-
The Unseen Cost of Rules: How Permission Stifles Innovation
Lately, I’ve been thinking about why so much of the world’s innovation seems to come from the US. It’s not that other countries lack talent or ambition—far from it. But there’s something about the way societies are structured that either fuels or stifles creativity. And I wonder if the answer lies in the rules.Not all rules are bad, of course. Many exist to protect rights, ensure fairness, and uphold justice. But what happens when the sheer volume of rules—both necessary and unnecessary—starts to shape how we think? When the first question isn’t “What can I create?” but “Am I allowed to do this?”
In the US, there’s a cultural tendency to act first and ask for permission later. People dive into projects, build things, and only later worry about whether they’ve crossed a line. That mindset fosters a kind of fearlessness. It’s not that obstacles don’t exist; it’s that they’re often seen as challenges to overcome, not roadblocks to halt progress. And that attitude, I suspect, is why so many young people there end up doing remarkable things. They start with “Why not?” instead of “What if I can’t?”
Contrast that with the EU, where the first instinct—at least in my experience—is often caution. When I joined AI development studies here, one of the first things we discussed wasn’t “What can we build?” but “What are we not allowed to do?” The focus wasn’t on possibility; it was on limitation. And that’s a dangerous place to start. Because when you begin with “but,” when your first thought is “Is this legal?” or “Will this be approved?”—you’ve already put a ceiling on your own potential.
Don’t get me wrong: rules matter. Protecting citizens, safeguarding minorities, ensuring ethical standards—these are all crucial. But somewhere along the way, the balance tips. The red tape, the bureaucracy, the endless layers of “you can’t” start to overshadow the “what if?” And that’s how you end up shooting yourself in the foot before you’ve even taken a step.
Innovation thrives where there’s room to experiment, to fail, to adapt. It’s not about ignoring rules; it’s about not letting them dictate what’s possible before you’ve even begun. The question isn’t just “What are the boundaries?”—it’s “How far can we push them?” And maybe, just maybe, that’s the difference between a society that dreams and one that does.
-
The Power of Resistance
There’s a theory in psychology called Reinforcement Theory that speaks volumes about the role of resistance in growth. It’s a simple but profound idea: our world is built on the pursuit of the easiest path. We optimize, we streamline, we look for shortcuts—because, like water, we naturally flow where there’s the least resistance. The solutions that stick are the ones that require the least effort, the ones that fit seamlessly into our lives.
But here’s the catch: the things that truly matter—learning a new language, mastering an instrument, building a skill—rarely come easy. They demand that we go against the grain, that we push through discomfort. Learning a new language, for example, isn’t something our brains do naturally. It means forging new neural connections, wrestling with unfamiliar grammar, and memorizing words that don’t yet feel like our own. It’s hard. And that’s exactly why so few of us stick with it.
Yet, we know from behavioral science how powerful reinforcement can be. Think of how animals learn through rewards: a treat for a trick, praise for obedience. Over time, what starts as a hesitant action becomes second nature. The question is, how do we create that same transformation in our own lives? How do we turn something that feels like a struggle—whether it’s practicing piano scales or conjugating verbs—into something as effortless as breathing?
The answer lies in finding that sweet spot—the moment when the resistance starts to fade, when the effort begins to feel less like a chore and more like a calling. It’s the point where we stop counting the hours and start losing ourselves in the process. But getting there isn’t just about willpower. It’s about designing our environment and our habits to work for us, not against us.
We talk a lot about motivation, but not enough about the mechanics of making hard things feel inevitable. How do we choose what’s good over what’s easy? How do we make healthy habits as automatic as reaching for our phone? I suspect the key is in leveraging both internal and external reinforcements—building routines that reward progress, surrounding ourselves with cues that nudge us forward, and celebrating small wins until they add up to something extraordinary.
Because here’s the truth: mastery isn’t about avoiding resistance. It’s about learning to dance with it, to let it shape us into someone who doesn’t just do the hard things, but craves them. That’s when the magic happens—when the struggle becomes the path, and the path becomes who we are.
-
The Power We Don’t See: Stories That Shape the World
Yuval Noah Harari often writes that what truly sets humans apart is our ability to create shared stories. Not just to invent them, but to believe in them together. In many ways, this collective storytelling might be humanity’s greatest strength.Stories allow us to build things bigger than ourselves. They help us unite around goals that go beyond individual needs or personal ambition. And it struck me recently that we tend to underestimate the stories we encounter most often in our daily lives—films, and the narratives carried by music.
Both have an unmistakably global reach. Their messages travel far, crossing borders with ease, becoming viral long before we had a word for it. A Michael Jackson song can be heard both in the United States, where it was created, and in a small hut somewhere in Africa. Its message—emotional, rhythmic, human—can be understood in both places. And with repetition, those messages settle in. Values that begin as local slowly become global.
The same is true for films. Movies don’t just entertain; they transmit ideas. Through the magic and emotional force of images, they embed those ideas deep in our minds. I sometimes think that films played a quiet but powerful role in the great migrations and social shifts at the turn of the 20th and 21st centuries. They carried promises of a better world, a better life. It’s hard to tell someone living in a war-torn region of the Middle East to ignore what they see on the screen and accept that it’s all an illusion. Just as it’s hard to convince a farmer facing drought that the lush landscapes shown in films aren’t real possibilities somewhere else.
The power of images, the magic of music, and their global reach make them forces far greater than we usually acknowledge.
This becomes especially interesting when we think about how superpowers are built—not only through economics or military strength, but through perception. Hollywood and American film productions have played an enormous role in shaping the image of the United States as exceptional, powerful, and central to the world’s story. In films, it’s the U.S. that fights alien invasions, makes groundbreaking discoveries, and takes on extraordinary missions. These narratives repeat themselves so often that they become familiar truths.
That’s why visiting places like New York, Chicago, or Washington can feel strangely emotional. We’ve seen them hundreds of times on screen. We’ve “been there” long before we ever arrive. These are global stories, planted in our minds in childhood, repeated and reinforced for decades.
And this brings me to Europe.
If we seriously think about building a stronger, more unified Europe—about a true “Europe First” mindset—it’s hard to avoid one conclusion: we need shared stories. We need common narratives that connect us as Europeans and project a sense of identity and purpose beyond our borders. We need places, systems, and creative forges where such stories can be born.
Because power today is not only about what you have. It’s also about the stories the world believes about you—and the ones you tell about yourself.
-
Finding Europe’s voice in a world of giants
Let’s be honest - Europe is a patchwork of states. Countries, if you prefer. And as long as that’s the case, it simply can’t compete. Not with the heavyweights reshaping the global order: the US, Russia, or China. Without a clear, unified identity, without acting as one, Europe will struggle to matter - economically, politically, or in terms of real influence.We’re fragmented. The United States is also a collection of states, but there, everyone plays for the same team. How often do you see a product, a university, or a company presented as anything but Made in USA? It’s a point of national pride, a core part of their identity, and - let’s face it - a source of strength. A united nation is a powerful one. Europe’s only shot at thriving in this new world order is to adopt a similar mindset. Otherwise, we risk being outmaneuvered, undermined, or worse - reduced to a footnote in history, a vassal state of some larger power.
This isn’t about Europe being weak. Far from it. The issue is that the model we’re built on no longer fits the times. Either we reform - shifting from a community of nations to a nation of communities - or we fade into irrelevance, a relic overshadowed by superpowers.
But here’s the thing: the choice isn’t just up to politicians or corporations. It’s up to us, the citizens. Will we cling to our narrow, local interests? Will we resist the idea of a stronger European Union, insisting that “Brussels has no right to tell us what to do”? Will we keep defaulting to American products because the European alternatives seem inferior - even though they’re fighting with one hand tied behind their back, lacking the scale and unity to truly compete?
I often talk about circles of influence. This is where ours begins: with the decisions we make every day. Choosing a European streaming service over Netflix, supporting a homegrown AI like Mistral instead of defaulting to ChatGPT, or opting for a local electric car over a Tesla - these aren’t just personal preferences. They’re votes for the kind of future we want. Each choice either strengthens Europe’s position or reinforces its fragmentation.
The strongest country on our continent isn’t France, Germany, or Poland. It’s Europe - or at least, it could be. But only if we start acting like it.
-
Finding space for happiness
My friend shared an illustration with me recently - a child standing face to face with a polar bear, with the words: “I hope you find time to be happy, not just strong.”
It stayed with me longer than I expected. Maybe because strength is a language many of us speak fluently by now. We fall back into it almost automatically, as if it were the only safe mode we have left. When life pushes, we tighten our grip. When something hurts, we straighten the spine. We keep going. And going. And going.
Somewhere along the way, being strong stops feeling like a choice. It becomes a rule we obey without even noticing: You cannot allow yourself to be anything else but strong. The “but” is important here. It’s a door we quietly close on ourselves.
And after enough years of that, strength grows so large it fills the whole room. It expands, takes over the corners, the ceiling, the floor. It becomes the entire architecture of how we function. And when that happens, there’s barely any space left for happiness to sit down comfortably. Not because we don’t want it. But because strength has claimed all the real estate.
Maybe that’s why that little drawing felt so disarming. It was a reminder - that being strong isn’t the whole story. That we could, from time to time, carve out a little pocket of space for joy, even if strength is still standing guard nearby.
-
Maybe the earth knows how to correct itself
Maybe the Earth knows how to take care of itself. Lately I’ve been circling back to the idea of the selfish gene – that relentless force behind growth and reproduction on our planet. It’s the push that shaped desire, that odd balance of demand and supply which made us procreate, expand, and eventually build this global society we now inhabit.But something feels different these days, especially in the Western world. The fabric of society seems to be shifting. I don’t lean toward tradition, nor do I fully buy into the latest waves of “woke” or “snowflake” culture. I’d call myself a centrist in cultural, social, and moral terms. What I do have is perspective – access to more than two generations. I’ve seen my grandparents and parents, my wife’s side of the family, my older children, and my younger one. Together, they form a tapestry of change.
It reminds me of the hydrothermal vents at the bottom of the ocean, releasing gases and microbes – those strange crucibles where life on Earth began. In a similar way, the lives of our children, especially their youth and early adulthood, feel like crucibles for what our species might become. And what I observe makes me uneasy.
Perhaps I’m simply old-fashioned, struggling to adapt. But the customs I remember from the past have faded, often quietly. I grew up in a world shaped by patriarchy, where men were expected to initiate relationships. The old adage was that men think about sex more, and that assumption shaped the way we dated and married. Men made the first move, they were supposed to “know how,” to lead the dance. That was the script.
Now, the script has flipped. It’s not only about equality – it’s that the entire courtship dynamic has reversed. These days, women often initiate relationships. Men, instead, are expected to display themselves like peacocks, hoping to be chosen. Women, not men, compete to secure the better partner. And yet, strangely, many signals seem to get lost in translation. Despite all this energy, younger generations appear to be having less sex. They seem less driven by the old urge to procreate.
Even the places of courtship have changed. Nightclubs and discos once served as stages for ritual dances of attraction – charged spaces of touch and physical closeness. Today, I hear about individuals moving alone to the music, singing to themselves. Interaction is different, if not minimal. If a man wants to dance with a woman, he must first ask permission for even the slightest touch.
It leaves me wondering: are we evolving into a more civilized society, where boundaries are respected and carefully drawn? Or are we drifting into something lonelier – the unintended outcome of an experiment we never meant to run, the quiet utopia of mice, played out on a human scale?
-
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.