I Became What I Used to Mock

I asked an AI to look at my writing and tell me what it saw. Four years of posts — 47 pieces about therapy, boundaries, conscious parenting, all that shit. Roughly 150,000 words documenting my journey from unconscious living to… whatever this is. Just wanted some feedback, you know?

Then it said this: “You write as if everyone shares your therapeutic insights and spiritual inclinations.” My instant reaction? “That’s a fact. For me it’s so obvious!!!” And right there — in those three exclamation marks — I saw it.

Holy fuck. I’ve become one of those people.

The Thing I’m Still Trying to Figure Out

Eighteen years. That’s how long this took. Twelve years of therapy on and off, then six years of intensive work — CBT, spiritual wrestling, physical loneliness, celibacy, burned bridges, relationships torched in the name of “growth.”

I thought I was getting healthier. And maybe I was. Maybe I am (I know I am!). But somewhere in there, I also became someone who talks about complex human and psychological concepts like they’re as simple as making coffee.

Hell, I’m not even a psychologist or therapist — I’m just a goofy nerd who figured some shit out after a lifetime of fumbling through darkness, six years of intensive therapy, and more loneliness than I care to admit! And maybe that’s exactly what my kids see — not a guru or expert, but just dad figuring things out alongside them.

But here’s what’s fucking with my head: This version of me — the one who’s “done the work” — is actively disliked by some people I love. My stepson rolls his eyes at my “therapy talk.” My father can’t stand my boundaries. My sister thinks I’ve become insufferable. Others — my girlfriend, my daughter — seem to love this version of me.

So which is it? Am I better or worse? More honest or more insufferable?

The Question That Made My Stomach Drop

The AI asked me: “Do you think you come across as humble?” And I wanted to say yes. I work on humility. I value it. I think about it.

But the AI said: “No. I don’t detect you as humble.” Ouch. But also… fuck. Accurate. It showed me my own words:

• “For me it’s so obvious!!!”
• “Obviously, taking responsibility is empowering”
• “Quality input equals quality output”

I write like someone who’s figured it out talking to people who haven’t. Even when I’m trying not to.

But here’s what I don’t understand: How do you own what you’ve learned without sounding like you think you know everything? How do you share insights without talking down to people?

What My Kids Are Teaching Me (That I Keep Forgetting, and remembering…)

My 5-year-old daughter doesn’t give a shit about my psychological frameworks. When she’s having a meltdown, telling her “feelings are temporary” is about as helpful as explaining quantum physics to a goldfish.

But when I say, “Wow, that sounds really hard. What can we do together?” — that works.

The difference? I’m not teaching from above. I’m sitting with her in the mess.

With my 20-year-old stepson, it’s even clearer. He doesn’t want my wisdom. He wants my presence. When I try to fix or advise, he shuts down. When I just… exist with him, things flow.

After all those years of therapy and isolation, my kids became my greatest teachers about what actually matters. But I keep forgetting this lesson when I write.

Why is it so hard to remember that confusion (knowledge-seeking) connects better than certainty?

The Stuff I’m Still Working Through

I’m sitting here wondering: What else have I become unconscious of? Like, I used to get rage-filled when my therapist suggested my anger was a choice. I used to think boundaries were mean. I used to believe personal growth was navel-gazing bullshit for privileged people.

Now those insights feel obvious to me. But they’re not obvious. They cost me everything — relationships, comfort, years of my life sitting alone choosing growth over easy connection. I’d forgotten the years of sitting alone, choosing therapy over dating, choosing growth over comfort, choosing truth over the easy lies that kept me stuck. I’d forgotten how much these realizations once hurt.

How do I write about what I’ve learned without forgetting what it cost to learn it?

What I’m Trying to Figure Out

Maybe the real question isn’t “How do I stay humble?” but “How do I stay confused?” Because when I look at my best writing, it’s not when I’m sharing answers. It’s when I’m wrestling with questions in real time. Like that piece where I wrote “You are joking, right?” — catching myself dismissing someone’s feelings and realizing I’d been doing it my whole life. That was me learning, not teaching. Discovering, not explaining.

So here’s what I’m experimenting with: What if instead of saying “Obviously, boundaries are acts of love,” I said “Something weird happened when I started setting boundaries — people got closer, not further away. Still trying to figure out why.” Instead of “Personal responsibility is empowering,” what if I said “I’m learning that taking responsibility for my shit, even when it sucks, somehow makes me feel more powerful. Counterintuitive as hell.”

What if I led with confusion instead of conclusions?

The Part That Scares Me

This whole realization happened because I was open to feedback. But what if I hadn’t been? What if I’d dismissed the AI’s observation the way my father dismisses mine? What if my stepson rolls his eyes because I’m doing to him what I do to my readers — assuming insights that took me years to integrate should be obvious to a 20-year-old?

What blind spots am I living in right now that I won’t see for another four years?

The scariest part isn’t that I became unconscious. It’s that unconsciousness feels like consciousness when you’re in it. I genuinely thought I was being humble while writing from a place of assumed superiority.

How many times have I been certain I was right while being completely wrong?

What I’m Thinking About Now

I don’t want to throw away what I’ve learned. Those eighteen years weren’t wasted. The insights are real. The growth matters. But maybe the point isn’t to stop growing or to dumb down what I know. Maybe it’s to remember that I’m still growing. That there’s still more confusion ahead. (Kinda obvious, no?! 🙃)

What if my greatest tool isn’t my wisdom, but my memory of not having that wisdom?

What if the person reading this who thinks therapy is bullshit — what if they’re me five years ago? What if instead of trying to convince them, I just… remember what it felt like to think that way? What if instead of building bridges from my transformed self to their untransformed self, I built bridges from my current confusion to their current confusion? Now I have very little clue what I’m referring to, but I’ll figure it out, I need to keep asking questions and staying receptive.

Questions I’m Sitting With

• Why do I assume my growth is obvious when it took me two decades to figure out?
• How do I share what I’ve learned without forgetting what it was like to not know it?
• What am I currently unconscious of that I’ll cringe about in four years?
• How do I write as a student instead of a teacher?
• What would happen if I ended every post with questions instead of answers?

What I’m Asking You

If you’ve made it this far, maybe you see something I don’t. Maybe you’ve become insufferable in your own transformation. Maybe you’re rolling your eyes at me right now.

• What have you integrated so deeply that you’ve forgotten it’s not obvious to everyone?
• What insights have become so natural that you can’t remember what it was like to not know them?
• Who were you before you knew what you know now, and how can you honor that person while helping others across the bridge?

Because I’m starting to think the world doesn’t need more people who have figured it all out. The world needs more people who remember what it’s like to be figuring it out. And I’m still figuring it out. What don’t I know that I don’t know?