I Spent My Silicon Millions Trying to Remember What It Means to Be Human

I used to think the reels were spinning toward fortune—until I realized they were spinning away from me.

At 28, with two degrees from Columbia and a cat named Muse curled on my apartment floor, I worked inside SaaS startups designing interfaces that measured human attention by counting losses. The games promised payouts like rain—95% RTPs glowing under neon lights—but the real win wasn’t in the bonus wheel. It was in the silence after midnight, when I stopped chasing triggers and just sat still.

My mother, raised on Afro-Brazilian rhythms, taught me that luck isn’t coded in RNGs. It’s coded in breath. My father, shaped by Irish lullabies and whiskey nights, whispered: ‘The machine doesn’t speak—you speak back.’ So I began listening.

I used to play high-volatility slots thinking they’d make me rich. Then one night, after losing $490 in three weeks straight, Muse purred beside me—not with excitement—but with stillness. She didn’t need more spins. She needed me to be here.

Now I design interfaces that don’t optimize engagement—they optimize presence.

We aren’t using tools—we’re being redefined by them.

If you’ve ever sat alone after your last spin—when the screen glowed too bright and no one came—you know what this means.

What did you remember when you felt alive?