I uploaded my first YouTube video at midnight. Not because midnight was strategic or optimal. Because I'd been staring at the "Publish" button for two hours. The video was rough. Audio wasn't great. I stumbled over words. The editing was basic. But it was real. It showed what I was actually working on, the problems I was trying to solve, the things I was learning. I finally clicked "Publish" and immediately wanted to unpublish it. Too late. It was out there.
Me, learning in public. Permanently.
Putting your work online when you're still figuring things out feels like: Walking into a room of experts and saying "I'm just starting, watch me make mistakes." Documenting your confusion and calling it content. Admitting you don't know things, on the record, searchable forever. Everyone tells you to "build your personal brand" and "create content." What they don't mention: it requires being vulnerable in ways that feel uncomfortable at 17.
YouTube Channel: Creative Nikesh
Videos about projects I'm building, concepts I'm learning, my experiences in internships and competitions. What scares me: Video is permanent. Everyone can see exactly how I explain things, how I present myself, how I stumble over technical concepts I'm still learning. You can't hide behind text. Your face is there. Your voice is there. Your uncertainty is visible.
Podcast: Neural Nexus
Episodes exploring AI, technology, business, healthcare innovations, space exploration, politics—topics I'm curious about but definitely not expert in. What scares me: I'm 17, talking about complex topics to an audience that might include actual experts. What if I get something fundamentally wrong? What if someone who actually knows this field listens and thinks I'm oversimplifying or misunderstanding?
Blog: Substack
Writing about programming concepts, business lessons, my learning journey. What scares me (less): Text is easier. I can edit twenty times before publishing. But it's still public, still permanent, still me claiming to understand things I'm actively learning.
"Who are you to create content about this? You're still learning."
"People will think you're trying to be an expert when you're clearly not."
"What if you explain something wrong and someone corrects you publicly?"
"Your videos aren't as polished as other creators."
"Your podcast isn't as professional as the ones you listen to."
"Your blog posts are just documenting your confusion. Why would anyone read that?"
This voice is loud. It's there every time I sit down to create something.
I'm learning to create anyway.
Three weeks after starting my YouTube channel, someone commented on a video where I explained a coding concept I'd just learned: "Thank you for this. I've been stuck on this for days and your explanation finally made it click. The way you explained it—like you just figured it out yourself—helped me understand better than textbook explanations."
That comment made me realize something: The fact that I just learned this isn't a weakness. It's why my explanation is helpful. I remember what was confusing. I remember what questions I had. I remember what finally made it clear. Experts forget what it's like to not know. They skip steps that seem obvious to them but aren't obvious to beginners. I'm still close enough to confusion to explain things in a way that makes sense to other confused people.
Starting a podcast felt ambitious. Maybe too ambitious. I'm not a journalist. I'm not a researcher. I'm not an expert in AI, healthcare, space technology, or politics. I'm a curious teenager who reads a lot and wants to understand how the world works. But that curiosity drives the podcast. Each episode, I research a topic deeply—not to become an expert, but to understand it well enough to explain it clearly to someone else.
Recent episodes:
Do I know everything about these topics? No. Do I research them thoroughly, connect ideas across fields, and try to explain them accessibly? Yes.
Is that enough to justify creating content about them? I'm deciding it is.
1. Teaching forces deeper understanding
When you have to explain something, you can't hide behind vague comprehension.
I've rewritten blog posts three times because I realized while writing that I didn't actually understand the concept as well as I thought.
I've re-recorded video sections because explaining out loud revealed gaps in my logic.
Creating content is a test of understanding. If you can't explain it clearly, you don't understand it well enough yet.
2. You learn what resonates
Some videos I think will be great get minimal views. Others I almost didn't publish end up helping people.
You can't predict what will be useful to others. You just have to create consistently and see what connects.
3. Documentation helps you track your own growth
I can go back and watch videos from six months ago. I see how my thinking has evolved, what I understand better now, what I was confused about then.
It's like leaving breadcrumbs for my future self. This is where I was. This is what I was learning. This is how far I've come.
4. Vulnerability builds connection
The videos where I'm most honest about struggling—those get the best responses.
People don't connect with perfection. They connect with "I'm figuring this out too, let's learn together."
Video creation:
Podcast production:
Blog writing:
All of this is work. On top of IB. On top of internships. On top of projects.
Some weeks I don't post anything because I'm drowning in actual work.
That's okay. This isn't my job. It's documentation of my learning journey.
Beyond that first comment, others that have stuck with me:
"I'm also learning to code and feeling overwhelmed. Your videos show it's normal to struggle. That helps."
"Your podcast episode on AI in healthcare made me think about my own field differently. Thank you."
"Just found your blog. Finally, someone explaining business concepts without assuming I already know everything."
These aren't thousands of views or viral moments. They're individual people saying: "This helped me."
That's enough reason to keep creating.
Monday-Friday:
Weekends:
Creating content consistently while managing everything else isn't sustainable long-term. I don't know how full-time creators do this daily. But for now, documenting my journey feels important enough to make time for it, even when that time is scarce.
I expect someone will eventually say:
"You're 17. Why are you creating content like you're qualified to teach this?"
My answer ready: I'm not teaching as an expert. I'm sharing as a learner. There's a difference.
"Your content isn't as good as [established creator]."
My answer: Of course not. They've been doing this for years. I've been doing this for months. I'm learning.
"You're just documenting your homework."
My answer: Kind of, yeah. And if documenting my homework helps someone else understand their homework better, that's valuable.
The criticism will probably come eventually. When it does, I'll deal with it. For now, the encouraging comments outnumber the critical ones, and I'm grateful for that.
If you're learning something—coding, business, science, art, anything—consider documenting it publicly. Not because you'll become famous or make money.
But because:
Yes, it helps others learn. Yes, it forces me to understand things deeply. Yes, it builds skills. But the real reason?
I'm figuring out who I am and what I care about by doing this publicly. Every video, podcast episode, blog post is me thinking through:
This isn't just content creation. It's thinking out loud. Documented.
And somehow, that process—learning out loud, making it public, being vulnerable about not knowing everything—feels like the most honest way to move through this phase of my life.
Start before you're ready.
Document what you're learning right now, not what you'll learn eventually. Be honest about what you don't know. Your first work will be rough. That's fine. Everyone's first work is rough. Someone, somewhere, is one step behind you. Your imperfect documentation will help them more than perfect silence. And five years from now, you'll look back at what you created and see how far you've come.
That future perspective is worth the current vulnerability.
My content: