Notes from a Man Who Might've Just Needed Therapy

I’ve come to learn that living is not so much about answering these questions definitively, but about creating space where we can sit with them honestly, and at times, uncomfortably. As someone who once tried to organize the world in black and white for clarity’s sake, I now accept the absurdity of seeking permanent solutions in a world that refuses to stay still. Writing this op-ed, I’m not applying to Oxford, Yale or Harvard. I write only for myself.

My inner voice today is a product of thousands of moments, conversations, readings, silences, and mistakes. It’s a collage of reflection, contradiction, failure, and tiny flickers of grace. If you were to ask me when I first started confronting my blind spots, I’d point to a seemingly ordinary day in Brooklyn. I was running Stoop Juice and a man walked in. He asked about kale. I answered with tired enthusiasm, rattling off the benefits. He smiled politely and asked, “Do you believe in what you’re selling, or are you trying to get me to believe in you?”

That shook me. It wasn’t about the juice. It was about how much I performed certainty for others. I wanted to be seen as someone who had figured it out—health, business, ethics. But internally, I was still navigating the wreckage of years spent chasing external validation. I knew the right things to say. I just wasn’t sure I believed them.

That encounter, like many since, invited a deeper kind of honesty. Not the kind that protects your image, but the kind that turns your ego inside out and exposes all the ways you cling to belief systems just to feel safe. I had to confront the idea that my moral compass might’ve been calibrated not by conscience, but by convenience.

In one of my essays, I reflected on how we live in a world where simulations often pass for reality. We’re encouraged to share versions of ourselves that can be liked, swiped, followed. And somewhere along the way, we lose the thread of our actual experience. It’s easy to condemn others for playing the game, especially political figures whose actions offend our sensibilities. But it’s harder to admit the parts of us that quietly want the same applause, the same power, the same assurance that we matter.
This is where I find myself now: walking a tightrope between pragmatism and emotion, wrestling with contradictions I no longer pretend to resolve. I write not to fix them, but to hold them still long enough to understand their texture.

Some days, I believe we are living in the best possible version of the present. Not because everything is good—far from it—but because this moment, with all its imperfections, is the only one that holds the possibility for growth. That perspective doesn’t deny pain or injustice. It simply acknowledges that our agency exists right now, and not in some imagined perfect future.

Other days, I’m overwhelmed by the gap between how things are and how they could be. I see this tension mirrored in those I once judged harshly. Yes, even Donald Trump. I disagree with his politics and tactics, but if I’m truly committed to confronting my blind spots, I have to acknowledge a deeper truth: I’ve also curated a version of myself for public consumption. I’ve also leveraged identity, projected certainty, sought affirmation.

So, Mr. Trump, this isn’t an endorsement. It’s an apology.

Not for your choices—I take no responsibility for them—but for the times I failed to see the full humanity in you because it was easier to make you a symbol. A cautionary tale. A villain that confirmed my virtue. In doing so, I neglected the very empathy I claim to value. I overlooked the complexity I demand for myself. I simplified you to feel morally superior. That’s not justice. That’s theater.

We are both actors in a world addicted to performances. The difference is, you seem to embrace the spectacle. I tried to transcend it, only to realize I was still playing to an invisible audience. My self-confrontation now asks me to remove the mask, not just in private, but in the public square.
If we live in a time where people can no longer tell the difference between sincerity and simulation, then perhaps the most radical act is to speak plainly—about our doubts, our failings, and our missteps.

I’ve spent years writing op-eds about inequality, meritocracy, justice. But in each piece, no matter how righteous, there were fragments of my ego sneaking through—tiny footnotes of self-congratulation. The truth is, I’m not immune to the systems I critique. I’ve benefited from narratives just as much as I’ve challenged them. And I continue to.

Still, I write. Not because I think I’m right, but because writing is how I practice being less wrong. It’s how I track my shifting center of gravity. It’s how I remind myself that identity is not a destination, but a continuous negotiation between the self I project and the one I uncover.

To the reader wondering what they can do externally to be loved: start by asking why you want that love. Is it to fill something missing, or to validate something real? The answer changes everything.

To the reader wondering how to endure the internal weight of life’s unavoidable truths: practice naming them without flinching. Notice the binary thinking that creeps in—good vs. bad, success vs. failure, love vs. abandonment—and hold it up to the light. Most binaries collapse under scrutiny.

If there’s any wisdom I can offer from my ongoing dance with uncertainty, it’s this: stay curious about your own story. Especially the parts you hide. Especially the ones you don’t understand yet. They hold the map to your freedom.

And to the editorial staff wondering if this submission is just another op-ed from a man who’s been writing these instead of seeking therapy—yeah, maybe. But if self-confrontation through public reflection is a form of healing, I’ll keep at it.

I’m no longer trying to win approval. I’m trying to stay honest. And that, I’ve found, is harder—and more necessary—than ever.

Go to www.stoopjuice.com for more content written by Jose Franco