What I’ve Learned Since Speaking to Young Democrats in 2021

Navigating the complexities of modern political discourse can feel like traversing a maze, where clarity often gives way to confusion. One example of this was an article I posted on February 28, 2021 titled "5 Things Young Democrats Should Know In 2021". In my attempts to convey ideas that are clear in my mind, I sometimes struggle to express them with the precision they deserve. However, at the heart of it all, there lies a shared human experience—a deep desire for tranquility, connection, and understanding. This journey to articulate such truths became clearer after Donald Trump’s 2016 victory. Instead of falling into despair, I reflected on my own actions and realized the importance of universal love and awareness in addressing the divisions in society. Today, I continue this reflection, drawing from my experiences and insights to offer a broader perspective on how we, as individuals, can make meaningful contributions to the world around us. While I may not have all the answers, I know that change begins with self-reflection and a deep understanding of human nature.

Writing for an audience attuned to the complexities of contemporary thought and discourse often feels like navigating a labyrinth. While I’m brimming with ideas, the challenge lies in articulating them effectively—conveying thoughts that are vibrant and cohesive in my mind yet fragmented as they filter through the limitations of language. Words, as essential as they are, can sometimes feel like a blunt instrument, incapable of encapsulating the nuances and depths of human experience. In this frustrating journey from intention to expression, I grapple with the constraints of language in striving to create something accessible and resonant for a diverse readership.

As I embark on this exploration, I draw from my extensive contemplation of human experience, particularly regarding the nature of choice, influenced by the contrasting ideas of two profound figures: Viktor Frankl and Bessel van der Kolk. Frankl, a Holocaust survivor, endured unimaginable horrors yet emerged with a powerful philosophical perspective that has shaped much of my understanding of agency. His experiences in concentration camps exposed him to the darkest facets of human existence, but they also illuminated a remarkable insight: between the stimulus and the response, there exists a space. This space, he argued, is where our power to choose resides, and it is these choices that shape our destiny. Frankl's notion offers a deeply humanistic perspective, one steeped in hope—the belief that we can transcend even the most horrific circumstances by exercising our freedom of choice. His own survival was a testament to the resilience of the human spirit and the transformative power of this agency.

Frankl’s experiences during the Holocaust were marked by unspeakable trauma. In the concentration camps, he witnessed the brutal realities of suffering and despair, where countless lives were extinguished, and the essence of humanity was put to the ultimate test. Yet, in the face of such overwhelming darkness, he clung to a profound truth: even when everything is stripped away, the one thing that can never be taken from us is our ability to choose our attitude in any given set of circumstances. This idea resonates deeply within me, illustrating the potential for personal empowerment even amid chaos and destruction.

However, as I delve deeper into this complex interplay of choice and trauma, I am confronted by the neuroscientific perspectives presented by Bessel van der Kolk. A son of Holocaust survivors himself, van der Kolk's work focuses on the intricacies of trauma and its long-lasting effects on the brain and body. His research suggests that trauma embeds itself so deeply within us that our responses to stimuli often transcend conscious choice. This notion poses a significant challenge to Frankl's assertion of agency; if our reactions are hardwired through our neurological pathways—programmed by experiences we may not fully comprehend—how can we genuinely claim the power of choice? Van der Kolk’s findings imply that many of our actions and reactions are predetermined, reactive, not by thoughtful decision but by the systems our bodies and minds have constructed to protect us from past wounds. The interplay between these two philosophies raises critical questions about the essence of human agency and the enduring impacts of trauma.

This tension between freedom and determinism becomes even more personal when I reflect on my own journey as a writer and thinker. Like Alain de Botton, I often feel that my work is driven by my relationship with my parents. De Botton speaks candidly about how much of his writing—especially on themes of love, happiness, and emotional intelligence—stems from growing up in a household where he felt physically secure but emotionally neglected. I can imagine him as a child: sensitive, introspective, and surrounded by adults who were perhaps incapable of providing the emotional support and attunement he desperately needed. This classic narrative of a child learning to cope with the emotional void left by well-meaning but emotionally distant parents resonates with my own experiences.

I share this sentiment deeply. Growing up in the South Bronx during the 1970s with my mother and older brother, I faced a similar dichotomy. I had food, shelter, and the basics, yet there was an emotional gap I couldn’t quite articulate at the time. My mother, despite her best efforts, often seemed overwhelmed by her circumstances, leaving me feeling alone in a crowded room. My thoughts and feelings felt too complex and too strange for anyone else to grasp. This emotional absence shaped much of who I am today, just as I imagine it shaped de Botton. It fueled my lifelong quest to understand myself, others, and the world. My writing, philosophy, and continuous search for meaning all stem from a primal need to bridge that emotional gap that marked my childhood.

In contrast to de Botton’s quieter search for understanding, I’ve noted something more turbulent in the journey of Jordan Peterson—a man I once admired for his intellectual rigor and willingness to confront difficult moral questions. Peterson's disposition aligns with what William James referred to as the “sick soul”—an individual acutely aware of life’s inherent suffering and contradictions. Peterson is someone driven by the need to reconcile these tensions with morality, purpose, and integrity. For a time, I found resonance in Peterson’s struggle for meaning and his quest for truth amidst moral ambiguity. His call to personal responsibility and self-improvement echoed Frankl’s notions of agency, suggesting that even in the face of suffering, we have the potential to choose our path.

However, my respect for Peterson has faltered, particularly following his endorsement of Donald Trump. It’s not that I am naïve to political nuance, but Peterson's alignment with Trump seems to contradict the very values he once championed: moral integrity, intellectual honesty, and the courage to speak truth to power. This incongruity leaves me questioning his motivations and integrity. Why would a man so dedicated to upholding high moral standards choose to associate himself with someone who, in my view, embodies the antithesis of these ideals? This internal conflict has become a riddle I find increasingly challenging to solve. Perhaps Peterson views Trump as a flawed but necessary disruptor within a corrupt system. Yet I can’t shake the nagging suspicion that this justification reflects a betrayal of Peterson’s philosophical foundations. Is it possible that he, like so many others, has succumbed to the very forces he once critiqued—ego, power, and the seductive pull of tribalism?

This ongoing struggle places me at odds—not only with Peterson but with philosophy as a whole. It’s so easy to intellectualize, to construct frameworks that explain the world, but these frameworks often overlook the complexities and contradictions of human nature. The philosophers I’ve studied—Nietzsche, Schopenhauer, and others—each had their flaws. They wielded their considerable intellects to rationalize their biases and limitations, much as I do, as we all do. The challenge, for me, lies in embracing this awareness—accepting that no matter how much I learn or how deeply I engage with the works of others, I remain confined by my experiences, my ego, and my subjective reality.

Reflecting on my childhood, I remember that eight-year-old boy living in the South Bronx, wide-eyed and filled with questions about the world. I was unaware then that the way I perceived life was shaped by my environment—the noise, the poverty, the constant struggle for survival. My adult thoughts are shaped by different factors—experiences, education, and interactions with others—but they remain limited. I am not the same person I was at eight, nor will I be the same person in a decade. Change is an unceasing process, but it is rarely conscious. It accumulates through experiences, perspectives, and insights, gradually altering our perceptions.

Despite this continual evolution, I find myself returning to one core belief: the importance of embracing one’s insignificance. This idea, central to my writing, has served as both salvation and frustration. On one hand, it liberates me from the confines of ego, allowing me to release my grip on control. On the other, it compels me to confront the limits of my understanding, forcing me to accept that there will always be aspects of life I cannot grasp, change, or mend.

In my writing of How to Get Better at Things You Don’t Think You’re Bad At by 2020, I aimed to articulate this very concept—that self-improvement isn’t about mastering the world or conquering our flaws but rather recognizing the limits of what we know and can control. It’s about understanding that most of our struggles arise from our resistance to this reality. We long to believe we have greater control than we do, that our choices are genuinely free, and that, with enough effort, we can overcome anything.

Yet, as I’ve come to understand, the truth is far more complex. Our actions are not entirely within our control; we are shaped by forces beyond our comprehension—neuroscience, trauma, culture, history. Yes, there exists a space between stimulus and response, as Frankl suggested, but this space often feels narrower than we assume. It is clouded by unconscious drives, by neural pathways we do not fully comprehend, and by memories we’ve long forgotten.

So, where does that leave me? Where does it leave any of us?

It leaves us in a state of perpetual inquiry and constant self-confrontation. We must embrace the paradoxes of human existence, acknowledging both our agency and our limitations. I don’t possess all the answers, and I suspect I never will. However, I do know this: the search for meaning, for understanding, for connection is a worthy endeavor, even when the answers remain elusive. Perhaps that struggle—this exploration of self and society—is what makes life rich and profound.