I Was the Destroyer. Here's What It Cost Me.

I blocked 47 people last year. Destroyers. Critics who tear down without building. But here's what I haven't told you: I used to be one of them.

For years, I was the smartest guy in the room. At least, that's what I thought. I had opinions on everything. I shared them freely. I mocked ideas I didn't understand. I criticized people who were actually building while I was just talking.

I thought I was being honest. Direct. Intellectually rigorous.

I was being a dick.

And it cost me millions.

Where It Came From

I wasn't the smart kid growing up.

I was the bullied kid. The one who didn't have the answers. The one who felt invisible, stupid, less than.

School was survival. I learned early that the world wasn't kind to people who seemed weak.

Somewhere along the way, that trauma turned into armor. And the armor turned toxic.

I overcompensated. Hard.

If I couldn't be the kid with all the answers, I'd be the adult who found all the flaws. If I felt stupid inside, I'd make sure everyone else felt stupider. If I was insecure, I'd hide it by attacking before anyone could attack me.

That's what insecurity does. It doesn't make you humble. It makes you vicious.

In meetings, I'd find the flaw in every idea. Not to improve it — to prove I belonged.

In conversations, I'd wait for my turn to speak, not to understand, but to counter. To show I was sharp. To protect myself from ever feeling like that bullied kid again.

Online, I'd drop comments that were technically correct but emotionally destructive.

I wasn't building anything. I was just tearing down what others built.

And here's the sickest part:

It felt like strength. It felt like I was finally the one in control.

But it was just fear wearing a mask.

The Bridges I Burned

Let me tell you what being "the smart one" actually cost me.

The partnership I destroyed.

Early in my career, I had a chance to partner with someone building something special. We had complementary skills. Real potential.

But I couldn't help myself. Every meeting, I'd poke holes in his ideas. Not constructively — destructively. I'd point out flaws without offering solutions. I'd make him feel stupid for not seeing what I saw.

He stopped calling. The partnership died. That company went on to do very well.

Without me.

The client I lost.

A major client once presented a strategy I thought was flawed. Instead of asking questions, I dismantled it. In front of their team. I was "right" — but I was brutal.

They paid the invoice and never called again. That was a six-figure annual contract. Gone because I needed to be the smartest person in the room.

The reputation I built.

"Luis? He's smart. But he's difficult."

I heard that for years. I wore it as a badge of honor. "I'm just honest. I don't sugarcoat."

No. I was cruel. And I justified cruelty as honesty.

People stopped inviting me to things. Opportunities went to people who were easier to work with. Doors closed that I didn't even know existed.

You can be right and still lose everything.

The Real Cost

When I add it up — the partnerships that died, the clients who left, the opportunities that went elsewhere — I estimate my "smart guy" persona cost me at least €2-3 million over my career.

Not because I wasn't capable.

Because nobody wanted to work with me.

Here's what I didn't understand:

Business isn't about being right. It's about being trusted.

People don't hire the smartest person. They hire the person they want to work with. The person who makes them feel capable, not stupid. The person who builds them up, not tears them down.

I was so busy proving I was smart that I forgot to be useful.

I was so focused on being right that I forgot to be kind.

The Wake-Up Call

I wish I could tell you there was one dramatic moment when I changed. There wasn't.

It was a slow, painful accumulation of losses.

Enough partnerships that went nowhere. Enough clients who didn't return. Enough friends who drifted away.

And then, when I lost everything in Saudi Arabia — when I was 45, broke, alone, starting from zero — I had time to think.

A lot of time.

I started looking back at my career. Not the wins. The losses. The relationships that died. The doors that closed.

And I saw the pattern.

The common denominator in every failed relationship was me. Not my ideas. Not my skills. Me. My need to be right. My inability to let others shine. My compulsion to critique instead of support.

I wasn't the smartest guy in the room.

I was the loneliest.

The Shift

Here's what I do differently now:

If I don't have something constructive to say, I say nothing.

This was the hardest change. My instinct is still to critique. To find the flaw. To point out what's wrong.

But now I ask myself: Will this help them build better? Or will it just make me feel smart? If it's the latter, I stay quiet.

I assume builders know something I don't.

When someone shares their work and I see a "flaw," I've learned to pause. Maybe they tried my "brilliant" solution and it didn't work. Maybe there's context I'm missing. Maybe they're three steps ahead and I'm seeing step one.

The arrogance of assuming I know better than someone deep in the work — I've let that go.

I lead with questions, not statements.

Instead of "That won't work because X," I now ask "Have you considered X? I'm curious how you're thinking about it."

Same information. Completely different energy.

One tears down. One builds up.

I celebrate others publicly.

I used to hoard credit and distribute blame. Now I do the opposite. When someone does something impressive, I say it. Publicly. Without agenda.

It costs me nothing. It gives them everything.

I remember what it felt like.

When I'm tempted to mock someone's work, I remember how it felt when I was building FIKR and someone dismissed months of work with a snarky comment.

It hurt. Even though I knew they were wrong. Even though I had the facts on my side.

It still hurt.

I don't want to be the source of that hurt for someone else.

The Builder's Code

Here's what I believe now:

Builders deserve support.

Not blind praise. Not fake encouragement. But genuine support.

Do you know how hard it is to build something? To put your idea into the world? To risk failure publicly?

Most people never try. They sit in the stands and comment on the players. They critique from safety.

Builders are in the arena. They're taking hits. They're bleeding.

The least we can do — the absolute least — is not add to their wounds.

Criticism without empathy is cruelty.

You can disagree with someone's approach. You can see flaws in their execution. You can have genuine concerns.

But how you express that matters.

"This is stupid" and "Have you considered this alternative approach?" contain similar information. But one destroys. One builds.

Choose to build.

Your words create energy.

I believe in energy now. Not in a mystical way — in a practical way.

Every comment you leave, every opinion you share, every interaction you have — it either adds energy to the world or drains it.

The destroyer I used to be? I was draining energy everywhere I went. No wonder opportunities dried up. No wonder people avoided me.

Now I try to add energy. To leave people feeling more capable, not less. More motivated, not discouraged. It's a practice. I'm not perfect at it. But I'm trying.

Hold Me Accountable

Here's my commitment:

I will be constructive or I will be silent. Those are my only options now.

• If I disagree with someone's approach, I'll offer alternatives, not attacks.
• If I see a flaw, I'll ask questions, not make pronouncements.
• If I can't add value, I'll add nothing.

And here's what I'm asking from you:

Call me out.

If you see me slipping — if you see me mocking instead of supporting, tearing down instead of building up, being the destroyer I used to be — tell me.

Publicly. In the comments. Tag me.

I need that accountability. The old patterns are still in there. They surface when I'm tired, stressed, or feeling insecure.

I don't want to be that person anymore.

Help me stay in line.

A Message to the Builders

If you're building something right now, I want you to know:

I see you.

I see the late nights. The doubt. The moments when you wonder if it's worth it.

I see the courage it takes to share your work. To put yourself out there. To risk public failure.

I'm not going to tear you down.

If I have feedback, I'll offer it with respect. If I have concerns, I'll raise them constructively. If I have nothing useful to add, I'll simply cheer you on.

Because I remember what it was like to be mocked. To be dismissed. To have someone tear apart what I'd poured my soul into.

And I remember being the one doing the mocking. The dismissing. The tearing apart.

I'm done with that.

The world needs more builders and fewer critics.

I spent too many years as a critic. Adding nothing. Destroying much.

Now I build. And I support others who build. That's the only path forward.

The Irony

Here's the funny thing:

Since I stopped being the smartest guy in the room, I've actually gotten smarter.

When you stop talking and start listening, you learn things. When you stop critiquing and start asking questions, you understand things. When you stop proving yourself and start helping others, you grow.

The ego was blocking my growth. The need to be right was keeping me wrong.

Now I'm building more than ever. Learning more than ever. Connecting more than ever. All because I stopped destroying.