"To succeed in life, you need two things: ignorance and confidence."
— Mark Twain

You don’t have to know much about something to do it, or to even do it well. In fact, sometimes the less you know the better.

After years of my dad talking about “getting me out there,” I picked up a rifle at the age of 37 and headed for the woods. I had always been around hunters — first my dad and grandpa, and later my husband — but I never had much interest in it. Perhaps it was the thought of cold mornings hunched in a blind or some treetop perch, waiting and watching for something that may never come when there was perfectly good meat sitting in my freezer.

It wasn’t that it seemed hard. What was there to know? Camouflage yourself, wear an orange hat or vest, be quiet, aim and shoot at your target.

With little knowledge of hunting or marksmanship, I shot a deer at the first opportunity.

It turns out there’s only one way to kill a deer, but many ways to fuck it up.

We humans often have a tendency to want to learn all there is to know about a subject or task before undertaking it. This is natural — a desire to not waste our time, to control the output of our efforts, to build confidence.

But what if this is counterintuitive? What if it can actually cause us to overthink and perform worse?

Trapped in the confines of how things are usually done, we plough ahead with what our training and teaching tells us is the most obvious and proven path. But instead of being freed by our knowledge, we end up being tied down by it.

This can apply to any person and to many different professions and hobbies.

For me, this is writing.

On each of my wrists are tattooed four words — on the left, I live to write, on the right, I write to live.

But this constant reminder and my years of education, training and experience don’t help me when it comes time to sit down and write. It’s not that I don’t know enough about or haven’t read enough good writing or writers. It’s not that I don’t know all the writing rules – the grammar and punctuation and stylistic canon, if you will.

It’s perhaps that I know too much, including the fact that there’s an endless number of ways in which any piece of writing can be configured, along with an endless array of preferences.

Is this any good? Will my audience like this? What will they like and respond to? Should I have used that word? These are just some of the thoughts — the gatekeepers — to my being able to sit down and spit out something that feels worth anything at all.

Writing, like any endeavor, can be exhausting … and defeating.

That’s why sometimes it feels good to put down the pen and pick up something else, something new. Something I won’t overthink. That might build my confidence just a little.

Like a rifle.

When I pulled the trigger that fired the bullet that killed my first deer — and my second — I could have waited hoping a larger deer would follow, I could have taken the time to ensure a more stable resting spot for my barrel, I could have let the rapidly approaching darkness or my fear of a bad shot stop me from taking it. I could have thought about the wind or the long distance or how difficult it may be to find her in the dark. But I didn’t.

Afterall, I didn’t know what I didn’t know.

Having little knowledge of hunting, I, upon spotting the deer, pulled the gun to my shoulder, rested the barrel on the precarious intersection of two rods on the window of my hunting blind and the sight on the kill zone, took a deep breath and slowly pulled the trigger.

I didn’t think. I did what felt right, let my body take over, and hoped for the best.

If only writing were that easy.

But that belief was solidified on Sunday when the U.S. men’s Olympic hockey team defeated Canada 2-1 in sudden-death overtime.

At a time when I’ve been having trouble separating the people in power in this country (from those in the spotlight to those operating in the shadows — or, in Jeffrey Epstein’s shadow, that is) from the country itself, 25 men have reminded me what the USA is and means.

In watching the U.S. men’s hockey team defeat the undefeated favorite, Canada, and witnessing their patriotic revelry, I realized America is more than a single person or group, and more than the party or person in power — or operating in the shadows. It’s greater than our transgressions and more powerful than what divides us.

It’s an ethos unto itself.

And it’s something that even the most anti- or un-American among us can’t damage or destroy. Those who don’t get it don’t get it.

When asked about his thoughts on representing the U.S. in the 2026 Winter Olympics, freestyle skier Hunter Hess said he had “mixed emotions” given “everything that’s going on in the U.S.” In the days that followed, perhaps rattled by the media attention his remark garnered and Trump’s Trump-y response (he called him “a real loser”), Hess’ performance suffered.

His remark was one that, at best, demonstrated his lack of understanding of what America is — a nation not defined by a single president or his actions or one group’s reaction to those, but one built on values like liberty, self-reliance, determination and integrity. A nation that despite mistakes and setbacks continues to defy the odds, that keeps on keeping on even when everything seems stacked against her.

The contrast between Hess’ America — one built on angst and resentment — and the America of the U.S. men’s hockey team — one defined by grit and determination and collective optimism — couldn’t be more stark. And Sunday’s win couldn’t make that clearer.

In a sport where losing a few teeth and a pint of blood are all in a day’s work, where rivalries run as deep as comradery, the U.S. men’s hockey team showed what it means to prevail and to do so honorably. Forty-six years since its last Olympic gold, the team of 25 showed a nation of over 342 million what it means to be American.

Representing the best that the USA has to offer, 24-year-old Jack Hughes, bloodied and breathless, said to reporters following his game-winning goal, “That’s American hockey right there. We’re USA. We’re so proud to be Americans. Tonight was all for the country. We’re so proud to win for our country.”

There will always be those who are American in name only, who misrepresent what she is all about, who would use her to further their own interests and ideals. But we can take heart in knowing there are still people — at least 25 young men — who still believe in and embody the true spirit of America. The idea that won’t die and can’t be killed.

But I’ll let you be the judge of who the better team was and is.

“Whenever you find yourself on the side of the majority, it is
time to pause and reflect.”
— Mark Twain

I’ve never understood the idea of following the crowd.

In a world with so many people and an unlimited number of choices, how is it that the majority of people in a given situation would all make the same decision?

Moreover, how can we be sure of the validity of our own decisions if they always align with everyone else’s? How will we ever know if a decision was really our own or if it was simply the easiest or most widely accepted choice at the time?

But imagine if more than a few people — if everyone — bucked conventional wisdom? What if instead of toeing the line or following the crowd, we followed our unique instinct?

What if, instead of being sheep, we were our own shepherd?

I believe that would be a good thing, because I believe that rebelliousness — when genuine — leads to innovation, scientific advancement, justice and even healthier communities. And I believe that, even though charting your own course comes with risks, it’s often better to discover what works for yourself.

I’ve come to this conclusion through both nature and nurture, instinct and experience.

One night at the dinner table, as my daughter sat, cuddled in a white blanket, before her plate of spaghetti, I told her to set the blanket aside while we ate — that she was likely to get sauce on it. She resisted, of course: “I won’t, I promise,” she wailed. “I’ll be careful.”

One minute into our dinner, I was throwing the blanket in the wash. And the concept that white blankets and red sauce don’t mix was settling in her mind.

Was I surprised by her resistance? Of course not.

I am, by nature, a stubborn person. Born to not listen, to question authority, to do things my own way on my own time. My profession itself is a testament to this.

When I was a senior in high school and people would ask what I planned to study in college, their reaction was always the same: “Journalism, oh? So you’re going to Mizzou?”

Mizzou, or the University of Missouri-Columbia, is known for its world-renowned journalism school, as I was well aware and would continue to be reminded of.

But my decision to not go to Mizzou was an intentional one.

I didn’t choose Mizzou for the very reason that everyone assumed that, as an aspiring journalist, that’s where I would go.

Afterall, my interest in journalism was itself, in part, in rebellion against norms. It wasn’t tied to traditional notions of what a journalist is — or what I imagined people envisioned: a broke, unkempt writer with an alcohol problem and a penchant for keeping the bastards honest (although, at the time, aspects of that did seem compelling).

An aspiring writer with a desire to pursue truth — not the truth that was served to me by my parents, my teachers or the news media — I wanted to examine the world up close and give it back to readers in the most honest way possible.

But even journalism was too narrow for me.

So, I created my own path — a major in media communications and minors in journalism and psychology.

And I’ve never looked back. The experience and the opportunities that have come from that have led me here — to a tried, tested and truer version of myself.

Could I have been happy going the obvious route, the traditional route? It’s possible.

But the path to true fulfillment isn’t paved with the decisions of others, but with our own faulty choices and mistakes and achievements.

That’s the power of rebelliousness: It can lead us to a fuller version of ourselves — individually and collectively.

I believe we need more rebels.

I’m not talking about performative rebelliousness — pushing back against an idea, a path or a system, simply for the spectacle of nonconformity rather than to find the right path for yourself or achieve change. (Many modern protest movements come to mind.)

Rather I’m referring to those who often stand completely alone in their pursuit of knowledge, ideas or justice — often at great risk to themselves. These are the people who change themselves and society for the better.

Consider some of humanity’s most notable rebels …

Imagine if Galileo had never challenged the geocentric view of the universe that was backed by the Catholic Church and had been accepted as truth for millenia, or if the Wright brothers had never defied conventional wisdom that powered flight was impossible, or if Martin Luther King Jr. had not stood up to injustice and fought for civil rights, or if Dr. Harvey Washington Wiley – known as the “Father of the Pure Food and Drugs Act” — had never advocated for federal food and drug oversight.

The world would be a much different place without them.

Who do you think are some of the most notable modern-day rebels? What can we learn from them?

“What we have done for ourselves alone dies with us; what we have done for others and the world remains and is immortal.”
— Albert Pike

In a world that often values self-protection over selflessness, I’ve found myself revisiting a lesson that many of us first heard as children, often from a parent or teacher. Becoming a Catholic has helped me rediscover the timelessness of the golden rule — treat others the way you want to be treated — and the grace that comes from choosing to love others, even when it’s hard.

This is what I believe: I believe in treating others with kindness and love, even when they haven’t earned it.

My first and greatest example of this was my mom. She lived out the golden rule in a way that looked effortless. But now I know it was a choice she made every single day. Growing up, I watched her greet strangers with warmth, show patience when it would’ve been easier to snap and extend grace to people who had wronged her. She didn’t decide who deserved her kindness – she just gave it freely, because that’s who she was. As a kid, I didn’t realize how rare that was. I just thought that’s how everyone was supposed to be. Looking back, I can see that, by her example, she planted the first seeds of my belief in the power of kindness.

For a while, I drifted away from that way of living. I even worried that showing kindness might make me look weak. I bought into the self-first mindset: Cut ties with anyone who hurts you. Protect your peace above all else. And while I still believe boundaries are healthy and necessary, I’ve learned through therapy and life experience that putting myself first in every situation didn’t make me feel stronger. Instead, I found myself trapped in resentment toward people who had hurt me. That anger and bitterness quietly shaped the way I saw the world, coloring my thoughts and interactions. I began to believe the world was as bitter and guarded as my own heart.

Therapy helped me start to forgive, not necessarily to excuse what had happened or what I had experienced, but to free myself enough to let love back into my heart, even when it still ached.

In recent years, my faith has grown in ways I could have never imagined. Looking back, I can see that the seeds were planted long ago by my mom. She wasn’t particularly religious, but she taught me by example — through her kindness, her compassion and her constant effort to make others feel loved. Those lessons stayed with me and created a desire in my heart to become a better person, like her.

This desire led me to the ultimate example of love and goodness: Jesus Christ. Through Him, I found not only purpose, but peace. This journey eventually brought me to the Catholic Church, where I felt at home in a way I never had before.This past Easter, in 2025, I was confirmed Catholic — a moment that felt like the beautiful culmination of the small seed my mom had planted so many years ago.

My ongoing faith journey has helped me understand that the golden rule isn’t just a nice idea, it’s a reflection of Christ’s commandment to love our neighbors as ourselves. Through the Church, I’ve come to see that love and mercy aren’t meant to be reserved for when it’s convenient or deserved; it’s not meant to be easy. In fact, following it when it’s hardest — especially with those who have hurt or wronged us — is how real love and mercy take root. They’re meant to be lived out in action, as a reflection of the unconditional love God has for each of us.

One of the most profound examples of someone living out their love for others was my late mother-in-law, Jean Kuczka. She was an inner-city high school teacher who drove two hours round trip each day simply because she loved her students. She became like a mother to many of them, offering the care and support that some of them had never received at home. She bravely lived out her faith and her love for others in the most extraordinary way. On October 24, 2022, she placed herself between a lone gunman and her students, shielding them and urging them to jump out the window to safety, ultimately giving her life to protect them. Because of her selfless sacrifice, not a single student in her classroom was harmed.

Jean’s life and her final act before she passed exemplify the golden rule and Jesus’ command to “love one another as I have loved you. No one has greater love than this: to lay down one’s life for one’s friends.” (John 15:12-13)

At a time when so much emphasis is placed on the individual, how do you make a point to put others before yourself?

“Ask not what your country can do for you, but what you can do
for your country.”
—President John F. Kennedy

When President John F. Kennedy spoke these words during his 1961 inaugural address, the mood of the nation was one of tension and youthful optimism.

The country was divided — though not polarized — over issues like civil rights and the Cold War. Tensions with the Soviets spurred concerns among Americans about falling behind in science, technology and defense, and the possibility of nuclear war loomed large. At the same time, Americans had high confidence in the nation’s institutions (68% trusted government most of the time), strong national pride and economic optimism, as polls from that time show.

Both the sense of urgency and hope spurred by this time reinforced America’s civic-minded ethos — a widely held belief that, as citizens, Americans should serve their country, whether it be through military service or political office. On that day, in 1961, Kennedy recognized the spirit of the moment and the sense of duty felt by all Americans, that each person has a role to play in democracy’s survival.

Today’s landscape and atmosphere is much different.

As of 2025, 58% of U.S. adults say they are “extremely” (41%) or “very” (17%) proud to be an American — a 9% drop from the previous year. Trust in institutions is down as well, with just 28% of U.S. adults expressing “a great deal” or “quite a lot” of confidence in nine U.S. institutions, representing the fourth year in a row of sub-30% averages. Another poll put trust in the federal government specifically at 22% in 2024 — that is, people who trusted the government to do what is right all or most of the time — compared to 77% in 1964, three years after Kennedy’s inauguration and one year after his assassination. And while we face many real threats from abroad today, our greatest enemy is not outside of our borders but within us.

Allowing our disagreements to divide and polarize, we are at war with ourselves and with the idea of America itself. Patriotism has been traded for contempt, a sense of duty to country and community by allegiance to an ideology, and civic involvement by activism. The challenges and needs of our nation no longer serve as a rallying cry, rather as a deterrent to civic life altogether — at a time when America needs her citizens more than ever.

Our storied history and our current predicament inform my belief in the need for active engagement in our democracy. I believe that we have a duty to remain civically engaged and involved — during good times and, especially, bad. I believe it’s not just our responsibility as Americans to do so; it’s a prerequisite to an informed nation, a compassionate nation, a prosperous nation — a free nation. A nation that is capable of acknowledging and resolving its own issues.

When we neglect our civic duty, when we stop standing up for our nation’s foundational values and making our voices heard on the issues that matter most to us — at the ballot box, in public forums, at school board meetings – we’ll find ourselves with greater government, worsening problems and less control. Thus, “a government of, by and for the people” is not an idealistic mantra, but a pragmatic means for maintaining our democratic republic.

The lessons of Kennedy’s time still hold true and our modern challenges bear this out: Self-government cannot function without the active participation of its citizens. Though what this looks like for each person will vary.

In 1961, President Kennedy’s challenge to the American people was clear: Freedom requires responsibility, and democracy requires active citizens. That truth has not changed — only the shape of the challenge has. Where Americans once feared Soviet missiles, we now face the quiet threat of apathy, division and cynicism. However, the duty to remain civically engaged is the same. The only way our democratic republic will endure is if we, the people, take ownership of it.

How do you do your part to remain civically engaged in the American experiment?

“The need for connection and community is primal, as fundamental as the need for air, water and food.”
—Dean Ornish

I believe we need each other. I believe we need human connection and a sense of community. I believe these things are essential to not just our individual physical, mental and emotional well-being, but for the health of society more broadly.

And I believe that nothing quite bears this out like the Covid-19 pandemic.

It wasn’t until a year after the start of the pandemic, in the spring and summer of 2021, that people really began to spend time together, in numbers, in public spaces again. By that time, most students had returned to the classroom, and by 2022, some workers were returning to the office — but it would be another year before companies began mandating their return.

Yet, it took mere months to realize the detrimental effects of our both forced and willful isolation – especially among children.

By the summer of 2020, studies were already revealing that children’s mental health was deteriorating. Disruptions to both their educational experience and their social lives — and the impact of being stuck at home, sometimes in challenging family situations, without peer support — caused significant emotional distress. Rates of anxiety and depression skyrocketed; CDC data from mid-2020 indicated that the kids were, in fact, not all right, with a sharp increase in mental health-related emergency room visits for children, particularly adolescents.

The impact of not being in the classroom was also clear in students’ learning. One analysis showed that seven out of eight early studies found clear evidence of learning loss between March 2020 and March 2021. Disengaged from their school work and their teachers, students’ reading and math scores dropped – and continued to for years afterward. Additionally, young children in particular faced challenges with communication and emotional regulation as a result.

But the varying negative effects of this prolonged isolation weren’t reserved to children.

While my husband and I were fortunate that our daughter’s daycare remained open during most of that time, we were ourselves starved for connection with the outside world. Thus, we began a weekly ritual: Every Thursday, as soon as we put our daughter to bed, we’d grab a six pack and some lawn chairs and join our neighbors on our separate front porches. For hours, separated by a patch of English ivy and a crumbling walkway, we’d chat about our day and jobs and life – and anything that came to mind – contemplating, laughing, debating and often drinking way too much.

We weren’t alone. Many others found ways to connect during this otherwise lonely time. Birthday drive-bys, distanced backyard barbecues, drive-in movies and, yes, porch beers — proving that connectedness is not something we can easily go without. That it’s something we crave and even need.

That need is not just emotional, but also mental, physical, intellectual and spiritual. We need a community of people to share our thoughts and experiences with, to bounce ideas off of, to help us think critically and reflect, to build empathy, to learn and to grow. To laugh, share stories and support each other.

We need each other in order to be reminded of our common humanity.

And I believe that when we avoid others, whether out of fear, anxiety, ego or indifference, we harm ourselves and society. The immediate result is often loneliness, anxiety and depression. The ultimate result is the dehumanization of others and the cultivation of antisocial thoughts and behaviors, including violence.

The pandemic exposed an unflattering side of humanity at an already polarized time, perpetuating the growing practice of “othering,” over seeing people for the imperfect humans they are.

We are not meant to live like that — isolated in our homes, crouched behind screens, communicating through keystrokes, hurling insults at each other from a safe distance, stuck in our own small echo chambers. The longer we retreat within our homes and within ourselves, the more difficult it becomes to step outside. But for our sanity and our society, we must force ourselves to go beyond our screens — to see and be a part of the wider world, to be among other people, to engage face-to-face, to feel awkward and vulnerable. To feed our need for human connection.

How did the pandemic affect your understanding of the need for connection? Please share your thoughts below.

“A sense of humor is a measurement of the extent to which you realize that you are trapped in a world almost entirely devoid of reason. Laughter is how you release the anxiety you feel at this knowledge.”
— Dave Barry

I believe that humans need laughter in order to survive … in more ways than one. I believe laughter is a natural reaction to our often overstimulating, overwhelming, over-stressed lives, as well as an effective weapon against fear. It helps ease tension and stress, bridges divides, brings people together and reminds us to not take ourselves too seriously.

On September 29, 2001, SNL aired its first episode following the 9/11 terrorist attacks. The show opened on a somber note, with then Mayor Rudy Giuliani appearing on stage alongside members of the NYPD and FDNY and, following a performance of “The Boxer,” musician Paul Simon. Speaking to the audience, Giuliani said:

“On September 11th, more lives were lost than on any other single day in America’s history, more than Pearl Harbor and more than D-Day. … Our hearts are broken, but they are beating, and they are beating stronger than ever.”

Joining the men on stage, producer Lorne Michaels famously asked Giuliani, “Can we be funny?” To which Giuliani plainly replied, “Why start now?” Drawing what was arguably the biggest laugh of the night, the moment was a signal to Americans that it was OK to laugh again. That despite the horrific tragedy of just a few weeks earlier, sometimes laughter is the best, if not only, medicine.

The episode — although uncomfortable at times — offered a respite from the emotional toll of the preceding weeks … and served as an invitation to begin the healing process.

Danish-American comedian and pianist Victor Borge was right when he said, “Laughter is the shortest distance between two people.” Our sense of humor may vary, our proclivity for laughter, but laughter’s ability to erase all fears, anxieties, disagreements and limitations, and bring people together even amidst tragedy — even if just for a moment — is ubiquitous.

I believe we need to laugh regularly, deeply and often.

And when we fail to, we pay for it with an emptiness that can’t otherwise be filled — a feeling not unlike that of hunger, that begins in the pit of the stomach and eventually, if ignored long enough, embeds itself into all areas, situations and interactions. It stretches into our work and attempts at play, into our conversations and relationships, and like a shade, its very absence can darken our perspective and experiences.

At its best, laughter is highly contagious … as my family and I learned during a recent front-yard camp-out. As our 7-year-old — exhausted and feeling the effects of her smore — began to laugh uncontrollably, every word we uttered or sound we made just adding fuel to her delusional stupor, we, too, found ourselves responding in kind. Her cycle of cackles, followed by heavy signs and a brief period of silence, triggered in us a visceral, at times uncontrollable, reaction as well.

This type of uncensored, no-holds-barred kind of laugh – that comes from the back of the throat, somewhere deep in the esophagus, that leaves no question as to its authenticity — is one of the most wonderful, honest things a person can experience. My daughter’s laugh is that — when my 4-year-old son makes one of his uniquely Otto comments (“We don’t eat people,” for instance) or my husband stares at her with crossed eyes from across the dinner table, she breaks into a beautiful, unrestrained howl – head tilted upwards, eyes closed – that makes it impossible to not join in.

As Charles Dickens noted, “There is nothing in the world so irresistibly contagious as laughter and good humor.”

So, when the world gets to be too much, when I feel like I might cry if I don’t laugh – or we all simply need a good chuckle – my family and I will flip on a good comedy, attempt a few tongue twisters or listen to a favorite comedian. And occasionally, we’ll pull out my list of “Otto-isms” (“I didn’t know there were farms in this world,” “If we do a haircut, my hair still grows when I go outside,” or, one of my personal favorites, “We don’t want to cut our heads off”), reading them off one by one until I hear the familiar unrestrained howl of my daughter and the bubbly giggles of my son, and eventually my own rhythmic chuckling, as all else becomes noise.

What makes you laugh hardest, and where do you seek out laughter?

“The human race has only one really effective weapon and that is laughter."
— Mark Twain

“If you hate a person, you hate something in him that is part of yourself. What isn’t part of ourselves doesn’t disturb us.”
— Hermann Hesse, “Demian”

I was a few days shy of 15 when 19 terrorists took the lives of 2,997 people – mostly Americans – on September 11, 2001. Later that afternoon, as I sat watching the news coverage, from the safety and seclusion of my bedroom, I felt overwhelmed by sadness. I struggled to understand how people could do this to fellow human beings. But, beneath that, I also felt something unlike anything I had before — a deep sense of pride in and patriotism for my country.

I had been raised to love my country, to know its history, to pledge allegiance to the flag, to stand for the national anthem. I knew that we enjoyed certain freedoms that other countries did not — ones that we often take for granted. But the deeper meaning of all of this had been, up to this point, largely lost on me. An abstract concept that, at the time, I was too inexperienced in life to comprehend.

In this new feeling, however, it turned out I was not alone.

In the days and months that followed, the country came together in ways that many people would think impossible nowadays. Americans held candlelight vigils, drove thousands of miles to volunteer in New York, enlisted in the military. Musicians wrote songs memorializing those whose lives were cut short. Congressmen and women sang “God Bless America” together on the steps of the U.S. Capitol. The American flag was flown from homes, cars, storefronts and overpasses, was tattooed, and painted on barns and buildings. (Some reports put the increase in sales of the American flag in the weeks following 9/11 at 1,000 percent.)

The solidarity and patriotism felt by all was electric. The promise of the future alive and well. Life had given us rotten lemons, and we had grown an orchard. And it wasn’t in spite of what had happened, but because of it.

I used to think that’s just what happened when tragedy strikes — that like a tsunami following a massive earthquake, people after horrific events organically come together.

But that is a fallacy.

Instead, I’ve realized, it’s a decision that people make. An active choice to abandon preconceived notions about the “other” side, to stop questioning motives when people open up, to allow people to grieve in their own way. To realize it’s how we are alike (not different) that matters most. And that the fate of our country and our dignity as humans and our future in this world depend on it.

Ultimately, I believe that there is good that can come from tragedy — as long as we have the strength, the humility, the courage and the humanity to heed the call.

Read about the impetus for our “I believe” series at the link below.

“We must learn to live together as brothers or perish together as fools.”
— Martin Luther King Jr.

“If you change the way you look at things, the things you look at change.”
—Wayne Dyer

When my husband and I embarked on potty training our first child — our daughter Josephine — we had no idea what we were getting into. Our naivete served us well at first, fueling our optimism. After all, she was the one who initiated.

It was amidst the pandemic lockdowns and forced mask wearing that in a small one-bathroom cabin in Copper Harbor, Michigan, Jo decided to exert her autonomy by going on the potty. And again. Then again immediately upon our return home.

She’s ready, we proclaimed.

We dove in head first, bought all the prerequisite bathroom supplies and accessories — books, pull-ups, kid-sized toilet seats. We offered encouragement, rewards (Skittles and M&M’s), praise, took potty breaks at least every hour. But as time went on, as we pushed, poked and prodded — not to mention packed up our house to move — our encouragement turned to pleas and, eventually, punishment.

It only got worse once in our new house, also with a little brother on the way. We got frustrated, angry, raised our voices, then felt guilty, helpless, defeated. At this point, Jo nearly a 4-and-a-half-year-old who still pooped her pants. We took breaks and resigned ourselves to an indefinite future of pull-ups and butt wiping.

Then, one day that summer … she went to the bathroom … by herself. No poking or prodding or hand-holding or Skittles. She just decided — and that was it.

The rest, so they say, is history.

That is the thing about human nature that is both aggravating and empowering: You cannot force a person to do something they do not want to do. You can incentivize, praise, ridicule, deride, even threaten or, in the worst cases, physically harm them, but if they have not found the desire or will within themselves to commit to the thing being asked of them, they will not do it.

Are some people more willing to give in or others more stubborn? Of course. But, as with many things in life — and as I tell my kids all the time — we have no control over other people’s actions. Just as we have no control over the sun rising or the wind blowing or the traffic jam on our way to work.

Attempting to force people to do what you want, even something as seemingly small as seeing the world from a different perspective (or going potty on the toilet), is almost always a frivolous endeavor. Instead, I believe people have to find it within themselves to act or to change.

This goes for everyone — from toddlers to teenagers to adults. We can provide people with all of the support and information we can, approach them with kindness and empathy or loathing and self-righteousness, hold their hand the whole way or push them away, but in the end, only they are capable of making the decision to act or change.

This is one of the beautiful things about being human — we have the free will to do and be what we want, even to others’ chagrin and in the face of potentially harsh societal or legal consequences. No one can control us, or us them. We cannot be cajoled by an employer or a government, a friend or an enemy, or even a demanding parent. We are our own master. Thus, the only change that is required is within ourselves.

Read about the impetus for our “I believe” series at the link below.

“Free will is not the liberty to do whatever one likes, but the power of doing whatever one sees ought to be done, even in the very face of otherwise overwhelming impulse.”
—George MacDonald

“If you don't stand for something, you'll fall for anything.”
—Alexander Hamilton

Many people nowadays know pretty well what they’re against — Donald Trump, abortion, guns, Israel or open borders, for example — but fewer people seem to have as strong of a grasp on what it is they are for. (Even those who claim to be for certain things often offer only broad generalizations — think “I’m for love, not hate” yard signs — rather than specific, actionable declarations.)

That’s because knowing what you’re against is effortless, basic, reactive.

It’s knowing what you believe in that’s difficult. An exercise in self-reflection and analysis, discerning what we are for forces us to examine our beliefs and motivations, ask hard questions and move from broad concepts to a more narrowed, tailored, actionable vision of the world — one that’s rooted in experiences and values, as opposed to feelings. One that offers a more positive, uplifting view of the future and that unites us toward a common cause.

Being against something requires no such investment.

Rather than being rooted in logic or values or a deliberate thought process, being against something is often the result of an emotional reaction to external events. It may provide a temporary sense of relief and/or community, but it’s superficial and temporary in nature, stemming from feelings of fear, anger, anxiety, despair or resentment. It offers no hope or vision for the future, no promise of fulfillment or unification — only a point of reference at which to direct one’s contempt.

In recognizing the importance of and need for greater understanding around what it is we, as Americans, believe and stand for, today we’re announcing the launch of a series called “I believe” — a collection of weekly essays that highlight the values and philosophies of myself and other everyday Americans.

The idea is simple: to offer a positive, more uplifting vision of our future, rooted in values that unite us.

While I wish I could claim this as my own totally original idea, it was actually the brainchild of advertising executive Ward Wheelock, who, with the help of prominent broadcaster Edward R. Murrow and others, developed the concept in the 1950s. “This I Believe,” as the series was called, launched as a radio show on which notable individuals shared with listeners their personal philosophies — “the guiding beliefs by which they led their lives.” However, it quickly evolved to also include average Americans.

The impetus for the show was what its creators saw at that time as the supplanting of spiritual values for materials ones. Murrow, in his introduction to the 1950s “This I Believe” radio series, said:

“We hardly need to be reminded that we are living in an age of confusion. A lot of us have traded in our beliefs for bitterness and cynicism, or for a heavy package of despair, or even a quivering portion of hysteria. Opinions can be picked up cheap in the marketplace, while such commodities as courage and fortitude and faith are in alarmingly short supply.”

If one looks closely enough, it sounds as though Murrow is referring to our own times. A time in which we’re defined more by what we’re against than what we’re for.

Our series is designed to get people to think about what they stand for, what motivates them and inspires them, what their values are, what gives their life meaning and purpose — at a time when what it means to be human is being questioned (in more ways than one). To transform our experiences and ideals from something unseeable into something real and tangible and powerful, to then inspire people to bring their vision to fruition.

We do so knowing that while these beliefs are all personal, they are also deeply universal.

As journalist and novelist Rebecca West said in the 1950s series:

“I believe in liberty. I feel it is necessary for the health of the world that every man shall be able to say and do what he wishes and what is within his power, for each human being has a unique contribution to make toward our understanding of life, because every man is himself unique. His physical and mental makeup is unique, and his circumstances are unique. So he must be able to tell us something which could not be learned from any other source.”

Check back every week on Friday for a new, personal belief conveyed by everyday Americans in our “I believe” series.

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Therefore all true stories are history.

And all good stories tell the truth.

History in all its wisdom has many stories to tell us and, from those stories, lessons. Lapses in judgement, tragedies we’d ought not see repeated, bravery to aspire to, trust misplaced. Being aware of and reflecting on our history is essential for making the best decisions about our future.

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The Greek philosopher Plato believed we must first educate ourselves with false stories, or tales. Imagined though they are, these tales, he believed, speak to a universal truth, helping shape our understanding of our place in the world and society, fostering virtues and a sense of duty

The renowned Christian author C.S. Lewis believed that myths were essential for exposing children to the challenges they will ultimately face as adults. He believed that through story, children could securely learn about and, thus, prepare for the challenges and suffering they’re bound to encounter — in order that they may face and overcome them. As Lewis said:

“Since it is so likely that (children) will meet cruel enemies, let them at least have heard of brave knights and heroic courage. Otherwise you are making their destiny not brighter, but darker.”

Stories are not just for entertainment or escapism; they are how we share ideas and information, build connections and understanding, instill values and virtues, teach right and wrong, and inspire people to “be the change they wish to see in the world,” to borrow a phrase. Through stories we discover universal truths, expand our minds, question the status quo, learn and grow — individually and collectively.

Thus the stories we tell ourselves matter.

Our current story, we’re told, is one of a country deeply divided, at once resentful and boastful. In this story, characters are distilled down to one of two words: liberal or conservative, democrat or republican, right or wrong, good or bad. Without context, without nuance, there is no story. Without story, who are we?

The true dichotomy, in fact, is not in the labels we give each other, but in the values we live by, in the path we choose to take. Thus it’s not a case of left versus right, liberal versus conservative, democrat versus republican. It’s a matter of ignorance versus enlightenment, discipline versus waywardness, truth versus falsehood, seeking versus certainty.

Recently I was reminded of a quote from a book I read. In “Albert Camus and the Human Crisis,” author Robert Emmet Meagher quotes Camus, who, having lived through Nazi-occupied France during World War II, struggled with how to respond to this new level of evil and depravity:

“Contrary to what we sometimes think, the spirit is of no avail against the sword, but … the spirit together with the sword will always win out over the sword alone. … I have never believed in the power of truth in itself. But … when expressed forcefully, truth wins out over falsehood.”

The concept of truth is one we see thrown around a lot nowadays, specifically the phrase “my truth.” But this assumes that truth is an individualized, malleable thing. A stone to be chiseled and molded for the holder’s specific purpose, whatever that may be — for good or for evil. Instead, a more accurate phrase would be “my experience.” Experiences, valuable and insightful as they can be, vary. Truth is universal.

Thus, my interpretation of Camus’ “sword” is not violence or brutality, rather truth backed by action.

Truth by itself is not enough, as Camus so well understood. But truth conveyed through story, that’s a powerful weapon.

So, what do I hope to do here (as you’re probably wondering)? As Douglas Murray so aptly put it, “You just put a fact into someone’s head that they may not have considered, and then the rest is their responsibility.”

I don’t claim to be an expert at anything. I’m not here to preach, prophesize, bemoan or advise. My goal with Spirit & Sword is simple and straightforward: to share with you some stories … the rest is up to you.