On Building and Rebuilding
What we inherit, what we dismantle, what we create
*I’m taking two weeks off from publishing, see you on March 2.
A lot of my work involves building and rebuilding. I define building as designing, developing, or producing something from scratch, either as a standalone initiative or as part of a larger entity or ecosystem, and rebuilding as the process of reshaping, adapting, or reconstructing something that already exists—whether in part or as a whole. While building and rebuilding have similar elements, they differ in their philosophy, approach, and what they demand from us as conduits.
For the purpose of this essay, I use (re)building when referring to both.
Building is about creating something new. It’s a process of curiosity and invention. Building allows us to start with a blank canvas and leverage creativity to design without considering existing constraints.
Rebuilding, on the other hand, is about transformation. It requires us to assess what already exists—its strengths, weaknesses, and underlying structure—and determine what to keep, discard, and reconfigure. It demands a different kind of creativity that works within and around limitations we may or may not be able to reimagine, influence, or overcome.
Both building and rebuilding are creative acts. Both require vision, strategy, effort, and the ability to see the potential in what doesn’t yet exist. But rebuilding comes with added responsibility—to honour the past while speculating a future.
(Re)building anything—a relationship, business, platform, community, city, or even one’s sense of self is a gruelling task. It demands time, energy, research, discovery, iteration after iteration after iteration. When we build, we have to navigate the space of nothingness and endless possibilities, when we rebuild, we are tasked with collecting pieces of what was, is, or could be. Both pull us into uncertainty, and neither is guaranteed to work.
Creating something from nothing or transforming what already exists is an act of courage. One assumes that something can or should exist in the world, while the other takes on the challenge of preserving the essence of something while shaping its evolution. Those who choose either path are often dissatisfied with the way things are and compelled to create change. While we’d like to think it’s a choice, it can sometimes feel more like a calling or a sacred responsibility than a conscious act of will. The motivations behind building and rebuilding can be fundamentally different.
We often build out of desire or possibility. We rebuild out of necessity.
We rebuild because there’s been a rupture that needs repair.
Because the need for change is undeniable.
Because we recognize that something was never built for us—or was never built to last.
Because what once served its purpose no longer does.
Because something has collapsed, and something new must take its place.
Because we see potential waiting to be realized—and we can’t help but pull its thread.
How do you effectively (re)build a relationship? A business? Community, city, or the world?
In Becoming Better Predictors of the Future, I shared that all things have inherent potential. The spark of (re)building ignites when the desire for transformation intersects with untapped potential. Potential needs to be recognized by one or more conduits with a deep desire for change and, as inspired by Balinese culture, emerge at the right time, in the right place, and under the right circumstances. True potential can only be realized when the timing, place, and circumstances align—when the world is ready to receive it and we are ready to shape it.
Why, what, how, when, and who are the structural pillars of any creation. Each acts like a leg of a table—with the strength, position, and endurance of each pillar contributing to stability, resilience, and longevity. Shift the weight too much in one direction, weaken one pillar, or remove another entirely, and the whole thing might collapse. The dynamic between these elements determines the integrity of what we’re building and its impact. When they’re in alignment, they create a solid foundation. When they’re not, the vision can unravel.
A table can stand on four legs, but depending on its shape and size, it can also stand on one strong leg that extends outward to create balance. (Re)building works the same way—it requires us to hold all the key pillars in place. Whether we do so alone or with others is a choice, but the trade-offs of any approach are inevitable. What’s non-negotiable is the foundation itself.
Making meaning
Because (re)building demands so much from us, we need a solid ‘why’ to begin and continue. The individual and collective ‘why’ is what will empower us to keep going when internal or external events derail our plans and shake our beliefs. Having a strong why means seeing, feeling, and operating beyond this moment to gain clarity in the chaos and find a path forward. Having a weaker why may mean we’ll give in or walk away at the first sign of friction—unable to manage or transmute obstacles.
A strong why anchors us, sustains our commitment, and keeps us moving toward our north node with some level of conviction. A fragile why tends to break down under pressure, unable to withstand the weight of challenges over time. When we embark on (re)building, we often don’t know entirely what we’re getting ourselves into. Sometimes, we can convince ourselves that we have a strong why, but as time reveals new information, our perspectives expand, and our minds change. Defining a why is not a one-and-done activity, we have to revisit and reevaluate our why often to continue aligning where we are with what we’ve learned with where we want to go.
Defining choices
No matter how strong our why is, what we (re)build has to matter and make sense. It has to be something that responds to a problem or a need. (Re)building is different from creating in that it must serve a purpose—a house must provide shelter and safety, a community must create connection and shared purpose, and a product must be useful or solve a problem—but a poem, a story, or a work of art can simply exist for the sake of existing. (Re)building includes a creative process, but it goes beyond that by having a clear mission connected to a practical outcome.
Deciding what to (re)build is critical. Sometimes, we may have countless options for what to focus on, while other times, the ‘what’ is singular and clear. But whether we’re challenged to choose or confronted with an obvious path, defining the ‘what’ forces us to move from visionary to strategic thinking. This process can take months or years, but it is our most important work because what we do (and what we don’t do) ultimately dictates our trajectory, momentum, and impact.
Creating pathways
Strategic thinking goes beyond figuring out what to do and helps us determine the most effective, efficient, and adaptive path to our desired outcome. There’s no one way to (re)build anything, and how we do so is often informed by some combination of experience, circumstance, context, and constraints. Multiple roads can lead to the same place, and the difference between them might be the level of ease versus difficulty, time and effort, quality and speed. There are also roads that could lead to wildly different destinations, and part of our work in defining how we (re)build) is understanding each path's potential risks and rewards.
Sometimes, our constraints dictate our approach. Other times, we choose a path not because it’s the best but because it’s the only one we can see—limited by information, imagination, or pure exhaustion. Fear and perceived limitations can narrow our options even further, making certain choices feel inevitable even when they’re not. Before committing to any path, we should ask: Why this one? Why not another? Our greater ‘why’ isn’t a singular force—it’s made up of countless interconnected ‘micro whys,’ connected to every decision we make, weaving together a journey that may only make sense in retrospect.
Aligning timing
When to launch, when to pause, when to pivot, when to grow, when to let go—these are decisions we will have to make as we (re)build. Start the right thing at the wrong time, and it might never take off. Move too slowly, and the opportunity may pass. Move too fast, and you might compromise depth, quality, or integrity. Timing determines whether something endures or loses momentum. If it connects with the cultural zeitgeist or completely misses the mark. Product/market fit is just as much about bringing a product to market at the right time as it is about building a product the market needs.
We can pour endless time and energy into things that aren’t viable. The key is knowing whether to push forward despite challenges or recognize when it’s time to change course or let go. If what we’re (re)building isn’t sustainable, serving its intended purpose, or contributing to something greater than itself, then holding on can become an act of fear or resistance rather than progress or transformation. Not all things are meant to exist indefinitely—nature has seasons—what we (re)build needs to recognize and honour the cycles of creation and destruction.
Designing with
(Re)building is rarely an individual act, even when it feels like one. Who we build with—collaborators, partners, teams, communities, or ecosystems—shapes the process and the outcome. The right people bring ideas, experience, skills, and energy that can expand a vision beyond what we could have individually imagined. But those who are misaligned—whether lacking capacity, holding conflicting values, or there for the wrong reasons—can create tension, resistance, and confusion, disrupting momentum and compromising the mission’s potential.
It’s not just who we bring in that affects our work—it’s also about who we build for. Who will benefit? Who will be impacted? Who will carry it forward when we no longer can? (Re)building requires us to design with, not for, those who will live, work, or engage with what we bring to life. Without considering the people at the core of what we’re (re)building, we risk producing something disconnected, unsustainable, or meaningless.
Tomorrow, tomorrow, and tomorrow
Rebuilding a relationship requires patience and forgiveness. Rebuilding a community requires solidarity and care. Rebuilding a city requires leadership and collective action. Rebuilding anything requires dialogue, trust, collaboration, and hope. It requires a combination of unlearning, undoing, and unearthing that dismantles the old and dreams a new world into being.
We can’t knock down the entire structure and foundation of this house we’ve inherited (not all at once). If we’re not careful, we may end up standing at the edge of what was once our home, covered in dust and debris, with little energy, resources, and willpower to build something in its place. So we must be intentional and deliberate in how we rebuild—grieve what we’ve lost, preserve what we need, and allow our new world to emerge from a place of radical imagination.