-
How frames of reference could heal our divides
We live in a world split into sharp edges. Everyone has opinions – probably more than we’d care to admit. And much of that, let’s be honest, is the work of social media doing what it does best: packaging a message that’s quick, loud, and persuasive.
Facts? Experience? Context? Those often take a back seat. What we get instead are tiny bursts of crafted logic, sharpened emotion, and catchy rhetoric. They land in our feeds on TikTok, Reels, Shorts – repeated, echoed, amplified. Before long, we’re not really choosing what we believe. We’re being nudged.
And then come the silos. One click, one follow, and suddenly you’re in a bubble where only one version of reality is served. Day after day, spoon‑fed. If you don’t have the time – or haven’t been taught – to question, to test the other side’s argument, to gather facts beyond your “team’s” talking points, you become part of the split that’s tearing the seams of our society.
It plays out everywhere: radicals versus traditionalists, truth seekers versus “liars,” Democrats versus Republicans, left versus right. Each side convinced the other is wrong, if not dangerous. The mechanism itself is the problem. It’s powerful, and those in power know it. That’s another story.
But here’s a thought I stumbled upon in The Let Them Theory by Mel Robbins (with Sawyer Robbins): the author talks about a simple but surprisingly practical tool—the “frame of reference.” Instead of launching straight into “facts” or “truths,” you start by explaining where you’re coming from. What shaped your view? What experiences led you here?
Imagine it this way: if I start a conversation about parenting by telling you about challenges I faced as a father – or even about struggles from my own childhood – you’ll hear my opinions on children differently. Or if I share that I was mistreated by a priest as a kid, my sharp views on the church suddenly carry a different weight. The opinion hasn’t changed. The frame of reference has.
Maybe that’s the beginning of better conversations. Not “What do you think?” as the first question, but “Who are you? Where are you coming from?” Then, only then, “What do you think?” It won’t erase the divides overnight. But it might soften the walls just enough for us to see each other as people first, partisans second. And that feels like a start.
-
The comparison game: why even joy feels competitive online
There’s a quote from the philosopher Arthur Schopenhauer that has stuck with me: “If you only want to be happy, that is very easy to achieve. But people want to be happier than other people. And that is much more difficult.”
Morgan Housel, a writer I admire, brought this up in an interview recently and it’s been circling in my mind ever since. His take was this: much of our striving isn’t really about happiness in a pure, internal sense – it’s about comparison. It’s not that we want a nice house. It’s that we want a house nicer than yours. And once you see it that way, it’s hard to unsee it.
He argues that we often confuse the fleeting feeling of happiness with the deeper, more grounded state of being content. Happiness, after all, is momentary. It fades. But contentment – that quiet, inner peace – is something we can actually build toward.
So when someone asks, “What does it mean to be content?” – the answer, as Housel puts it, is moving away from these external benchmarks. It’s shifting our attention from how we measure up to others, and instead asking ourselves what actually brings us joy. For most of us, that list is surprisingly short. Our health. Our family. The people we love. That’s it.
And yet...
If that’s true – and I deeply believe it is – why do we still feel compelled to share that family reunion photo on Facebook?
I found myself scrolling through my feed the other day and saw a colleague’s cheerful post: kids smiling, sunset in the background, glasses raised in a toast. And I asked myself, not critically but curiously: What’s the value here? Is this just another entry in the comparison game? Because let’s be honest – the viewers, the followers, the onlookers... they don’t feel our joy. At best, they witness it. But more often than not, it stirs up something else. A small pang. A whisper of comparison.
And I’m not exempt. I’ve posted those photos too – the hiking trip, the birthday cake, the workout progress. But lately, I wonder if even the most innocent update can become part of a loop we never meant to join. A subtle, self-reinforcing cycle: Look how good my life is. Is yours as good? And just like that, we’re all participating in something we didn’t fully sign up for.
From this angle, it becomes painfully clear: there’s only one way out. We have to pause before posting. Maybe even stop entirely. Not because joy is bad, or family photos are wrong, but because somewhere along the way we began performing life instead of living it. Social media – once a digital scrapbook – has turned into a scoreboard.
And no one wins.
I’m not saying delete your Facebook account (though if you do, I won’t stop you). But I am saying this: maybe it’s time to ask ourselves why we’re sharing what we’re sharing. Is it connection? Or competition in disguise?
Because the only benchmark that really matters – the only one that can bring peace – is the one inside.
-
We blew it — now what?
Let’s face it: our establishment blew it. Somewhere along the way, the people steering the ship lost the map. And while we haven’t exactly hit the iceberg yet, the ice is definitely in sight.
Sure, Steven Pinker’s The Better Angels of Our Nature makes a compelling case that the world is better today than it was 50, 100, or 200 years ago. Fewer wars, lower crime, longer lives. And yet... doesn’t it feel like something is off? Like we’re living in a society that’s technically thriving, but spiritually disoriented?
Technology, with all its wonders, has turned us into a hive — efficient, interconnected, buzzing with information. But every global ache is now delivered straight to our devices: tweets, videos, messages, breaking news alerts. It's relentless. And despite this hyper-awareness, we don't seem to be learning much from it.
Yuval Noah Harari once wrote that civilization is built on communication — and that education is the bedrock of democracy. A society of uneducated citizens with the power to vote is like a bus full of toddlers at the wheel. Vulnerable to manipulation, seduced by black-and-white thinking.
And here’s the rub: social media, for all its promises of connection and democratization, seems to be making us... dumber. Or maybe just less attentive. In its race for our focus, it simplifies everything — boiling down nuanced ideas into bite-sized, clickable morsels. The world becomes a series of slogans, memes, hot takes.
We’re losing the muscle to hold complex, multi-layered thoughts in our heads. We swipe through issues that should take days to unpack. Worse still, we’re retreating into bubbles that reinforce our beliefs and radicalize our views. As a parent, it's hard not to notice how much this affects the younger generation — especially post-pandemic. Many of them are growing up immersed in a culture of instant takes and simplified narratives. Critical thinking is becoming a rare skill, right when we need it most — especially with AI around the corner.
So yes, back to the point: our global establishment failed to prepare us for this new world. The pandemic didn’t help, of course. But instead of reinforcing the structure, it exposed the cracks. And it’s the youngest among us who are paying the price. Education systems are thinning out. In some places, kids aren’t even required to read literature anymore. Math levels have dropped dramatically. We’re under-arming a generation that will soon be steering the world.
Meanwhile, alarming events keep surfacing. A few weeks ago in Poland, a horrific act of violence by a young person was not only committed, but shared and circulated online by countless others. A murder. On video. Spread like wildfire, as if it were just another TikTok challenge.
This is where we are. A society that desperately needs deep, systemic reform — but keeps dancing on the surface.
And yet... we know where to begin. With education. But not simplified education. Not “let’s make it easier” education. We need to teach more — and better. We need literature that expands perspective. Media that doesn’t just entertain, but invites us to feel what it's like to be someone else. What it’s like to be gay. To be a person of color. To be a minority of any kind. To be unheard, unseen, dismissed.
We're a global hive now — like it or not — and if all we can manage is scrolling endlessly through TikTok, then we’re not ready for the future that’s rushing toward us.
At times like these, I think about the Fermi paradox: if the universe is so vast and full of possibilities, where is everybody? One answer might be that civilizations tend to self-destruct before they get very far.
That thought lingers.
If we don’t act — if we don’t rebuild our systems from the ground up, starting with real education, attention regulation, civic empathy — we could be speeding straight toward our own implosion.
And maybe we also need to return to listening. Not just to one another, but to the few global voices still anchored in long-term thinking. People like Archbishop Desmond Tutu, the Dalai Lama, Mandela, Al Gore, the late Gandhi. The Elders. Many are gone now, but their idea lives on: that we must seek counsel beyond nations, beyond short-term politics. That global problems need global wisdom. That we must cultivate a new kind of sensitivity — one that isn't bound by borders.
Because the next chapter in our story won't be written by algorithms or slogans. It’ll be written by those who still know how to think, reflect, and feel.
Let’s make sure our kids can.
-
Work is a privilege — until it isn't
There’s something both grounding and quietly radical in this thought: Work is a privilege.
And more and more, it really will be.
Until we find new ways to virtualize our lives even further — layering services upon services, services for services, services on top of services for services (you get the idea) — this is how we create value. This is how the proverbial pie gets bigger. And even with AI growing fast and wide, there will still be pockets of value it won't immediately reach. I truly believe that.
But believing in the future of work doesn't mean turning a blind eye to its price.
Because work, while a privilege, comes at a cost — and not just a financial one.
Every task we perform takes something from us. Not necessarily in money. Ideally, we work to gain financial security, not to lose it. But the real cost of work is something else entirely.
It’s the energy we pour into it. The sleep we lose over looming deadlines. The stress we carry around like a second skin. The time we give — willingly or not — that could have gone into something (or someone) else.
These are the hidden costs of work. They don't show up on our payslips, but they add up — sometimes faster than we notice. And of course, these costs aren't the same for everyone.
Some of us seem to thrive under pressure. Or at least, we think we do. Some tolerate chaos better. Some worry less about their health — until it catches up with them.
Our capacity to work isn't just about skill or motivation. It's about what we’re giving up in exchange. Time. Health. Sanity.
In a perfect world, we’d feel like the return outweighs the cost. That we’re putting in a manageable amount of effort and getting back something meaningful — whether that’s money, satisfaction, purpose, or peace of mind.
But sometimes... the math doesn’t add up. Sometimes, the cost is just too high.
Too many hours in traffic. Too many moments missed at home. Too much of you getting spent on something that no longer feeds you.
And as long as we have a choice — however small — we owe it to ourselves to look in the mirror and ask:
Is the way I’m spending my energy really giving me the return I expect?
Because in the end, everything we do is a kind of investment. Of time, attention, health, and heart.
-
Living the dream (or something like it)
I recently took a short trip to New York. Just a few days, but enough to stir up that familiar mix of awe, disorientation, and late-night reflection that only a city like this can bring. Walking its relentless streets, I kept circling back to one idea: convenience.
In a place that moves this fast, convenience isn't a luxury — it's oxygen. Everything, from coffee carts to subway payments, seems designed to shave seconds off your day. Life here flows at high speed, and anything that slows you down feels like a design flaw. You get the sense that even standing still is suspicious. It made me wonder: in a city where everything is streamlined for speed and ease, what do we lose?
I watched people — really watched them — bustling past, each one sealed in their own bubble, earbuds in, eyes locked on a destination. It struck me that meeting someone spontaneously, like really meeting them, feels almost impossible now. Unless, of course, it's via a dating app, a Reddit meetup, or a park full of Jedi apprentices dueling with toy lightsabers (true story). We’ve outsourced serendipity to convenience.
Oddly, it made me think of the RPG Kult: Divinity Lost. In it, the world is an illusion — a veil maintained by unseen powers to keep us from perceiving the true nature of reality. In that world, people live asleep, unable to see past the polished surface. I couldn’t help but feel the metaphor clicking into place. We scroll, consume, and hustle, half-aware of the world behind the curtain. Is that what we’ve become? Sleepers?
In that light, the modern city — New York especially — starts to feel a bit like The Matrix. Not in the sci-fi sense, but in that eerie feeling that we're being drained, bit by bit. Consumed by what we consume.
And yet... it was amazing. Thrilling, even. My time in New York was exciting, unsettling, overwhelming — and yes, unforgettable. I’m still unpacking the feelings it left me with, but one thing’s for sure: the dream is very much alive there. Whether it’s our own dream, though — or someone else’s — is a question I’m still asking.
-
When we stopped reading
A thought struck me the other day.
We talk a lot about the "reading crisis" these days. Fewer people, especially the younger generation, pick up books for pleasure. And it’s not just books – even films are starting to feel too long. We’ve shifted toward shorter and shorter forms: clips, snippets, trailers, TikToks. Content designed to be consumed in seconds. No time to linger.
But here’s what I keep coming back to: fiction, especially the kind we used to read in novels, did something quite special. Something I’m not sure anything else really replicates.
So many of those stories were told in the first person. I saw, I felt, I feared, I loved. And as readers, we were invited into that “I.” We didn't just witness what happened to the character — we became the character, if only for a little while. We saw the world through their eyes. We experienced what they experienced, but also how they interpreted those experiences. And that’s where something subtle and powerful happened.
One time, the narrator might be a woman. Another time, a queer character. Or someone completely outside the norm — a criminal, even — and instead of judging them immediately, we were asked to sit with their story. To understand, if not to condone. To imagine. The more we read, the more perspectives we tried on, like different sets of glasses. And with each one, we became just a little more capable of seeing the world from someone else's point of view.
That, to me, was a kind of education. Not the formal, test-taking kind, but something deeper. A softening of the borders of our identity. A quiet expansion of our ability to relate. This kind of reading didn’t just teach us empathy — it trained us to shift perspectives, to think in layers, to hold contradictions.
And maybe that’s what we’re missing now.
Because something else I notice, more and more, is how rigid we’re becoming. Not just politically, but socially, personally. It’s like there’s less room for ambiguity, for nuance. And I wonder if that’s partly because we’ve moved from participation to observation. Watching films — or worse, clips of films — turns us into spectators. Detached. Commentators from the sidelines, ready with a like or a snarky comment. We interpret, we judge. But we don’t often enter the story anymore.
Sure, there’s always been a portion of the population that never cared much for books or reflection. That’s not new. But what is new is how easy it is now to exist entirely within quick takes and shallow narratives. And when that’s all we consume, we become easier to manipulate. People who’ve never had to stretch their minds to inhabit another perspective are more likely to fall for black-and-white thinking. To attack, without pause, anyone portrayed as “the other.” Because they’ve never been invited — or required — to imagine what it feels like to be that other person.
I’m not saying reading will solve all our problems. But I do think the quiet disappearance of deep, personal storytelling from our daily lives might be playing a bigger role than we realize in the mess we’re in.
Maybe, just maybe, the world started unraveling the moment we stopped reading.
-
When white looks like black
Poland is in the middle of a presidential election, and I can’t help but feel a strange sense of déjà vu. The atmosphere reminds me a lot of what recently happened in the United States. This time, though, there were no illusions — at least not in the mainstream American media. I didn’t see overly optimistic forecasts about Kamala Harris. No one tried to bend reality. We managed to avoid the collective shock we all experienced the last time, when the media narrative was so out of sync with the result.
It’s made me wonder — did we all get caught in a bubble? A collective illusion shared by people who think like us? People who couldn’t imagine someone voting for that kind of candidate — the con artist, the chauvinist, the man who didn’t even pretend to follow the rules?
Last time, some corrective mechanisms kicked in. We had this uneasy awareness that many “regular folks” on the other side of the spectrum were willing to overlook the glaring flaws of the Republican candidate. Not only that — we began to suspect that what we found disturbing, they found refreshingly honest. “At least he says what he thinks,” they'd say. “He doesn’t sugarcoat things. He’s real.”
And maybe that was part of the appeal: he’s imperfect, just like the rest of us. And so, America chose someone deeply flawed — and now a small army of advisors is trying to polish his rough ideas into something workable. I suppose we’re meant to believe that the entire academic world is made up of fools, and he alone has the vision. That tariffs are just a tax paid by other countries. That isolating yourself from the world and reversing globalization with sheer willpower will somehow bring back innovation and manufacturing to the land of milk and honey that is the United States.
And now here we are — facing our own version of that mess in Poland.
On one side, we have the mayor of Warsaw — someone visible, someone who’s governed for years, made good and bad decisions like any public official, but who gets things done. Investments, projects, leadership — tangible work. On the other side? A candidate with no comparable track record, but with strong conservative political backing. A candidate who positions himself as a critic, with an arsenal of talking points and little to lose.
Yes, there’s the shadow of a murky past, with allegations that, if true, border on the criminal. But somehow… it doesn’t seem to matter. All signs point to a strong chance that my fellow Poles might elect him anyway.
And no, this isn’t just about comparing someone with a clean record and visible achievements to someone who mostly throws stones from the sidelines. It’s not just about contrasting competence with questionable morals. The unsettling part is that for a large portion of society — none of this matters. These facts don’t register the same way. It’s like we’re living in parallel worlds. Where I see white, they see black. Where I see black, they see white.
That’s what really gets me thinking.
What is it that causes these vast differences in how we see the same reality? And more and more, I’m starting to believe that it’s not about manipulation. It’s about the foundational values — the lenses through which we interpret the world.
Take cultural values, for example. In some cultures, things I might view as negative — pride, a lack of humility, even aggression — are seen as strengths. They’re signs of determination, power, leadership. That’s not my lens, but it’s still valid. And if that’s the foundation people are working from, then no wonder we interpret the same message, or person, in completely different ways.
It’s honestly wild how two people can look at the same candidate and see opposite things. It speaks volumes about how deeply our values shape our thinking — and how culture can silently steer the narrative.
And I can’t shake the feeling that we’re heading toward more of this — more division, more large-scale misunderstanding. Maybe even a fractured reality not unlike the one the U.S. seems to be grappling with.
Part of what’s fueling this, I believe, is how social media works — constantly reinforcing our beliefs, confirming our sense of "rightness" and building up an illusion of moral superiority. The "us versus them" narrative isn’t new, of course. We've seen it before in far darker contexts — where “true citizens” were set against outsiders, Jews against “real Germans,” patriots against enemies within. These old patterns are finding new homes in modern algorithms.
And now, with artificial intelligence entering the picture, there’s a new layer of complexity. If our digital assistants, search engines, or personalized newsfeeds start interpreting the world in ways that echo our values — tailoring reality itself to our preferences — we might find ourselves even deeper in our bubbles. Not just informed differently, but formed differently.
It’s something I’ll be watching closely — not just as a citizen, but as a human trying to stay open in a world where every answer might soon come pre-filtered to match the story I already believe.
-
Frictionless World
There’s something alluring about the idea of a frictionless world. A place where everything is just a click away. Need a resume? There’s a generator for that. Want to write a formal request or fill out a grant application? Let AI take care of it. Even searching for relevant information no longer requires much effort — algorithms anticipate what we want before we finish typing.
It's efficient. It's seamless. It’s... a little unsettling.
I sometimes wonder what we're losing in this smooth, hyper-automated reality. It’s like we’re drifting through life, plugged into a digital IV drip, fed a constant stream of convenience and comfort. It reminds me of those characters from Wall-E — floating in chairs, muscles atrophied, having forgotten how to walk. Somewhere along the way, our pursuit of ease turned into a surrender of effort.
The drive that once fueled ambition and exploration has been replaced, little by little, with a kind of helplessness. The gene that once made us selfishly strive for more now seems to whisper, "Don’t bother." We’ve won the battle against struggle — or at least the parts of it we found inconvenient. And in doing so, we’ve created something sterile and shallow.
We’re losing the grit, the persistence, the small triumphs that come from doing hard things. And with that, maybe we’re also losing the sense of meaning that comes with them.
-
Too much of everything
Life these days feels... well, too much. Not in a dramatic, everything-is-on-fire kind of way, but in a quietly overwhelming, can't-decide-what-to-watch-on-Netflix way. We live in an age of abundance — of options, opinions, lifestyles — and yet, many of us feel more stuck than ever.
Take, for example, our personal lives. Choosing a path in life, whether it's a career or a relationship, used to be hard — but now it feels like navigating a labyrinth with a thousand exits, all equally uncertain. And it’s not just about deciding what to do or who to be with. It’s about being constantly bombarded with the sense that, somewhere out there, a better option exists — if only we could find it.
Even something as fundamental as forming a family has become complicated. It’s not just “man meets woman” anymore (and thank goodness, honestly — diversity is a good thing). But that variety, that beautiful complexity, has a shadow side. The sheer scope of it all can lead to a kind of emotional paralysis. People hesitate. They overthink. They scroll endlessly through dating apps, haunted by the idea that the next swipe might be the one.
I recently came across some reflections on Japanese society — how, in many parts of the country, people have simply stopped dating, stopped marrying, stopped building families. Not out of protest or ideology, but out of sheer disinterest. A lack of drive. Maybe even a quiet despair.
And it’s not just Japan. We see echoes of this in the West, in Europe and the U.S. Societies that have maximized freedom, flexibility, and choice are starting to wrestle with a strange side effect: people unsure of what they want, who they are, or where they belong.
It reminds me of that strange, slightly unsettling behavioral experiment — the “mouse utopia.” Scientists built a perfect environment for mice: no predators, plenty of food, comfy nesting space. And for a while, things boomed. But then... they collapsed. The mice stopped socializing, stopped reproducing. Their little utopia became a quiet graveyard of potential.
Now, I’m not saying we’re mice. But I do wonder: in smoothing out all the rough edges of life, in giving ourselves unlimited options and removing so many challenges, have we also dulled something essential? That push to connect. To commit. To choose, even when it’s hard.
There’s no easy answer here. Just a thought. A kind of quiet curiosity — maybe even a concern — that somewhere in the maze of modern life, we’ve lost touch with what it means to truly want something. Or someone.
-
Where most trainings fall short - and why the “how” matters most
In my constant search for ways to simplify reality, I’ve started to notice a pattern - especially when it comes to training sessions. Whether it’s about project management, negotiation skills, or handling organizational change, most trainings tend to follow a predictable structure. They focus on what something is and why it matters, but they often fall short when it comes to the how. And that, in my opinion, is where the real value lies.
A typical training session will start with the why. Why should we care about project management? Why is change management important? Why do strong negotiation skills matter? This part of the training is usually designed to get us on board, to convince us that the topic at hand is relevant to our work and worth paying attention to. Fair enough.
Some trainings go one step further and cover the what. What is project management, exactly? What are the key frameworks? What does change management involve? What practices and methodologies are available? This is useful information, sure - but it’s still just an overview. Most trainings stop here, at the level of broad concepts and theoretical knowledge.
But then comes the part that’s often missing - the how. And this is where things get interesting.
How do I actually monitor the progress of a project phase? What specific steps do I take to update project timelines? How do I document stakeholder concerns in a way that’s actionable? How do I ensure my team stays consistent and motivated? How do I handle project deliverables, not just in theory, but in the messy, unpredictable reality of day-to-day work? Even something as simple as how do I celebrate a win with my team? - these are the questions that make the difference between knowledge and real expertise.
This is where the rubber meets the road. Where you can see who truly knows their craft. And unfortunately, it’s also the hardest knowledge to find.
The people who really know how to do things - the practitioners, the ones who live and breathe their work - aren’t always the ones leading trainings. They’re too busy doing to stop and explain. And when they do share their insights, it’s often in passing, in offhand comments during meetings, in war stories over coffee, or in the rare moments when you get to work alongside them.
That’s what makes learning the how so valuable - and so difficult. It requires direct access to people who are actually doing the work, not just talking about it. It means finding mentors, shadowing experts, and paying close attention to the tiny details that separate theoretical understanding from practical mastery.
So next time you’re in a training session, ask yourself: Is this just giving me the why and the what, or is it actually teaching me the how? Because at the end of the day, knowing why something is important is useful. Understanding what it is can be interesting. But learning how to actually do it? That’s where the real learning begins.