I started my first blog back in 2016. It was mostly short essays in French, covering a wide range of topics – politics, tech, history and societal debates. I was driven by ideals. I imagined a world where democracy flourished, balance prevailed, extremism was redeemed, and curiosity, peace, love, and thoughtfulness shaped our collective path.
I wanted my words to be touched by the wisdom of Saint-Exupéry’s philosophy, once expressed as: One sees clearly only with the heart; what is essential is invisible to the eye.
But after two years, I stopped.
The gap between the world I envisioned and the one I saw unfolding each day became too wide, too disheartening. I took it all too personally. There were too many things to fix, and I fooled myself into thinking that I had all the answers.
I was young. I got hurt. I stopped listening. I started talking louder. The tone of my writing shifted, from hopeful visions to bitter reactions. I had grown resentful. And somewhere along the way, I lost sight of who I wanted to be.
After a few years of silence, I returned. This time, with a different purpose: documenting my engineering notes, hopping I would come back at it later. It was pragmatic. Intended to be useful in theory. A way to keep track of what I learned, and perhaps, help other along the way.
That’s how this webpage, Data Engineering Nest was born.
But now, in 2025, the landscape has changed. The rise of AI has transformed how we seek and consume information. Most people don’t search the web like they used to. They ask an AI. Why would anyone read a blog post when a well-crafted prompt can generate exactly the answer they need?
I found myself asking: Does it still make sense to write a tech blog in 2025? Will anyone read it? Why bother writing at all?
Well, maybe the answer to these questions go deeper.
Writing can be seen as a personal act. A testimony one leave open to the world. A way to preserve the thoughts one had at a given place and time. A snapshot of what you believes used to be, what yo wrestled with and cared about. Like a bottle cast into the sea, it carries the hope that someday, it might reach another thinking soul, adrift in the same questions. We don’t want to be alone.
It’s also an exercise to learn how to shape your own thinking. A regular meeting with yourself. A moment to pause and ask: Who am I? Where do I want to go?
Sometimes, someone stumbles upon your words. Your words confront reality. This stranger might gift you with a well-articulated thought that change your ways.
In a world flooded with instant answers and generated content, the act of writing by hand, by heart, still holds meaning. Not because the world is waiting but because you are. Writing is a way of listening to yourself when the noise is too loud. It is a way to see clearly, not with the eyes, but with the heart. A way to leave behind a small, flickering light for someone else to find, maybe years from now, when they need it most. And that someone else might be you.