The Habit of Moving Forward by Working Backward

There’s a moment in every mission when the goal is clear but the path isn’t - when the dream shines bright on the horizon, but everything between here and there is a blur. That’s the blurry middle - the space between vision and reality where most plans lose momentum. The only way through it is to move forward by working backward. Start with the end in mind. Define success so clearly that it becomes your compass. Then take the next known step, even when the next ten are still foggy.

Keep moving until the returns fade, then pause, adjust, and ask, “Knowing what I know now, what’s next?” That’s how you turn uncertainty into momentum. That’s how you build something that lasts. And that’s exactly how we got here - to Jakarta, with an impossible deadline, a massive audit ahead, and a plan still half-blurred by unknowns. Jakarta, Indonesia Jakarta woke me before dawn, the city already humming with the kind of energy that makes things happen. The call to prayer rolled across the skyline - a low, rhythmic echo spilling from every direction, weaving through the humid air.

It was both haunting and grounding, the kind of sound that made the whole city feel like it was holding its breath. The plan was clear at the edges - pass the SC Johnson audit, launch digital payments with local redemption value - but the middle was still a blur. The only way forward was the way that had always worked: start with the end in mind, take the next known step, and trust the rest to reveal itself. I sat up in bed, rubbed my eyes, and reached for my notebook on the nightstand.

My ritual - my reset - no matter what country I was in. What one thing can I do this week that will get me closer to my goal? I pressed my pen to the page and wrote: Close the GoJek partnership and pass the SC Johnson audit. A deal isn’t done until it’s closed. Outside, the city was already alive. Horns echoed like a symphony with no conductor. Engines growled, scooters swarmed, and street vendors shouted through the haze. From the window, the view stretched endlessly - a sea of orange rooftops and concrete packed tight beneath a haze of smog.

A green-domed mosque stood out among them, its call to prayer still drifting faintly through the air. Towers rose in the distance, half-swallowed by clouded heat. Jakarta was a living contradiction - faith and noise, order and chaos, devotion and drive. And if I was going to move forward through the blur, I needed to start from the end and work backward into action. The Setup By breakfast, Wisaka had joined me - crisp white shirt, calm eyes, a grin that could disarm any meeting. He stirred his coffee slowly and said, “I’m proud to report, your referral theory worked like a charm.” I looked up, smiling.

“Oh yeah? Let’s hear it.” He laughed. “I asked my friend if he knew someone who could open doors for us - and he did. But that person wasn’t very high ranking, so he asked his boss who could open doors for us - and he did. Well, Shaun…” he said, leaning back, clearly enjoying the story, “this is a unicorn company - very big - so big they have two CEOs. It took a while, but I think after ten different people asked, ‘Who do you know who can help?’, we finally found the right person.” I grinned.

“So, ten referrals later, we’re in the right room?” He raised his cup. “Exactly. That’s who we’re meeting with today.” I laughed. “Referral theory for the win.” He clinked his mug against mine. Days Until the Audit By midday, the city had become a blur of motion - traffic, noise, and color layered on top of each other until the line between chaos and choreography disappeared. Every movement felt alive. Everything here moved forward. GoJek’s office was perched high above a mall that looked more like a skyline than a building. Sleek glass doors opened to an office that buzzed like a tech festival - neon Go Play sign, beanbags, espresso machines, a custom-painted motorbike displayed like a trophy.

It was Silicon Valley energy in Southeast Asian humidity. As we rode the elevator up, Wisaka leaned in. “But we’re just getting started in Bali,” he said quietly. “They’re already a billion-dollar unicorn company. Why would they bother partnering with us?” I smiled. “Because I’m not pitching who we are today. If I pitch where we are right now, it’s too small - not worth their time. I have to pitch the future. Paint where we’re going. Help them see what it could look like - and get them excited about building it with us.” He tilted his head.

“Future speak?” “Exactly. A sale is made through the transfer of enthusiasm,” I said. “When you can get someone else as excited about something as you are, the sale is made. Or in this case - a partnership and access to their code. My goal is to make them want the same future I do.” The elevator doors opened. Wisaka grinned. “Then let’s sell the future.” “Perfect,” I said. “Let’s go straight to the end.” That first meeting wasn’t about a decision - it was about direction. I pitched the vision clean and simple: “We’ve built an app that pays collectors instantly.

Every transaction creates a future GoPay user. Together, we can put this into the hands of everyone who needs it. All I need from you is a partnership agreement and access to the API integration documents, and I can take care of the rest.” He listened closely, nodding as I spoke. When I finished, he smiled. “OK, boss. Let’s see what we can do.” Outside, the humidity wrapped around us like a wet coat. Back in the car, I opened my notebook and wrote three words across the top: Next known step. That was it - one domino knocked down.

Now to find the next. Days Until the Audit The second meeting was higher - both literally and figuratively. A glass-walled boardroom, city spread beneath us like a living map. Wisaka whispered before we walked in. “This one reports to the real decision-maker. Be patient.” Inside, I pitched harder - more focused, sharper edges. I spoke from the outcome backward, painting a picture of what GoJek could look like with Plastic Bank integrated across Indonesia. When I finished, the manager nodded. “OK. I think I have everything I need. I’ll tell my boss.” I smiled as we stepped out.

“Wait,” I said to Wisaka, “I thought he was the boss.” Wisaka grinned. “In Indonesia, there is always another boss.” We laughed, weaving back through the maze of glass and light. In the car, I stared out the window at the city pulsing below. Every street, every shop, every person was moving somewhere. So were we - one meeting, one question, one adjustment at a time. I flipped open my notebook and drew a backward timeline from the audit date. Every day between now and then had a purpose: Meet GoJek. Test in Sofia. Prove it in Bali.

Show it to SC Johnson. The blur was getting smaller. And for the first time, the path ahead felt visible - not because it was clear, but because we’d built it step by step from the end. Days Until the Audit The plane touched down through clouds thick as milk. The air smelled like salt and incense. Statues wrapped in checkered cloth lined the roads, and offerings of flowers burned gently at every doorstep. We drove through narrow streets alive with scooters and laughter. Children waved at stoplights. Roosters darted between cars. And through it all, the air felt lighter - like the whole island had learned the secret of exhaling.

Monkey Business on the Cliffs We stopped at a cliffside temple overlooking an endless stretch of turquoise ocean. The horizon shimmered like glass. I lifted my phone to take a photo - and in a blur, it was gone. A monkey sat on the wall, holding it like a prize. The crowd gasped. “The monkey mafia,” Wisaka said, amused. “Watch.” Locals tossed fruit, crackers, a few coins. Nothing worked - until someone offered peanuts. The monkey studied the deal, then casually dropped my phone and scampered off, prize in hand. “They know value,” Wisaka said, laughing.

“They negotiate.” I shook my head, laughing too. “Even the monkeys have strategy here.” He grinned. “In Bali, everyone does. Even the gods.” We toasted with coconuts from a nearby stall. “To crime and coconuts,” I said, raising mine. The first sip was cold and sweet - the taste of pause and perspective. Reflection: Sometimes you have to lose something to notice the system it’s part of. Even chaos has logic when you step back far enough to see it. Temple Wear At Uluwatu, Wisaka handed me folded linen. “Here,” he said. “Temple wear. Respect.” He tied the sarong around my waist, looping the golden sash until it fell perfectly.

My bare feet pressed against warm stone. For the first time in months, I wasn’t rushing anywhere. “When you wear this,” he said, “you honor balance - not the balance of stillness, but the balance of motion.” That line lingered. The balance of motion. That’s exactly what working backward was - movement anchored by clarity. Uluwatu - The Temple on the Cliff The temple didn’t just overlook the ocean. It was part of it - carved from black volcanic stone that caught the light like wet glass. Waves crashed below, exploding into mist that drifted high enough to touch the outer walls.

Incense curled through the air, threading through salt wind and echoing chants. At every step, small square baskets woven from palm leaves - canang sari - sat filled with flowers, rice, and smoking sticks of incense. Yellow petals scattered like sunlight on the ground. I paused at one. “What are they for?” “They’re offerings,” Wisaka said. “To remind us that everything is connected. We don’t destroy darkness. We feed the light. Every day, we rebuild harmony.” We stepped deeper into the courtyard. The sound of the sea softened. “Sit,” he said. We crossed our legs on the cool stone floor.

At first, my mind raced - meetings, code, flights, deadlines. Then, slowly, the rhythm of the waves replaced the noise. Each crash matched a breath. Inhale. Exhale. Repeat. Beachside Shrines That evening, we walked along the beach. Even here, beside the waves, shrines rose from the sand - wrapped in gold cloth, flickering incense balanced beside seashells and coins. The air was heavy with salt and smoke. “Everywhere you go,” Wisaka said, “you’ll find offerings. At temples, at homes, even on the street. It’s how we remember that every small act adds up to something sacred.” I nodded.

“Like steps in a plan.” He smiled. “Exactly. Each step has its meaning. Together, they make the whole.” We watched as a basket caught the wind, spilling flowers into the tide. They floated out to sea - small, colorful reminders that not everything needs to be held to be useful. Reflection: Progress isn’t always about adding more. Sometimes, the next step is letting go of what no longer serves the outcome. It’s how you make space for what’s next. The Night Before the Audit That night, Wisaka and I sat on the sand, coconuts in hand, the horizon glowing red over the water.

The message from Sofia had just come through - “We’re ready.” The final code had passed its test. I exhaled slowly, the weight of the last few months catching up. “All that’s left,” I said, “is for it to work in real life.” Wisaka smiled. “It will.” The tide rolled in, then pulled back - forward, backward, forward again. Progress in motion. The Day of the Audit The morning light came soft and gold over the rooftops. The air smelled of incense and rain. Wisaka’s phone rang while we loaded the car. He listened, then smiled.

“It’s time,” he said. “The auditors are there.” We drove through narrow streets, scooters darting between us like schools of fish. Vendors set up stalls, smoke from breakfast grills rising into the air. Everywhere, the island moved at its own rhythm - fast and slow at once. My phone buzzed with a final message from Stoyan in Sofia: Everything passed the test. We’re live. Good to go. Relief flickered - but only for a second. The signal dropped. Zero bars. I stared at the screen. “We’re live,” I said. “But only if it works in front of them.” I stared at my phone with a willful prayer.

“One bar. That’s all I need while on site.” The Branch The cab pulled up outside the collection branch - a modest building painted bright blue. Across the glass doors, white letters shouted: STOP OCEAN PLASTIC. Inside, the air buzzed with nervous energy. SC Johnson’s auditors stood near the counter, clipboards in hand. Our local team hovered behind me, whispering, waiting. “Shaun,” Wisaka said, “let me introduce you to Made, the branch owner.” Made stepped forward, proudly wearing his bright-colored Plastic Bank shirt. Even in the thick humidity, it was neatly tucked, his hair combed carefully - pride in every movement.

His hands were rough, the kind that told stories of labor, of years spent sorting, lifting, carrying. But his eyes - his eyes carried something steady. Hope, maybe. Or faith. I watched him and thought back to a question I’d asked myself years earlier: Was it selfish to have our logo everywhere? But standing there, watching the way he carried it - the way they all carried it - I knew the answer. Time and time again, the collection community beamed with pride when they wore that symbol. To them, it wasn’t branding. It was belonging.

A mark of hope, of purpose, of being seen. He spoke in Bahasa, his words low and rhythmic, as Wisaka translated beside me. “I’ve been collecting plastic for years,” Made said. “But payments were always slow. Weeks. Sometimes months. We never knew if the amount was right. We couldn’t plan. We just waited.” He paused, eyes dropping to his hands. “If we could be paid instantly - and trust the number - life would be different. I could take care of my family better. We could plan for tomorrow, not just survive today.” The auditors scribbled notes, glancing up occasionally.

The room was thick with silence - not tension, but truth. This wasn’t about technology. It was about dignity. I nodded, pulled out my phone, and opened the app. Plastic weighed. Data entered. My thumb hovered over the screen. This was it. The moment every decision had led to - every late-night test, every meeting, every line of code, every prayer. I pressed ENTER. The spinning wheel appeared once. Twice. Three times. The silence deepened. I forced a smile, but inside my chest tightened. Come on. Please. Then - green light. A single glowing checkmark.

Wallets updated. Payments confirmed. The room erupted in small gasps of relief. Made looked down at his phone, and for a second, he didn’t move - then his shoulders dropped, his lips curved into a slow, genuine smile. He showed the screen to his wife standing beside him, and she covered her mouth, eyes glistening. Wisaka exhaled. The auditors scribbled furiously. Someone clapped softly in the back of the room. It had worked. Not by chance. By process. By moving forward - one known step at a time - and working backward from this exact moment until it became real.

After the Checkmark I stood there, phone still in hand, the green checkmark glowing like a heartbeat. It wasn’t just a result. It was the story of how far we’d come - how one idea had survived the blur between vision and reality. I thought about the people who had shaped this path. David had set up the deal. The team had made it happen on the ground. And I had made it digital. Together, we’d built a plan with one massive blurry middle - a gap between what if and how. For years, I’d been walking through that blur, one small step at a time, reverse-engineering every move.

That’s what adaptive strategy really is - the discipline of holding the finish line steady while being flexible enough to change everything else along the way. We didn’t wait for clarity. We created it - one question, one adjustment, one connection at a time. And today, one checkmark turned faith into proof. Wisaka smiled, the tension finally gone from his face. “You did it.” I shook my head. “No - we did it. All of us.” He nodded toward the screen. “So, what’s next?” I looked down at the checkmark still shining in my hand.

“Knowing what I know now,” I said, “the next step.” I paused, letting the weight of the moment settle. “Now that we can deliver digital payments with local value through our platform, I think we can make everything else we do 100% digital - and still do it with heart, at scale.” Outside, the island buzzed - scooters passing, wind rustling through palms, waves crashing below the cliffs. Forward motion. Always. Reflections Every vision starts at the end. You see it before anyone else does - the outcome, the impact, the change. It’s clear in your mind but foggy in the world.

That fog is the blurry middle - the space between what’s possible and what’s proven. Most people get stuck there. They wait for clarity before moving forward. But clarity doesn’t come first - it comes from motion. Working backward means defining the finish line and reverse-engineering the path that makes it real. You don’t have to know every detail - you just need to know the direction. Take the next known step. Move until progress slows. Then pause and ask: “Knowing what I know now, what’s next?” That question changes everything. It transforms uncertainty into a map.

It’s the heartbeat of adaptive strategy - adjusting fast enough to stay aligned with your end goal while everything else evolves. That’s how we built the system that worked that day in Bali. That’s how we turned a thousand moving parts - people, code, audits, partners - into a single moment of truth. We worked backward from the outcome: real-time, transparent payments that collectors could trust. We kept walking toward it through the fog, step by step, until the blur became clear. Here’s how to practice the habit: 1. Start with the end in mind.

Get specific. Picture success vividly. 2. Take the next known step. Don’t overthink the entire path - move with what’s visible now. 3. Move until returns diminish. When effort stops producing progress, pause. 4. Ask: “Knowing what I know now, what’s next?” 5. Adapt and repeat. Each new step reveals the next. That’s how you move forward by working backward - how you build momentum through clarity and courage. You don’t eliminate the blurry middle. You walk through it with focus, trusting that the fog will always clear for those who keep moving. Because motion creates clarity.

Clarity creates confidence. And confidence creates results. That’s the habit. That’s how you move forward - by working backward. Keep moving through the blur until the vision becomes clear. That night, as I boarded my flight home, coconut aftertaste still on my lips, I felt reset. Balanced. Complete. Little did I know - it would be my last trip for a long time. The world was about to tilt off balance in a way none of us expected.