Low diatribe

My hubris just gave me a great idea

Whenever I ever say this phrase out loud, I need to stop immediately.

Not because the idea is necessarily bad. Because I'm no longer capable of seeing whether it's bad.

The phrase itself is the warning. Like "hold my beer" or "watch this" — words that predict disaster. If you're saying it, you're already past the point of listening.

It's a confidence trap.

When I'm most certain is when I'm most vulnerable. The ideas that feel obviously right are the ones I don't stress-test. I don't seek input. I don't look for edge cases. I don't ask "what am I missing?"

Hubris doesn't just give me ideas. It makes me unable to think they're anything other than great.

The idea feels great because I'm not thinking clearly. The excitement is blinding me to the flaws. I'm so pleased with my own cleverness that danger looks like opportunity.

It's the paradox of self-awareness.

Can I recognize hubris in real-time? Or does naming it become its own form of hubris?

"My hubris just gave me a great idea" sounds self-aware. Look at me, acknowledging my hubris. How humble. How insightful.

But if I were actually self-aware, I wouldn't proceed. I'd recognize the phrase as a red flag and stop. The fact that I'm still excited about the idea means the self-awareness is performative.

I'm congratulating myself on recognizing the problem while ignoring the warning.

Some phrases are canaries in coal mines. They tell you the air is already toxic.

"My hubris just gave me a great idea" means:

• I'm excited about the source, not examining the substance
• I'm flattering myself instead of stress-testing the idea
• I'm moving forward despite recognizing the danger
• I think self-awareness is enough to protect me

It's not.

Self-awareness without behavior change is just spectating your own mistakes.

It's also a blind spot indicator.

What makes an idea feel great when it comes from hubris?

It flatters your expertise. It confirms your worldview. It makes you the hero. It requires no one else's input. It lets you move fast without friction.

Those are all red flags dressed up as green lights.

The ideas that feel most obviously right are the ones that need the most scrutiny. The confidence is the problem, not the solution.

Which means I need a practice.

I'm writing this as a memo to myself. A tripwire. A circuit breaker.

If I ever catch myself thinking "my hubris just gave me a great idea," the practice is simple:

Stop.

Not "proceed with caution." Not "be more self-aware." Not "acknowledge the hubris and continue anyway."

Stop.

The idea might be good. But I'm not in a state to evaluate it. The hubris is too loud. The blind spots are too large. The confidence is too dangerous.

Assume hubris has narrowed my focus and I have no way of knowing what I'm not seeing.

Write it down. Walk away. Come back when the excitement fades.

Or say it out loud to someone I trust. Not as a pitch, but as a warning: "My hubris just gave me a great idea — help me find what I'm missing." The phrase becomes a request for perspective from someone who isn't caught in the excitement.

Only then can I see whether the idea is actually good, or whether the hubris just made it feel that way.

This isn't about avoiding confidence or gatekeeping every idea. I've learned that most internal gates are imaginary barriers that waste energy. Bold ideas require bold thinking.

But this filter is different. It's not blocking ideas from being tried. It's preventing me from executing ideas I can't evaluate clearly.

Hubris is static. It drowns out the signal — the risks, the flaws, the questions I should be asking. When I catch myself saying "my hubris just gave me a great idea," the static is already too loud.

That's when I stop. Not to kill the idea, but to quiet the noise first.

Then the signal can come through.