thoughts about becoming more human

13-Sep-2025

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Over the past few years, a confluence of life events and new relationships prompted me to work toward greater emotional openness.¹ Though the effort continues, the progress has been both meaningful and beneficial in unexpected ways. I feel more human than I have in years.

The weight of that claim—feeling more “human”—is not lost on me. Not long ago, I prided myself on “being a monster.” There’s certainly some merit to this idea. People ought to have the capacity for evil—not to exercise it per se, but to understand it. The alternative is becoming Prince Myshkin, the titular fool from The Idiot, whose saintly innocence rendered him vulnerable to evil and madness. Comprehending evil means recognizing that we all possess this capacity—that in a fallen world, no one is above temptation and only by acknowledging our own potential for darkness can we steel ourselves against it. What I missed in this wisdom was that benefits only come from having a monstrous capacity without exercising it. Monsters must be disciplined, kept as a tool of discernment rather than indulgence.

Instead of wielding these insights as a shield, I reveled in them. I found satisfaction in spotting people’s vulnerabilities. I took pride in emotional detachment when others were struggling. I was unflappably prideful—and convinced that this made me superior. With due time, as the consequences of my ill-behavior manifested and the edifice around me crumbled, I realized that this was no way to live.²

By nature, I am an individualist. I always believed in pulling yourself up by the bootstraps, so it was with this natural tendency that I intended to engineer my rehabilitation. I journaled, I wrote short stories, and I even started a blog. With each independent endeavor, I thought I could unravel underlying patterns in how I thought. That by mapping out my subconscious in a mix of artistic expression and imposed honesty, I could write my way out. To a certain extent, this belief was true.

Translating vague feelings into concrete words forced me to confront truths I had long avoided. Despite a prior belief that I was generally conscious of my thought processes, I quickly recognized contradictions in my thinking and elaborate justifications I had constructed for my behavior. I began to see how low I was, that insights had become excuses for cruelty, and “skepticism” was ad hoc apathy. Understanding alone proved insufficient. An issue rooted in how one relates to others cannot be solved by retreating into solitary reflection. I couldn’t do it alone. The practice was foreign, but as I leaned into connection, I developed a slow, sometimes painful practice of cross-bearing.

It required genuine admittance of wrongdoing—the kind that readily accepts consequences without expecting immediate absolution. It meant stopping to consider, in real time and charitably, when I might be wrong rather than reflexively defending my position. It meant taking responsibility and apologizing for the smaller cruelties—the casual dismissals and the other ways I had weaponized my being against people who deserved better. More fundamentally, it meant accepting and—where appropriate—articulating vulnerability. Where once I would have retreated behind analysis or detachment, I began sharing my emotional state with people who had earned that trust. The process was and remains excruciating. Every admission feels like handing someone ammunition to be used against me. But by these very acts, I’ve realized that what I believed would destroy me is a prerequisite for connections that I have unconsciously craved.

There’s wisdom in the promise that “the meek shall inherit the earth”—a statement that makes little sense until you’ve experienced the joy of laying down your weapons. With this decision, everything has shifted. Yet, as I reflected on this past year, I’ve realized that despite progress, I remain fallen, prone to the very tendencies I claim to have recognized and addressed. The only thing that remains certain is that I am on a better path now, one that stretches ad infinitum but also one that I believe will lead to joy.