To the legacy we leave behind.

 

I’m at work. Today is Paul’s first official day on the building station, a station I’ve been training him on for the last two days. We’re throwing him into the deep end. We’re doing 80 tires—the maximum we can possibly do in a day. It’s been a very long time since anyone’s come out of training and done 80 tires on their first day. The people I’ve trained before? They haven’t done this yet. And honestly? I doubt my own ability to do it if I had just come out of training.

 

But Paul?

Paul is something else.

 

He did it—easily.

And in good time, too.

 

Towards the end of the day, I looked over at Paul while I was doing my own work, and I noticed something. It was like… watching a complete replica of myself. Everything I’d taught him—all the pro tips, all the techniques, all the little tricks to become more efficient—he did them. Perfectly.

 

It was surreal.

Like looking into a mirror.

 

And I thought to myself, What a machine this man is.

And, in a way, What a machine I am.

 

But then it hit me—this man, in the very near future, is going to surpass me. He’s going to be more efficient, faster, sharper. He’s going to be better than I am now.

 

And that made me feel

I don’t know—

Sad.

 

It took me a while to figure out why I felt this way. But I got there. I felt sad because it made me feel like I no longer mattered. Like his light was shining so brightly that my own light was starting to dim. Like, soon, no one would even see me.

 

Of course, I know that’s not true.

I know I’m still valuable.

People still come to me for help, for advice.

 

But still—

That feeling lingered.

 

Paul is an exceptional worker. People go to him now, too, asking for tips, looking for guidance. But I guess people still see me as the senior, the mentor, so my advice carries a bit more weight. For now.

 

And yeah, I know I wrote yesterday about how proud I was—about how I fulfilled my duty as a mentor—and I meant it. I really did. But today? Seeing how far Paul has come, how much he’s grown? It hit a different nerve. A nerve I didn’t even know I had.

 

And, in a way, I think that’s important. It reminded me that, at the end of the day, I’m still human.

 

I realized I’d been comparing Paul and me on a one-dimensional scale. Measuring us based on work performance—speed, accuracy, efficiency. But people? We’re more complex than that. We exist in layers. And Paul and I? We bring different flavors to the factory.

 

I’m cheeky. A boat rocker.

I stir up trouble—just enough to make things interesting.

I’m the guy who takes annual leave just to play a newly released game.

The prankster. The mischief-maker.

 

Paul? He’s grounded. Serious.

All about the work. Getting it done. Doing it right.

 

We’re different. But that doesn’t mean one of our lights shines brighter than the other—it just means they shine differently.

 

And then, I thought about it on a deeper level—philosophically.

 

I’m a builder.

I built the stage Paul now stands on.

 

He’s in the spotlight, performing, everyone’s eyes on him. But me? I’m behind the scenes. I built the damn stage. And I hope—I hope—that when people watch him shine, they’ll remember the stage he’s standing on. And maybe, just maybe, they’ll remember the builder who made it possible.

 

I used to think I was okay being behind the scenes.

But lately?

Lately, I’ve felt this need—this urge—to be seen.

To be recognized.

 

And I think that’s where this feeling comes from—the sadness. The insecurity. The fear that when Paul’s in the spotlight, people will forget about me. Forget the builder. Forget the mentor.

 

And that scares me.

 

I guess what I’m really saying is—

When I leave this company,

I want to be remembered.

 

Not just as a good worker.

But as someone who brought flavor, personality, life—to this place.

 

And I think—

No, I hope—

That’s the legacy I’ll leave behind.