The ring
In October 2024, 15 years had passed since I found myself on stage, opening a concert for Nicky Jam and Plan B. Funny enough, I wasn’t even into reggaeton. I was more of a rock fan, but the allure of getting on stage, singing reggaeton, and basking in the spotlight drew me in. Who really knows what they want at 15? I recorded several songs produced by Sky Rompiendo el Bajo and El High, who were just starting out but are now massive names in the industry. I performed in schools, opened concerts, played at quinceañeras, and met people who weren’t famous at the time but now dominate the genre. It was an adventure that took me to places I never imagined but eventually faded, as anything not deeply rooted does.
After leaving reggaeton behind, HuecosMed came into the picture — an idea that started almost by accident but quickly put me in the spotlight. It was an app that allowed people to report potholes in Medellín. Initially, it didn’t seem like much, but it soon gained more attention than I ever anticipated. It gave us tools, yes, but also an impossible dream: to change the government through technology. Interestingly, HuecosMed led us to meet big names in the tech industry and even brush the doors of Silicon Valley. It all seemed fortuitous, like we were in the right place at the right time. But the excitement started fading when we faced the bureaucracy and apathy of public officials. Still, this project was the seed for something bigger.
After HuecosMed came Ctzen, a platform that aimed to connect citizens with governments. It felt like the natural evolution of what we had started: using technology to improve people’s lives. We won awards and received recognition, but soon we realized we were up against something much bigger: corruption, bureaucracy, and indifference. We wanted to change the system, but the system didn’t want to change. Puerto Rico seemed like the perfect opportunity to give the project a new push, but then Hurricane Maria struck, devastating not just the island but all our hopes. What seemed destined to transform the relationship between citizens and governments turned into another frustrated attempt to fight against a system resistant to change.
After Ctzen came Dondo, a marketplace that started as a barter platform in Latin America. We gained traction quickly, reaching almost a million users in Colombia and attracting major investors from the tech sector. However, as we grew, the barter model proved unsustainable, leading us to pivot to selling artisanal products. Despite high expectations, the new approach didn’t have the expected impact, and in 2024, we decided to close that chapter. At the time of publication, Dondo had evolved into a tool designed to help e-commerce sellers automate the creation and management of their product listings, a shift intended to optimize operations for sellers in the region.
And yet, with all that behind me, I still wonder if I’ve truly arrived anywhere. On paper, the projects look successful: users, investment, talented teams. I know we changed the lives of employees, former employees, and people who used what we built. But I can’t shake the feeling that something’s missing. It’s as if nothing I’ve done has left a truly deep mark, neither on me nor on others.
The achievements seem to float on the surface. No matter how many goals we’ve reached, I still feel like I haven’t made a lasting impact. That is where the uncomfortable question arises: isn’t it a bit arrogant to think I’m suffering from impostor syndrome? What if it’s not a syndrome at all? What if I’m just an impostor, someone who has built a lot in theory but hasn’t left a meaningful mark on the projects or the people involved?
At the end of the day, I’m still trying to figure out if that emptiness comes from not having done enough or from placing my efforts in the wrong places. I think of the One Ring from The Lord of the Rings: a burden that represents the desire it feeds. Maybe I’m carrying the ring of my own ambitions, the pressure to believe that I must always leave a mark on others. Like the ring, that pressure consumes me until nothing I’ve built feels enough.
Can I let go of that need to transcend, or is it something I don’t want to release? Perhaps the real challenge isn’t deciding whether I’m an impostor, but learning to notice the expectations that keep me from enjoying what I’ve already built. Maybe the important thing isn’t leaving a massive footprint but recognizing the value of smaller victories. I don’t have all the answers. Until I figure it out, the doubt remains, asking me to stop carrying the need to always become something more.
