The Faisal Al Anqoudi Book

I didn't start with a plan.

I didn't even start with confidence.

If I'm being honest, I started with something messier: curiosity mixed with noise. A mind that wouldn't stop asking questions, and a heart that wanted to build something before it even knew what "something" was.

Some people can tell you a clean story about how they were always focused, always disciplined, always moving in a straight line. That's not me. I've had seasons where my thinking was clear—and seasons where it felt like ten voices inside my head were arguing at the same time. I've had days where I felt unstoppable, and days where I felt like I couldn't even explain what I was trying to do. And the strangest part is: both versions of me were real.

I started learning in 2016. Back then, I wasn't thinking about startups or portfolios. I wasn't thinking about "branding" or "positioning." I was just pulled toward the feeling of building. Toward the moment when you do something and it changes the screen—when you type something and the system responds. It felt like discovering a hidden door inside the world, like realizing there's a language under everything. A language that, once you learn it, lets you create.

But learning wasn't smooth. It never is—especially when your mind doesn't behave like a straight line. There were times I got obsessed with a small detail for hours. Times I jumped between ideas because I couldn't choose one. Times I doubted myself because I didn't look like the "typical" programmer: calm, steady, perfectly structured. I didn't feel structured. I felt hungry, restless, and sometimes overwhelmed.

Still, I kept going.

Not because I believed in myself every day.

But because I couldn't stop.

In 2018, something changed. That year was the first time I built something that felt real enough to stand on its own. My first website: "My Electronic School"—Madrasati Al-Electroniya. It wasn't a massive platform, and it wasn't perfect. But it was my first proof. Proof that I wasn't just consuming technology. I was shaping it.

It's hard to explain what that first "real project" does to you. It doesn't magically turn you into a professional. It doesn't erase your doubts. But it gives you a new kind of hunger: the hunger to do it again, but better. To go from "it works" to "it works for people." To go from "a project" to "a product."

And I didn't stop there.

In the same year, I launched a messaging app called "Sawalif." It carried a familiar spirit—almost like a second version of Madrasati, but in a different form. At that time, I wasn't thinking in business terms. I wasn't thinking about monetization or market size. I was thinking like a builder with something to prove. I wanted to build something that felt alive—something interactive, something social, something that could exist in people's hands.

If you asked me back then what I wanted to become, I probably would have given you a vague answer. Because I didn't know. I was learning by building, not building after learning. And that made things messy—but it also made things real.

Between 2019 and 2022, my journey looked chaotic. I know how it looks from the outside: starting projects, stopping them, switching directions, getting excited, getting tired, disappearing into work, then resurfacing with a new idea. It's easy for people to call that "distraction." Sometimes it was distraction. Sometimes it was fear. Sometimes it was simply a mind trying to carry too much at once.

But there's another truth: those years weren't a waste.

They were the years I learned who I am when no one is clapping. The years I learned what kind of problems I naturally gravitate toward. The years I learned how I react when something breaks at 2 AM. The years I learned that talent means nothing without patience—and patience is not always something you're born with.

I learned the difference between building for excitement and building for survival.

Because it's one thing to create something that looks good.

It's another thing to create something that doesn't collapse the first time reality touches it.

Over time, my interest shifted. I was always fascinated by "how things work," but I became even more fascinated by "how things fail." That's where cybersecurity started to shape my thinking. Not just as a subject—but as a mindset.

Cybersecurity changes the way you look at products. It makes you suspicious in the healthiest way. It forces you to think about the parts people ignore.

Where is the data going? Who has access? What happens if someone tries to break it? What happens if a user makes a mistake? What happens if the system grows faster than you planned?

A lot of people build products like they're building a poster: beautiful, clean, impressive from the front. Cybersecurity teaches you to build products like you're building a house. You don't only paint the walls. You check the doors. You reinforce the weak points. You think about storms before they happen.

And then 2023 arrived—and something in me matured.

Not in a "motivational" way. In a painful, realistic way.

I started noticing patterns in the tech world and in myself. I started seeing why some products survive and others fade. I started seeing how easy it is to talk about AI, and how hard it is to make AI useful. Everyone could say "AI." Everyone could pitch. Everyone could make a demo. But very few people could build something that stays reliable after the excitement fades.

That's when a sentence began repeating in my mind:

If it can't survive reality, it doesn't ship.

Reality means users who don't read instructions. Reality means bad internet. Reality means edge cases. Reality means pressure. Reality means time.

And reality also means your own mind—your own internal conflict—your own limitations. I had to face mine.

Because yes, I can be intense. I can be focused. I can be obsessed with making something work. But I can also get overwhelmed by too many ideas. I can doubt myself. I can feel like I'm carrying too much. There were moments I felt exhausted, moments I felt stressed, moments I felt like I was building for years but not seeing the reward. And I won't lie—there were moments where I asked myself: "Why am I doing this?"

But the answer was always the same: because I can't live as a spectator.

By 2024, the building became heavier. More responsibility. More pressure. More moments that tested me as a person, not just as someone who writes code. There were times when I wasn't proud of how I reacted under stress. Times when I felt like my emotions were ahead of my logic. Times when I wanted to quit everything for a day, just to breathe.

And still… I kept building.

Not because I was fearless.

Because I was committed.

That's an important distinction.

Fearless people are rare.

Committed people keep going even while afraid.

Somewhere in that pressure, Nuqta AI became more than a name. It became the place where everything I believe in could live together. Not hype. Not trends. Not "look how cool this is." Real systems. Real products. Built with care. Built with awareness. Built with responsibility.

When people ask what I do, I could say "AI products." But that sounds generic now. Everyone says that. The truth is: I build products that carry weight. Products that handle real conversations, real workflows, real users, real data. Products that need to respect privacy. Products that need to be stable and secure. Products that don't have the luxury of being "just a demo."

And yes—there is still conflict in my mind.

Sometimes I'm crystal clear. Sometimes I'm scattered. Sometimes I know exactly what the next step is. Sometimes I feel like I'm holding too many steps at once.

But I stopped treating that as a weakness I must hide. Because that same mind—the mind that can feel noisy—is also the mind that sees possibilities quickly. It's the mind that notices patterns. It's the mind that refuses to accept weak systems. It's the mind that keeps asking: "Can we do this better?"

I'm not building a story that makes me look perfect.

I'm building a story that makes me look real—because I am.

And here is the most honest thing I can say:

I don't chase attention.

I chase clarity.

I don't ship demos.

I ship responsibility.

I don't want to be known for talking.

I want to be known for building—especially when it's hard.

If you've read this far, you're probably not looking for a flashy portfolio. You're probably looking for someone who understands what it means to carry a product from idea to reality. Someone who doesn't pretend it's easy. Someone who can admit the mess—and still build through it.

That's me.

If you have an idea worth building, a real problem worth solving, or a system that needs to be stronger than it is right now—then let's talk.

Not to impress anyone.

To build something that survives.