Issue #4: The Day I Stopped Saving Lives (And Started Building Systems)

I need to tell you something that might sound strange coming from someone who teaches reinvention frameworks:

When I left my pharmacy career in 2021, I had no blueprint. No "Reinvention Path" to follow. No systematic approach.

I was just a 29-year-old clinical pharmacist standing in a hospital corridor, trying not to cry, realizing I couldn't do this anymore.

The frameworks I teach you now? I reverse-engineered them by looking back at that moment and the years leading up to it, asking: "What actually happened? What were the invisible steps I took without realizing it?"

This is that story. Not the polished LinkedIn version. The real one.

For six years, I lived two lives.

By day, I was the model pharmacy student. Top 5% of my class. All-around best student award. The kind of student professors pointed to as proof that hard work pays off.

By night, I was someone else entirely.

I would close my pharmacology textbook, open my laptop, and disappear into a world of HTML, CSS, and PHP. I built an e-library for pharmacy students. Then an ERP system for our student association. Then a hotel management app. Then a pharmacy management system that I actually sold to working pharmacies.

But I never called it a career change. I called it a "hobby." Something I did when I had time. A side project.

Looking back, I was doing something very specific, though I didn't have language for it yet. I was testing an identity without committing to it. I was gathering evidence in secret, afraid to name what I was really doing.

Because naming it would make it real. And making it real would mean I'd have to choose.

So I didn't choose. I just kept coding in the margins, telling myself it was fine, I could be both.

After graduation, I started my one-year compulsory service as a clinical pharmacist in the internal medicine department of a tertiary hospital.

On paper, I had made it. Six years of brutal coursework, survived. A respected profession, secured. A clear path forward, laid out.

But the double life continued.

I would finish my hospital shift and rush to my office to code. I spent my lunch breaks in the IT lab. I became the unofficial tech support for the entire pharmacy directorate. I was organizing digital skills workshops. Building websites for clients. Selling software.

And then something happened that should have been a crisis but felt like validation.

The government delayed our salaries for eight months.

My colleagues scrambled to pick up extra pharmacy shifts to survive. I didn't have to.

I organized a 3-day online digital skills summit. Sold the recordings and an ebook. In three days, I made more than a third of my monthly pharmacy salary.

Then I sold a piece of software I'd built. The price? My entire monthly salary. For one sale.

I remember staring at the bank notification on my phone, feeling something I couldn't name. Not quite joy. Not quite fear. Something closer to recognition.

But I still didn't act on it. Because the fear was louder than the evidence.

The fear said: "You're a pharmacist. You spent six years becoming this. You're good at it. What if you walk away and fail at the other thing? What if you're just a pharmacist who can code a little, not a real software engineer?"

So I kept both lives running. Pharmacist by title. Coder by night. Waiting for something to force the choice.

His name was Mr. Mensah. Not his real name, but that's what I'll call him.

He was a middle-aged man with liver cancer. He'd come straight from work when the symptoms got too severe to ignore. Over two months, I helped manage his medication, stabilize his condition. We talked during rounds. He had a wife. Kids. He had hope. A liver transplant was on the table.

One morning, I walked onto the ward and knew something was wrong before I saw him. The nurses were moving differently. Faster. Quieter.

He was bleeding internally. Rapidly. There was nothing we could do.

He died that day.

I had to leave the ward. I couldn't process it. I walked out into the corridor and just stood there, staring at the wall.

And in that moment, a question surfaced that I had been avoiding for years:

"What if I'm solving the wrong problem?"

Mr. Mensah didn't die because we gave him the wrong medication. He died because he arrived too late. Because he lived too far from the hospital. Because the system failed him long before he ever reached our ward.

I was standing at the end of the line, managing tragedies I couldn't prevent.

And for the first time, I let myself think the dangerous thought: "What if I could be at the beginning instead? Building the systems that stop people from arriving here too late?"

That night, I couldn't sleep.

I kept replaying the evidence I'd been collecting for years but refusing to see clearly.

The software I'd built and sold. The summit that made more money in three days than weeks of pharmacy work. The late nights coding when I lost track of time, versus the hospital shifts where I watched the clock.

The evidence had always been there. But I'd been interpreting it wrong.

I told myself: "This is just a side income. A hobby. Something I do for fun."

But what if it wasn't?

What if the side project was actually the signal, and the pharmacy career was the slog?

I pulled out a notebook. I started writing.

On one side: "Pharmacy"

On the other side: "Tech"

For the first time, I let myself see the pattern clearly.

The energy was pointing one way. The evidence was pointing the same way.

I was just too afraid to follow.

A few weeks later, the Director of Pharmacy called me into his office.

He'd noticed my work. I'd become indispensable as the unofficial IT person for the entire directorate. He saw my value.

He offered me a clear path: stay, specialize in clinical pharmacy, climb the ranks. Stability. Respect. A known future.

I sat there, listening to him lay out this golden path, and I felt something unexpected.

Dread.

Not because it was a bad offer. It was actually a great offer. That was the problem.

If I said yes, I'd be choosing comfort over curiosity. Proven success over uncertain potential. The identity I'd built over the identity I was becoming.

I'd be closing the door on the question Mr. Mensah's death had opened.

I thanked him. Told him I needed to think about it.

But I already knew.

Here's what I didn't do: quit dramatically, burn bridges, make a grand announcement about "following my passion."

Here's what I did: I told the Director I was leaving to pursue a Master's degree.

Which was true. I needed to learn the fundamentals I was missing. Data structures. Algorithms. Low-level programming. The stuff you can't fake your way through.

But more importantly, it gave me a story that made sense to other people. "He's going back to school" is respectable. "He's abandoning pharmacy for coding" sounds reckless.

I moved to the capital city where the tech scene was more alive. I enrolled in the ALX Africa Software Engineering bootcamp. One year. Intensive. Project-based.

And I made a decision that changed everything: I would document the entire journey publicly.

I created a new Twitter account. I posted daily about what I was learning, what I was struggling with, what I was building. I wrote blog posts. I made YouTube videos. I livestreamed my coding sessions.

Not because I'd read some growth hacking article. But because I needed proof. For myself and for the world.

I needed to build evidence so undeniable that the fear couldn't talk me out of it anymore.

Six months into the bootcamp, something shifted.

I started getting DMs from people I'd never met. Partnership offers. Job opportunities. People asking if I'd consult on their projects.

Then I got my first paid gig as a backend developer for a project in Nigeria. While still in the bootcamp. Before I'd even "officially" become a software engineer.

Then ALX Africa offered me a job building their software engineering curriculum. Before I completed the program.

I remember sitting at my desk, staring at that job offer, feeling the same thing I'd felt when I sold my first piece of software:

Recognition.

The market was confirming what the evidence had been trying to tell me for years.

This wasn't a side project anymore. This was the thing.

When I look back at this journey now, I can see the system underneath the chaos.

I didn't have a framework then. But I was unconsciously following a specific process:

Step 1: Curiosity I was drawn to coding for years before I took it seriously. I kept coming back to it even when I didn't have to.

Step 2: Focus I chose one testable question: "Can I build software that people will actually pay for?"

Step 3: Experiment I built projects while working full-time. I didn't quit my job to "find myself." I generated evidence while keeping my safety net intact.

Step 4: Evidence I collected two types of data:

Step 5: Decision When the Director offered me the golden path, I had enough evidence to say no. Not because I was certain tech would work, but because I had data suggesting it might.

Step 6: Expansion I documented everything publicly. I built a portfolio of proof. I let the market evaluate my work in real-time.

This is what I now call The Reinvention Path.

I didn't invent it. I just reverse-engineered what I'd unconsciously done, so I could teach it to others.

By April 2023, I had my first software engineering role.

But I didn't stop there. I applied to a Master's program in Health Informatics at the University of Toronto. A way to combine my pharmacy background with my technical skills.

I got in. Moved to Canada. Worked part-time at a digital health startup while completing my degree.

In early 2025, I finished my Master's. Now I'm co-founder and CTO of a startup called GRANTED, building tools for grant writing and funding.

And here's what I want you to notice:

At no point did I "burn it all down."

At no point did I take a reckless leap.

I made a series of strategic experiments. Each one built on the evidence from the last.

The fear never went away. I just built enough proof that it became quieter than the pull.

I'm not telling you this story to inspire you.

I'm telling it so you can see the system underneath.

Because here's the truth most people miss:

You don't need courage to change. You need evidence.

The reason you feel stuck isn't because you lack willpower. It's because you're trying to make a decision without data.

You're asking yourself: "Should I leave this job? Should I start that business? Should I pursue that dream?"

But that's the wrong question.

The right question is: "What experiment can I run to generate evidence about whether this path is aligned with who I'm becoming?"

That's what I did with coding. For years, I ran experiments in secret:

By the time I had to make the big decision, it wasn't a leap of faith. It was a strategic bet based on years of accumulated evidence.

The frameworks I teach now are just systematized versions of what I stumbled through.

The Energy-Evidence Matrix? That's how I diagnosed that pharmacy was "Golden Handcuffs" (high external success, low internal fulfillment).

The Identity Multiplier Engine? That's the formula I unconsciously used when I documented my bootcamp journey publicly: (Knowledge + Proof) × Visibility × Action.

The Reinvention Path? That's the six-step process I followed without realizing it.

I didn't have these frameworks when I needed them. So I'm building them now, for the person I was in 2020, standing in that hospital corridor, afraid to name what I already knew.

I want to ask you a question:

What evidence are you ignoring?

Not what you wish were true. Not what you hope might happen someday. But what the actual data of your life is telling you right now.

Where do you lose track of time? What do people ask you for help with? What do you defend when others criticize it? What makes you feel energized versus drained?

That's not random. That's signal.

The question is: are you interpreting it correctly?

Because here's what I've learned: the evidence is always there before the clarity. You just have to stop dismissing it.

Mr. Mensah's death didn't give me new information. It gave me permission to see what was already true.

Maybe you don't need new information either.

Maybe you just need to reinterpret the evidence you already have.

Next week: I'll break down The Reinvention Path step by step and show you exactly how to apply it to your own transition, whether you're changing careers, building a business, or redesigning any part of your life.

But for now, I want to hear from you.

What evidence are you sitting on that you're afraid to act on?

Hit reply and tell me. I read every response. I won't sell you anything or put you on a call. I just want to understand where the system breaks down for real people, so I can make it better.

Because here's the truth: I'm still using these frameworks myself. Every day. On my current startup. On this newsletter. On the next version of my life.

I'm not at the summit. I'm a few steps ahead, documenting the path as I walk it.

That's all I've ever been.

Ehoneah

P.S. If you know someone who's feeling stuck right now, someone who's successful on paper but knows something needs to change, forward this to them. Sometimes the most valuable thing you can give someone is proof that the transition is possible, and that there's a system for it.