kinds of relationships that matter most—the ones that make us feel, even for a little while, that time might slow down.

How I Structure My Creative Time

If there’s one thing I’ve learned about creativity, it’s that it doesn’t wait around. It shows up when it wants to, and if I’m not ready, it’ll move on without me. That’s why I structure my days around it. For me, the morning is sacred. Once the first meeting hits, the noise of the day takes over, and my creative window quietly closes. So I wake up early. Not because it’s trendy but because it’s the only way I can protect my focus before it gets pulled in a hundred directions.

I’ve always been fascinated by how great writers and creators structure their lives, not just their work. I honestly didn’t study Stephen King, Christopher Nolan, or Hayao Miyazaki to copy their techniques, I studied how they lived. How they showed up to the page or the storyboard with care, intention, and discipline. King writes every morning. Nolan creates environments where deep, focused thinking is possible. Miyazaki treats animation like a living thing…slow, detailed, and deeply emotional. That’s what I wanted to learn from. Not how they write, but how they prepare to write.

That level of discipline gave me permission to take my own creative work seriously. I’m currently working on my first screenplay, Degen Galaxy – a 2D animated story about the tech and venture capital world, told with a mix of humor, satire, and reverence. It’s a love letter to the tech ecosystem and the odd cast of characters that drive it forward. I think the tech world is one of the most fascinating and absurd modern landscapes. Covering it like a creative historian that in part lives in it, is one of the most fun challenges I’ve taken on.

I’m deeply inspired by the sheer amount of smart creativity it takes to build something out of nothing, whether it’s a startup or a story. And I think 2D animation is one of the greatest artistic forms we have. There’s something timeless about it – hand-drawn movement, carefully crafted expressions, each frame a decision. It’s not fast, it’s not optimized, which gives it more meaning. That really speaks to me. There’s beauty in the slowness and the labor, and I try to carry that same energy into my writing.

People sometimes ask how I stay motivated to write, and the honest answer is: I’m just a fan. I love great writing. I love a perfect line of dialogue. I love when a story turns in a way I didn’t expect but instantly understand. I’m the type of person that will listen to the same great song on repeat 1000 times. Reading great writing is like listening to your that amazing song on repeat – I just don’t get tired of it. So writing creatively never feels like a burden. It feels like I’m getting to be a part of the thing I love most.

But writing time doesn’t appear out of nowhere. I’ve learned to treat it like any other kind of commitment, it needs a container. For me, that’s usually the first two hours of the morning. No email, no Slack, no news, no multitasking. If something good comes out of it, great. If not, that’s fine too. The point is to show up and make space.

My only advice to other writers is this: get the first few lines onto paper as soon as you wake up. Don’t wait for inspiration to arrive…just start. Writing is rhythm. Writing is flow. Even if those first few lines end up getting cut or rewritten later, they serve a purpose. They’re your warmup, your way of telling your brain, “It’s time now.” I actually learned this by watching the old “master” at the Korean hair salon I go to. When someone walks in with a huge, unruly mane, you can almost see the wheels turning in his mind- mapping, planning, imagining. But before he dives into anything major, I noticed he always makes a few small snips. Maybe they don’t mean much structurally, but they matter. It’s how he gets into flow. A cue to his hands and his mind: now we shape, now we create.

I’ve come to respect this idea that creative structure isn’t about rules, it’s about rhythm. You don’t force it, but you do make room for it. And when you treat your time with care, it responds. It’s not magic. It’s just attention. When I give my creativity a place to land, it usually shows up.

And that’s really what it comes down to for me … attention, time, and care. Just the quiet, consistent practice of making space to do the work I love.

Trying to Hold Time

When I was seven, I told my mom that I wasn’t a kid anymore. I said it seriously, with full conviction. I told her I knew life came with responsibility, and I was ready to carry some of it. I don’t think I fully understood what I meant, but I felt it. Awareness that time was moving forward and that I had to grow up with it.

That’s one of my earliest memories of time—really noticing it. Not in the calendar sense, but in the way a child starts to grasp that life isn’t endless. I remember it hitting me even harder when I was nine. I’d look forward to something, usually a school field trip or summer vacation. Then, almost before it arrived, it was over. I’d find myself stunned by how quickly it all disappeared. Like I’d been holding my breath waiting for the moment, and then suddenly I was watching it dissolve in the rearview mirror.

Now I’m 26. Time doesn’t just move fast anymore every year feels like a blink. Holidays blur together. The seasons flip like pages in a book someone else is reading too fast. And I find myself trying to grab at seconds, to hold them in my hands, even though I know they’ll slip through anyway.

When I visited Santa Monica in LA not too long ago, I stood by the water watching the sunset. And all I could think—besides how beautiful it was—was how damn badly I wanted to just remember vividly that exact moment. To take the clearest full view mental screenshot. To somehow dig in and remember that moment for the rest of my life. It wasn’t just about the view. It wasn’t about not wanting another moment to pass. I knew it would become another memory so fast, I wanted it to be one that I really remembered.

Childhood is the training ground for nostalgia—we build our first mental scrapbook, and we also start realizing how quickly the pages turn. It’s not that we didn’t enjoy those moments. It’s that enjoyment and impermanence are inseparable. The more something means to you, the faster it seems to end.

People always say life is short. I used to wonder if that was just because it’s finite. But it’s not just about the total length—it’s about how much of it we feel. You now fully realize you can live 80 years and still feel like it all happened in the space between two blinks. Especially if you don’t take time to notice.

And that’s what I try to do now. Notice. Slow down when I can. Pay attention. Make things, share things, write things—not because they’ll last forever, but because the act of creating something is one way to stretch a moment just a little further. Sometimes, the only way to hold time is to leave a mark inside it.

I don’t have all the answers. I still rush through days I wish I hadn’t. I still find myself missing things as they’re happening. But I’m trying. Trying to live like time is something sacred. Trying to hold on—not to stop it, but to really be in it while it’s here.

For most of my life, birthdays felt like something to brace for, not celebrate.

I’ve always had a complicated relationship with the day I was born. My third birthday was traumatizing in a way I didn’t have the language for at the time. My 13th birthday was the same day as my closest grandparent’s funeral, a moment that permanently fused joy and grief together in my mind. Most years, I didn’t get presents. And the one actual party I had as a kid? Everything went wrong. I remember leaving it more confused than happy, wondering if I was the problem.

As a kid, you grow up watching birthdays on TV or in movies. There’s always cake, laughter, parents beaming with pride, friends showing up with gifts. You grow up thinking that’s normal. And when it doesn’t happen for you year after year you start to internalize that maybe celebration isn’t meant for you. You become the kid who shrugs it off. You start to believe it’s better not to expect anything at all.

If you asked my therapist, he might say that birthdays represent more than just getting older. They’re emotional checkpoints. For people who grew up with instability, grief, or disappointment, birthdays can feel like pressure cookers: a time when unmet expectations resurface, when old emotional wounds come out of hiding.

And for a long time, I didn’t even feel sad about it. I didn’t feel much at all. It was easier to disconnect. To treat the day with lower expectations than any other day and just move on.

But something shifted this year. I turned 26, and I tried to do something different.

It wasn’t anything huge and it wasn’t even solo. It was a joint birthday with a friend. But for me, it was symbolic. An act of healing. I let people celebrate me, even just a little. I let myself enjoy the moment – not because it was flawless, but because it meant something. It meant I was trying to rewrite the script.

What I’ve come to realize is that birthdays aren’t really about cake or parties or the number of people who show up. They’re about permission. Permission to be acknowledged. To be celebrated. To take up space. And sometimes, that’s the hardest thing to give yourself…especially when your earliest memories tell you not to.

So no, I don’t regret the past. I’m not bitter. But I’m also not pretending like it didn’t shape me. I’m learning to hold both truths at once: that I missed out on something, and that it’s not too late to reclaim it.

My 26th birthday was a step. And I think that’s all healing really is…giving yourself small moments that remind you you’re allowed to feel joy on your birthday, even if it’s taken a while to get there.