Эрик Салинас
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Chapter

Copyright © 2025 Eric Salinas

All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including information storage and retrieval systems, without the written permission of the author, except for brief quotations in book reviews.

Dedication

To Sylvanas, my love and faithful navigator, who sees the way as I do.

You showed me that words can be guides.

Preface

Since I started living a new life, my headaches have become much less frequent. Most of them were caused by stress—that same anxiety I carried around without even realizing it. I didn't cure myself of stress. I simply stopped adding fuel to a fire that was already blazing.

The changes happened gradually. I began to notice patterns I'd previously ignored. Things everyone considers normal may not be so immutable. Questions no one asks because the answers seem obvious.

It turned out that this was not the case.

I've been living differently for over a year now. It's not a method or a daily routine—it's a way of thinking. Something fundamental has changed in my perception of goals, competition, success, what's important and what's not.

I started sharing this with a colleague at work. He said it completely changed his perspective on the world. That's just one person. And I thought: if it resonated with him, maybe it will resonate with someone else too.

That's why I decided to write this book.

Not to teach you how to live. Not to convert you to some philosophy. Simply to share what I've noticed, what has changed in me, and to see if any of this resonates in your soul—something you felt but couldn't put into words.

I'll be telling stories from my life. If any of them resonate with you, then we're on the right track. If not, that's okay too. Everyone has their own life experiences, and therefore their own paths.

This is a dialogue. I'm not here to dispense ready-made wisdom or pose as an expert. I'm here to share what I've lived through firsthand.

If you're reading this, it means you're already curious.

Ready? Let's start the engine.

Introduction: Fasten your seat belts

Let's go for a ride (yes, in a car). During this ride, I want to show you something you might immediately recognize yourself in.

Do you know that feeling you get when you get into a brand new car? That smell, that thrill of discovery. You start figuring out where everything is. What this button does. What this or that setting does. Days pass, and you discover features you never even knew existed. Some work exactly as you expected. Others are a complete surprise.

This book will feel much the same. We'll make discoveries—press buttons we've never touched before, test them out, and realize that some things work completely differently than we've always thought. Things we took for granted may look completely different from this new perspective.

Along the way, we'll make stops when we need to process what we've seen. To stretch our legs. To sit alone with a thought before moving on.

You drive every day, right? To work, to school, wherever. You know the route. The usual route. Traffic. Other cars around.

This is your path to a happier life.

You didn't come here empty-handed. You've lived long enough to understand things. You've been through a lot and developed instincts. You've made many choices to understand what's valuable to you. Whatever prompted you to pick up this book—curiosity, disappointment, good timing, or chance—you've arrived here drawing on all your accumulated experience.

You know your starting point, and you've probably overcome many obstacles along the way. But now you see other drivers on the track. And you're going to pass them to achieve the success you need. You already understand who you're competing against. You already know what 100% means. You know the decisions that brought you to this moment. You're here. You know that not everyone will go the same distance as you. Previous generations taught you how to drive, but now you understand that your eyes must be focused solely on the road ahead. No distractions. You know all this. You always knew.

Ready? Get behind the wheel.

Part 1: Beyond the Familiar Circle

Going beyond familiar territory, discovering new routes.

Chapter 1: You're Here

Your brain does this every time you get behind the wheel, and you probably never even noticed.

Have you ever noticed that any driver who drives faster than you is a reckless idiot, and anyone who drives slower is a klutz who doesn't know how to drive at all? This is no coincidence. It's the foundation for everything we're about to explore.

Driving in the middle lane

We've left the residential area. Look at the car in the next lane. Now look at the one in front. One of them is going faster than you, and your brain instantly labels it: aggressive driver, probably speeding, thinking he owns the road. The other one is going slower, and your brain goes back to his old tricks: why are they even occupying this lane? Didn't they learn to pull over to the right when you're crawling like a snail?

And here's the trick: both reactions arose because of YOUR speed. You are the reference point. You are zero on the speedometer of your world.

That car going 130 km/h? Its driver looks at the one doing 150 km/h and thinks exactly the same thing about him you just thought about him. And that driver you called slow? He looks at someone even slower with the same irritation you felt toward him.

Everyone is the center of their own coordinate system. You may have been told you're not the center of the universe, but you are definitely the center of YOUR universe, YOUR life. Everything you perceive as "fast" or "slow," "smart" or "stupid," "successful" or "unsuccessful" is measured relative to you as the baseline.

The endless cycle of competition

And this creates a problem. As soon as you start measuring yourself by others, you get trapped in an endless cycle.

Let's say you're driving along and you see someone ahead of you going faster. You accelerate to pass them. It's a nice feeling, right? But wait—now there's a new car ahead, and it's going even faster. You accelerate again. Pass it, too.

Only now another car has appeared, one you haven't seen before, and it's going even faster than the previous one.

And there's another one behind it.

And another one after that. And another.

In this race, you haven't really made any progress. You've simply changed the cars you're comparing yourself to. The moment you overtake the "fast" cars, a NEW set of even faster cars opens up in front of you, ones you couldn't see before. Think you're the last one left? There will always be someone else ahead. It's never over.

And it's not just about highway driving. It applies to everything.

Salaries: “I make 100k” sounds good until you meet someone making 200k, then someone making a million, then ten…

Fitness: "I can bench press 70 kg" – until you see someone who can bench press 100, then 150, then 200…

Subscribers: "I have 1,000 subscribers" – until you see an account with 10,000, then 100,000, then a million… Don't have a YouTube "golden play button"? Pfft…

The cycle never closes because you keep shifting the point of comparison every time you think you've "reached the goal."

Your odometer, not their speed.

Here's the paradigm shift: stop looking at the speed of other cars. Look at your odometer. At the distance you've traveled.

Your odometer measures distance traveled, not speed. Yesterday it read 1,000 kilometers. Today it reads 1,050. That's progress. Another fifty kilometers of experience, learning, life. That's the only measurement that matters.

Some days you'll travel 200 kilometers because the road is clear and the weather is perfect. Other days you'll travel only 10 because you're on a mountain road that requires caution. Both days added kilometers to your odometer. Both days moved you forward.

Maybe you're going 60 km/h today, but yesterday you were cruising at 110 km/h. That doesn't mean you're declining. It might mean that today's road requires you to slow down and admire the scenery—for example, while driving along the coast overlooking the ocean—or to carefully navigate a difficult section. Speed isn't what matters. What matters is the miles you're accumulating.

Is the person next to you driving faster or slower? Their odometer shows completely different numbers because they started from a different location, took different routes, and made different stops. Their mileage has nothing to do with your journey. Have a safe trip.

Compare your odometer with YOUR odometer from yesterday. It's the only comparison that makes sense.

The illusion of lane ownership

And while we're debunking ideas of false competition, let's deal with another illusion you live by: the right to own public space.

You're driving as usual, returning from work. You want to make it to your significant other's house on time, where they're waiting for you to go to the movies. You're momentarily distracted and suddenly don't notice a car swerve in front of you. You slam on the brakes, but end up rear-ending it.

A minor accident. No one was hurt. Plans? Ruined. The movie can wait. Everyone makes sure the other driver is okay. The insurance company arrives. A traffic police inspector. You tell the inspector your story: "I was driving within the speed limit, and suddenly this car cut into my lane. I just didn't have time to brake…"

There it is. Let's zoom out. The point of this story isn't the accident—this example was just needed to clarify something. "Your lane"?

Since when did this row become yours? Did you buy it? Is your name on the title deed? Do they give you title deeds when you drive onto the highway?

Traffic lanes are public. They belong to everyone. That other driver has exactly the same right to use that lane as you do.

But here's what happens when you think you own a lane: road rage. Once you believe that space is YOURS, any car entering it feels like an intrusion. Like someone breaking into your home. Your stress levels skyrocket because someone has "taken" something from you.

But they didn't. Because it was never yours.

I'm not saying you should be thrilled when someone changes lanes without signaling or cuts you off. I'm saying that the intensity of your anger is directly proportional to how much you feel like you own public space.

Reducing the level of rage

Look, I'm not going to tell you to never honk your horn or to never lose your temper. That's unrealistic and, frankly, not even a goal (and I'd be a terrible role model if I said otherwise).

Sometimes you NEED to honk. If someone is about to hit you, honk. If someone didn't notice the green light and there's a traffic jam building up behind you, a short blast of the horn will be helpful. If someone is moving into your lane, honk for safety.

The goal isn't to reduce road rage to zero. The goal is to have it at, say, 10% instead of 90%.

Be human. Get annoyed sometimes. But do it consciously. Ask yourself: "Am I honking for safety or for my ego?" Also, think about others and honk for them from time to time, for their safety. Sometimes they need it.

If a car cuts you off and you honk the horn for 10 seconds while yelling curse words, that's ego. At that point, you're not preventing an accident—the car has already cut you off. You're simply punishing the driver for disrespecting "your" lane. Revenge is a strange thing. And someone is always watching.

Your honking won't change their behavior. They'll either be indifferent, defensive, or give you an obscene hand signal. No one has ever thought in a moment of road rage, "You know, that angry honk actually taught me a valuable lesson about lane changing."

The only important coordinate

So, let's establish a fundamental rule for our entire journey:

You are your own [0,0] in your coordinate system [x, y].

Everything around you—speed, success, intelligence, beauty, wealth—is measured relative to YOUR position. And that's not arrogance. It's just physics. You can't measure anything without a reference point, and YOU are your reference point.

Other people are THEIR reference points. They measure you against themselves, just as you measure them against yourself.

No one makes mistakes. Everyone is simply driving their own route at their own pace, and their odometers show different numbers.

The problem isn't that you're the center of your own universe. The problem is thinking you should be the center of EVERYONE'S universe. Or, worse, believing in some kind of objective celestial scorecard that grades everyone you meet for their driving.

It doesn't exist.

There is no exam.

So stop comparing your speed to others. Stop thinking the lane is yours. Stop honking over every imaginary slight. Focus on YOUR route, YOUR progress, YOUR odometer compared to what it was yesterday.

That's where we'll start. Right here. In YOUR coordinates.

Ready to continue?

Chapter 2: 10,000 Rearview Mirrors

Nothing else in life reveals the different facets of your personality like driving a car.

Think back to all the times you've had passengers. Kids in the backseat on the way to school. A spouse in the front passenger seat on a long trip. Elderly parents driving to the doctor. Friends crammed into the car for a weekend getaway. A coworker you gave a ride to while their car was being repaired.

Each of them saw a completely different driver. From the passenger seat, the world looked different.

And it's not that you were pretending or putting on a show. It's just that different situations, different companions, and different roads awaken different versions of who you are behind the wheel.

Different passengers – different drivers

If you have kids, remember those family road trips. You grip the steering wheel tightly, worrying out loud about the gas mileage. You snap at them, "Stop fighting!" because the traffic jams are fraying your nerves.

Your voice is tense as you lose your way, yet stubbornly refuse to trust the GPS. You think the kids are thinking about the destination—the beach, the amusement park, or the mountains. But they're not.

They're focused on you. Children absorb everything. They watch the driver. Because the driver is in charge of their safety, their comfort, and their entire experience of the ride.

They don't care where they're going. They're watching how you get them there.

Now imagine your spouse or partner in the front seat.

This person sees a completely different driver than the one children see. They see you quickly changing directions when you're late—aggressively changing lanes, taking shortcuts, running yellow lights. But they also see you in the parking lot, wasting time reversing perfectly because you don't want to park crooked.

On the same trip they see you as both impatient and pedantic.

Your children see only a nervous driver. Your partner sees nuances—competence mixed with impatience, concern tinged with irritation. They know you're not just "one" driver; you're several different drivers, depending on the context.

And when your elderly parents are in the car? Suddenly, you become a completely different person.

You brake on yellow instead of accelerating. You keep a good distance from the car in front. You avoid changing lanes unless absolutely necessary. You verbalize your actions: "I'll change lanes now, just to let that car pass."

It's not fake. It's appropriate. You adapt your driving style to the needs of your passengers.

But if kids saw THIS version of you, they'd barely recognize the driver. Where did that person go who curses in "turtles" and races through courtyards to save three minutes?

And then there are those weekend trips with friends—windows wide open, music blasting, and you take the scenic route because no one's in a hurry. You even drive slower than the speed limit just to admire the view. You stop at random roadside cafes. You laugh about the wrong turn instead of freaking out.

Your other half would be shocked: “Since when do you like getting lost?”

But you haven't become a different person. You're just a different driver in a different context, with different passengers and different priorities.

Every weekday at two o'clock in the afternoon, you stand in line outside the school. You're patient. You're focused on safety. You move slowly. You let other parents pass. You're careful not to run into a child.

But three hours later, you leave work and hit rush hour. And then the game begins. Aggressive overtaking because you need to get home, cook dinner, and get the kids to activity by six.

Same driver. Same day. Completely different approaches.

So which one is the “real” you?

All.

Each of these versions is authentic. You're not putting on a mask—you're reacting to different roads, different passengers, and different circumstances.

If you tried to please ALL of your past passengers at once, you simply wouldn't be able to get going. Trying to do that is madness.

Children need you to be calm. Your partner needs you to be decisive and effective. Elderly parents need you to be careful and unhurried. Friends need you to be spontaneous and cheerful.

You'd have to be 10,000 different drivers to impress everyone who's ever sat in your car.

An unattainable ideal

We create an idealized image in our heads—the "perfect driver"—who would please everyone. Calm but decisive. Patient but efficient. Cautious but spontaneous.

And we exhaust ourselves trying to BE that version for everyone, all the time.

We feel like those around us are judging us based on how close we are to this ideal. We imagine passengers commenting on us: "When I was traveling with him, he was so nervous. Where's the cheerful, relaxed person he's supposed to be?"

Such a universal ideal version does not exist. And never has.

You're not "failing" to fulfill the role. You're pursuing something that was inherently impossible.

Your kids don't need the "happy travel version" of you when they're scared in the backseat during a thunderstorm – they need the confident, "I'm in control" version. Your elderly parents don't need your efficiency – they need your patience and caution. Your partner doesn't need the perpetually happy version of you – they need the honest, genuine you.

There's no test that determines whether you've become the "right" version of yourself. There are simply different roads that require different approaches, and different passengers who need different things from you.

Stop trying to perfect some "universal self." Start recognizing which version of yourself is truly useful in the moment you find yourself in.

Choosing passengers

You can't be all of them at once. But you can choose the version that best suits the route you're taking right now.

If you're driving children, it might be worth having a patient driver who comments on every step, rather than a nervous and rushed one. Not because one version is "real" and the other is false, but because this version will create the best memories for those who matter most on this particular trip.

If you're driving alone to clear your head, perhaps you should choose the "scenic route" over the "aggressive efficiency" route. Not because you "should" relax, but because that's the version that will benefit you right now.

Some people bring out in you a kind of driving behavior that you yourself don't really like.

Maybe there's someone sitting next to you who makes you feel judged, and you start driving more carefully than necessary—hesitating before every lane change, justifying every decision. Or, conversely, there's someone next to you who makes you feel competitive, and you start driving recklessly to prove a point.

The question isn't: which version of me is real? The question is: which version do I want to be and who do I want by my side?

You choose who gets in your car. You choose who takes the front seat. You choose who influences your driving.

Some passengers make you drive better. Others make you nervous. Some you just enjoy. Some you give rides to purely out of a sense of duty.

There's no exam that decides which passengers you keep and which version of yourself you'll be. But you do have a choice: who you allow into your car and what routes you take with them.

Let them have their version.

Here's a thought that can be uncomfortable: the people in your life have already formed their own version of you. And you have no idea what that version is. It's like hearing your voice on a recording. It may not match the image you've created for yourself—or the one you're trying to convey to them.

Let's say your child tells a story over family dinner: "Remember that trip when Dad got so lost that we ended up in that weird diner? It was so much fun!"

But you remember it differently. You didn't get lost—you deliberately turned off to check out the surroundings. And you were on the verge of a breakdown from stress, not having fun.

You have two options:

Option A: Correct them. – Actually, I wasn't lost. I was driving along a scenic route, and I wasn't feeling funny at all; I was terribly nervous.

Option B: Leave them their version. Because in THEIR memory, this moment remains a happy one. They remember laughing with their siblings. They remember that unusual cafe. They remember you as part of the adventure, not as someone who made a mistake.

Why take that away from them for the sake of technical accuracy?

It's their version of you that fills them, not your corrected reality. Their "distorted" memory of you is what they love. What they need from that moment. Your "correct" version won't help them—it will only feed your ego and your need to be understood correctly.

This applies to everyone. Your spouse remembers the version of you that's important to their story—often a version you're unaware of. That amazing person they married. The one who makes them feel safe, who notices them, or challenges them when they need it most. Your parents remember the version of you that fits their experience. Your friends remember the version of you from the time in their lives when you were there.

You can't force them to update their version to your current reality. And frankly, why would you?

Let people keep their version of you. If it's not harmful and gives them something important, let it be.

You're not a frozen image of a driver, perfectly imprinted in someone's memory. You're 10,000 versions of yourself in 10,000 different memories, and every single one of them is real. They'll stay there whether you like them or not.

There is no test that requires you to make someone else's memory match your official biography.

You are not trapped

You're not trapped in a single role. You're a collection of driving styles that manifest themselves in different contexts.

But just because you CAN drive nervously, impatiently, and anxiously doesn't mean you SHOULD continue to do so—especially if it's not serving you or the passengers you care about.

You can't control how past passengers remember you. Your children may remember you as a nervous wreck, even though you tried your best to be a better person. That's not in your control.

But you can control how you drive from now on. You can decide which version will manifest more often. You can decide which passengers will ride with you on a regular basis.

You don't have to remain the same driver everyone else saw forever. You choose which version of yourself will get behind the wheel tomorrow.

At the end of the journey, there will be no exam to judge the "correctness" of your choice. It will be just you, your car, your route, and the passengers you decided to take with you.

So who do you want to be behind the wheel?

Part 2: Entering the Highway

Getting on the highway and realizing exactly how you learned to drive.

Chapter 3: The Routes You've Been Taught

Remember when you were just learning to drive? And I'm not talking about the technical aspects—how to turn the steering wheel, press the pedals, or check the mirrors. I'm talking about something else. About unwritten rules. About instincts. About those intuitive reactions you have when someone cuts you off or when you see an open parking space.

Where did all this come from?

How knowledge is spread

Take a pencil for example.

You know you can write with it, but where did you learn it from? Perhaps a teacher or your parents told you. But this particular piece of knowledge went "viral" thousands of years ago. And someone taught the teacher. And before that, someone else. If you rewind back hundreds, if not thousands, of years, this "knowledge virus" about the pencil is still alive, still spreading, transmitting the same basic idea: this tool leaves a mark on paper.

Now we literally know what it means to go viral.

(I understand that many would prefer to erase 2020 from their memories, but we have experienced first-hand what it means to have something literally go viral.)

If you've had COVID-19, imagine how many people before you carried the same strain of the virus. If you trace the chain, somewhere at the beginning there was the original source, "patient zero," and then the virus went viral and through a chain of people reached you. Technically, this virus passed through many people, and you ended up, say, a carrier in the seventy-third generation.

Knowledge works the same way. It's passed down from person to person, from generation to generation; everyone passes it on, and more often than not, no one stops to consider where it originally came from.

This is essentially how we learn everything in the world.

Inherited Travel Habits

You learned to drive at a driving school, where you were taught the official rules (and perhaps spiced up with the instructor's personal whims). You learned from your parents, absorbing their example every time you sat in the backseat and watched them. You learned from your culture, which explained that certain behaviors on the road carry certain meanings. You learned from movies that showed you what "cool" driving looks like, what "aggression" manifests itself in, and what "success" on the highway looks like.

None of this is neutral. It's all programming.

Aggressive lane changes? You learned it. Perhaps from watching your mom or dad weave through traffic to "make up time." Perhaps from movies where the hero always seems to be speeding like a rocket. Or perhaps from the driving culture of your city, where the slightest hesitation will get you mercilessly honked at.

Fighting for prestigious parking spots? You've learned that too. Get there first. Get closer to the entrance. Get the "best" spot. Objectively, there's nothing better about it—it's just a hierarchy someone invented and everyone agreed to uphold.

Road hierarchy? Trucks must keep to the right lane. Sports cars are allowed to speed. Minivans are boring. Luxury cars deserve respect. Electric cars are for eco-activists (or tech pioneers, depending on which virus you've caught).

All of this was taught. All of this was passed on. All of this was accepted without question.

Someone told you that you have the right to feel superior.

Neil deGrasse Tyson, an astrophysicist, science communicator, and someone I deeply admire for his openness to ideas, wrote something about competition in his book , Starry Messenger , that perfectly applies to our topic:

The Olympic Games owe their existence to the search for those among us who are faster, higher, and stronger. Standardized exams, game shows, beauty contests, talent auditions, and the Forbes 400 list all pit people against each other in a hierarchical order. Society offers hundreds, if not thousands, of ways to prove yourself better than others .

And then he said something that should make us all think:

"You only feel superior because someone told you it's okay to feel that way." ²

Read this again.

You didn't wake up one day with an innate sense that you're better than the slow driver trudging along in the left lane when they should be in the right. Someone taught you that slow drivers in the left lane are "wrong," even if they're driving the speed limit, and therefore you (the fast, "correct" driver) are superior.

You weren't born knowing that overtaking more cars meant "winning." Someone taught you that being ahead is success.

Rivalry was downloaded into you. Like software. Like a virus.

The Attention Economy in My Hometown

Let me give you a personal example from the place where I was born.

I grew up in Monterrey, Mexico, and there's a deep-rooted cultural virus there. We call ourselves gamblers and hard workers, and we boast about it proudly—but perhaps we're simply masking a need for attention and recognition to feel superior to others.

It works like this: if someone has something that grabs attention, you need something bigger, cooler (and usually more expensive) to pull – or steal – the attention.

Did your friend buy a car that everyone is looking at? You'll start looking for a pickup truck that will turn even more heads.

Is your neighbor throwing a party that everyone is talking about? You need to throw one that will set the new standard.

This applies to everything. Weddings. Quinceañeras . Job titles. House sizes. Sports teams.

And here's the irony: your joy becomes relative – it depends on how much you made others feel inferior to you.

It's not enough to just be happy with your car—you need to know it attracts more attention than a friend's. It's not enough to throw a wonderful party—you need people to say it was better than the last one, so its owner feels "outdone."

And this applies not only to things and events. Everything goes much deeper, to the personal level:

– When are you getting married? – When are you going to have children? – Your cousin already has two, what are you waiting for? – Your brother just got promoted, how are you doing at work?

This constant comparison doesn't stem from any objective frame of reference. It's the same cultural virus that permeates families, convincing everyone that their worth is measured by achieving shared milestones—and achieving them more effectively than everyone else.

There is even a thought experiment that illustrates this perfectly:

– Would you rather have a $300,000 house where everyone else has $200,000 houses, or a $500,000 house where everyone else has a million-dollar house?

Rationally, a house costing half a million is objectively better. It's bigger, better quality, and more expensive.

But most people choose a house for 300,000. Because in that area, they win. They're at the top. Affluence doesn't matter unless you have relative superiority. They have the best house on the street—all the attention is theirs.

In the millionaires' neighborhood, they're at the bottom. They have the "worst" house. Even though by any objective standard it's a mansion, no one pays them any attention.

This preference—to be relatively superior, rather than objectively better—is acquired. It's a cultural virus. And it makes people deeply unhappy.

Not everyone behaves this way, and it's not just about Monterrey. But this is what I know from my experience growing up there.

Status signals we've been taught to value

Have you ever noticed how some people buy expensive coffee only in trendy places, although they could make it at home for much cheaper (but without the coveted cup)?

It's not about the coffee. It's about walking into the office with that particular cup. To be seen by others as someone who can afford "decent" coffee from the place everyone's talking about. It's a status signal.

It's the same with branded clothing, where the logo is huge and visible from afar. You're not buying quality (a regular T-shirt is no less functional) – you're buying a signal. You're saying, "I can afford this brand, which means I'm superior to those who can't."

You can always tell when someone has suddenly become rich: they suddenly start decking themselves out in huge logos and branded prints from head to toe. They need to show the crowd that they can afford it. These people are like walking totems of luxury brands.

No one is born with a fear of logos. It's something acquired. It's a virus that someone spread, and you caught it.

In high school, I was hanging out with a couple of friends in my hometown. It was late afternoon, and we'd been skateboarding all day (there was no internet back then, so we were hanging out on the street—crazy times, right?). We were sitting in a friend's garage, and the car was parked next door.

I don't remember all the details, but the conversation boiled down to us taking one look at it and deciding it was just a regular, standard-shaped car. Gray. Boring. We were like, "Pfft, just a regular sedan."

But then one of the friends went to throw away his cigarette butt, saw that it was a BMW, and suddenly shouted: “Wow, look at this car! Holy shit!”

The brand made him think that way. Not the car itself. Not anything objectively different about its appearance or functionality. Just the logo. Just the knowledge that this thing "should" be impressive.

This is the virus in action. We didn't care about the car until we found out it was expensive. And then we started caring—simply because we were "supposed" to react that way.

When you catch yourself thinking that you care

Cultural programming is effective because it works in the background. You don't notice the installation process. You simply sense the reaction and accept it as your own.

But you can learn to catch such moments.

You're standing at a traffic light, and a luxury car pulls up next to you. Something triggers in your brain—an automatic judgment of the driver, perhaps a flash of envy or a feeling of superiority, depending on what you're driving. This reaction wasn't yours. It was programmed into you.

You see someone's vacation photos on social media. Before you can think, you're comparing their trip to yours—especially if you've been there a long time ago—feeling like you're "falling behind," and mentally planning your next, even more impressive vacation to post about. This comparison reflex wasn't yours. It was imposed from the outside.

The program manifests itself in the split second that passes between "saw" and "felt." It is in this pause that implanted beliefs live.

It's impossible to completely erase cultural programming. It's too deep-seated. Too automated. Too heavily reinforced by everything around us.

But you can learn to recognize it. And recognition changes everything.

When you catch yourself judging someone's car, house, clothes, or job, you can stop and ask, "Where did I get the idea that this is important?" Try to find the roots of your own beliefs.

When you feel the urge to one-up someone else's story with your own, notice this: Do I really want to share this, or am I just trying to assert my position in the hierarchy?

When you start comparing your life to the “front” window display of someone else’s life, you pull yourself up: “Who taught me to measure my value this way?”

You won't always make a different choice. Sometimes you'll recognize the program, but you'll still follow its instructions—because it's easier, or because everyone else is doing it, or because you're too tired to resist.

But recognition switches off autopilot. It creates a moment of choice where before there was only an automatic reaction. And this moment is precisely where freedom begins.

You can retrain

There is some good news: once you have taught these ideas, you can unlearn them.

You don't have to follow the driving habits you inherited. You don't have to race just because everyone else is competing. You don't have to feel superior just because your culture says it's okay.

You can see the program for what it is – an idea that was imposed on you without your consent – and decide whether you want to keep it.

Some cultural programming is useful. Traffic regulations exist for a reason. Social norms of basic politeness allow society to function.

But aggressive lane changes? Status parking? The feeling of superiority from the way you drive or the fact that you have a sunroof?

It's all optional. And it makes you unhappy.

So how do you actually start retraining?

Start with awareness. You just practiced this in the previous section. Notice when the program starts. Don't judge it. Don't try to fight it immediately. Just see it. – Ah, there goes that automatic status comparison again.

Then question it. When you find a program at work, ask yourself: "What if I didn't care?" You don't have to vow to "never care again"—just experiment. What if that person's car didn't matter? What if you didn't need that enviable vacation? What if you just… left it as is? The world won't end. Usually, nothing at all happens.

Then try doing something different once. Without making it a new rule. Without promising to change forever. Just this once. Someone tells you something they're proud of. Instead of jumping into a story about your success, just say, "That's great." And that's it. No need to wax lyrical about praise like, "You made my day," or make the conversation about yourself. Just acknowledge the fact. See what happens. Usually? They'll just keep talking. They won't even notice you didn't compete. The hierarchy you thought you needed to affirm wasn't actually needed.

Listen to your feelings. When you don't engage in comparisons you normally would; when you don't buy a status item you would have bought earlier; when you don't judge someone you normally would—pay attention to how you feel. Sometimes it's relief. Sometimes it's freedom. Sometimes it's discomfort, because the program is still there, insisting it's important. All these feelings are information.

That's what retraining is all about. Not erasing code. Not replacing it with another. But understanding that it's code and deciding whether you want to run it.

You can decide not to participate in competitions you never signed up for. You can decide to stop measuring your happiness by the lives of others. You can choose your own path without worrying about whether you're "ahead" or "behind" someone else.

There is no exam that will evaluate whether you have fallen behind the “right” people and whether you are correctly following the cultural script.

But there is a choice: continue using software that someone else installed, or start writing your own code.

1. Neil deGrasse Tyson, Starry Messenger: Cosmic Perspectives on Civilization (Henry Holt and Company, 2022), 149.

2. Neil deGrasse Tyson, Starry Messenger , 150.

Chapter 4: The Speed Trap

Before, knowing what others thought of us required real feedback. Now we get instant metrics: likes, views, reposts. We've become dependent on the scoreboard in a race we never even agreed to participate in.

Why do we compete? Who told us we have to be the fastest car on the highway? When did documenting life become more important than life itself?

The evolution of the concert

There's a perfect example of how this shift has happened, and it can be seen in how the atmosphere at concerts has changed over the past 40 years:

• 1980s: People came to concerts with their hands raised, lighters flickering in the darkness. They lived the music. They were IN the moment. The goal was to feel the sound, to merge with the energy of the crowd, to connect with the performer.

• 1990s: Cameras appeared. People started taking pictures of musicians. Most of the time, cameras were forbidden from being brought into concerts. But if you managed to, pictures were taken to remember that night later. To look back and say: “I saw that live.” Personal experience was still primary. Documentation was secondary.

• 2000s: Cell phones got cameras. People now recorded entire songs—grainy video, terrible sound, shaky pictures they'd likely never watch again. But while recording, they were still mostly looking at the stage. The phone was just an addition to the experience.

• 2010s: Smartphones got better. People started taking selfies IN FRONT of the band. Noticed the change? The band became a backdrop. A concert stopped being an event for the music – it became a way to prove that YOU were there. Documentation became equal to the experience itself.

• 2020s: What about now? Now people film themselves throughout the concert. The camera is pointed at them, and the band is a blur somewhere behind the phone. The performers are unimportant – we are the main characters in our own show called “me at the concert.” People don’t look at the stage. They look at the screen, which films them against the backdrop of the show.

History is us now. The group doesn't matter.

A concert is no longer a destination. It's simply a backdrop for your content. For your stories. For your proof that you're living an interesting life that should impress others.

Everyone is performing, no one is watching.

A few years ago, a video went viral. The saddest thing is that it happens year after year. It's New Year's Eve in Paris. Thousands of people gathered at the Arc de Triomphe to celebrate midnight.

The camera pans across the crowd. Everyone, without exception, has their phone raised, recording. Absolutely everyone.

They don't watch. They record.

No one is experiencing the moment they traveled thousands of miles for. Everyone is watching through a 6-inch screen, trying to capture it for those who aren't there.

But if everyone is recording and no one is watching, what's the point of being there?

Who are they filming this for? For those who didn't come? But why would those people watch shaky phone footage of something they didn't see themselves?

The answer is simple: they record it to prove they were there. To prove their lives are interesting. To gather evidence that they're winning this race.

Go to any gym right now. See what's going on there.

Some people set up their phones to record their workouts. Not to check their form. Not to track their progress. But to post them. To show everyone: they're working out. That they're goal-oriented. That they're better than those who aren't in the gym right now.

And here's where the most revealing part begins: they kick people out of the frame. They get annoyed if someone walks past their lens. They change their approach because someone "ruined" their video.

And then—and this is even worse—they post the video, shaming the person who dared interrupt their recording. How dare they use a public space while someone else is filming? They shame strangers online for the crime of… “existing in a shared space.” (Kudos to Joey Swall, bodybuilder and fitness influencer, for creating the “Mind Your Own Business” movement to stop this kind of behavior.)

The training itself becomes secondary to its documentation.

They're not here to get stronger. They're here to be seen getting stronger. They're not competing against their past performance—they're competing for attention, for approval, for proof that they're ahead of everyone else.

Where is the reality show here?

Social media has changed the way we perceive ourselves. It has made us feel like each of us is the main character in our own movie, one that everyone else is obligated to watch.

We don't just live. We perform a role in our lives. We curate our lives. We edit them for an audience that might not really care.

We act as if we're playing a game we didn't sign up for—like reality TV contestants, constantly mindful of the camera, constantly adjusting our behavior to the audience, constantly measuring our worth by ratings.

But here's the inconvenient truth: no one is watching you as closely as you think.

Your followers don't study your posts. They skim them. They watch them half-heartedly while standing in line for coffee. They consume your content the same way you consume theirs—quickly, mindlessly, forgetting about it before they even move on to the next post.

Psychologists call this the "spotlight effect." You feel like you're on stage, like everyone is noticing your appearance, your mistakes, your life choices. The truth is, everyone is too preoccupied with themselves to care about you. They're not spectators watching your film—they're the stars of their own movies, barely aware of your existence, except as background scenery.

You're competing for the attention of people who aren't actually watching the race.

Swipe to refresh

So why can't we stop? Why do we keep checking notifications? Why is it so hard to just put our phones down?

Because the system is designed to keep you hooked.

Social media aren't just apps; they're slot machines in your pocket. And they exploit the same psychological mechanism that makes gambling addictive: intermittent reinforcement.

Here's how it works: you post something. You don't know how it'll go down. Maybe there will be 10 likes. Maybe 100. Maybe 1,000. This uncertainty creates anticipation. And anticipation triggers a dopamine rush.

Every time you check your phone, you're pulling the lever of a slot machine. Sometimes you win (notifications! likes! comments!). Sometimes you don't. But the possibility that THIS time will bring you a big win keeps you checking your phone again and again.

The dopamine hit comes not from the likes themselves, but from the anticipation of getting them. That's why you keep refreshing your feed. That's why you check your phone five minutes after posting. That's why you feel anxious when a post doesn't get as much attention as you expected.

You're not weak. You're addicted not because you lack willpower. You're up against a multi-billion dollar industry that has designed these platforms specifically to be as addictive as possible. They employ neuroscientists and behavioral psychologists whose sole job is to figure out how to keep you scrolling endlessly.

A red notification icon? Designed to create a sense of urgency. Infinite scrolling? To remove breakpoints. A "seen" indicator? To create social pressure to respond immediately. An algorithm that shows you content that annoys you? Designed to keep your attention, even if it makes you miserable.

Every feature is optimized for one thing: to keep you on the platform as long as possible to sell more ads. The algorithm controls what you see, what you feel, and what you do next.

And it works because dopamine doesn't care about your well-being. Dopamine cares about reward prediction. Your brain doesn't differentiate between real and imagined rewards—dopamine is released regardless. And these platforms know exactly how to hack this system.

That's why you can spend two hours scrolling through your feed and still feel worse than when you started. That's why you can know in your head that social media is making you anxious, but you still can't stop checking it. That's why deleting an app feels like withdrawal.

You're not losing self-control. You're fighting a system designed specifically to suppress that self-control.

In pursuit of ghosts' approval

So why do we do this? Why do we continue to feed the machine, even knowing it was created to exploit us?

Because deep down, we're looking for confirmation that we're cooler than others. That we're more interesting. That we're winning the race.

Every post is a comparison. Every story is proof. Every like is a vote confirming that, yes, you're ahead, you're doing better, you're worthy of attention.

A concert isn't about the music, it's about proving you have access to events that others don't. A video from the audience isn't about fitness, it's about proving your discipline compared to those stuck at home. Vacation photos aren't about relaxation, it's about proving your life is more vibrant than those scrolling through your feed.

Social media has turned life into a performance review. And ever since, we've been chasing a good grade.

But there are no judges. There is no final score. At the end of your life, there will be no commission to review your Instagram feed and decide whether you lived your life wisely.

You're participating in a competition that doesn't exist, trying to impress people who aren't paying attention, collecting points that mean nothing.

Documentation vs. Performance

When you stop performing for the public, you begin to truly live. You become present in the moment. You experience events, not just collect evidence that they happened. You reclaim your focus. You reclaim your life.

People are starting to realize this. They realize they've spent years filming their lives instead of living them. And they're making changes: sharing less, feeling more.

But let me clarify: documenting moments in and of themselves isn't the problem. Taking a photo of your child's first concert as a memento? Great. Recording a video message for someone who couldn't make it? Thoughtful. Capturing a moment because you genuinely want to revisit it later? Totally fine.

The problem arises when documentation turns into performance.

So ask yourself:

Did you share this because you wanted to remember the moment? Or because you wanted others to see YOU experiencing it?

Did you document your life? Or did you perform a role in it for the public?

Did you enjoy the concert? Or were you trying to prove you were at the concert?

There's nothing wrong with the first answer to either question. Memory is important. Connections are important. Sharing meaningful moments with those you care about is human.

But when every moment becomes content, when every experience becomes evidence in a competition you didn't agree to participate in, when your life is curated for an audience instead of lived for yourself—that's when you've lost your way.

There is no test for how impressive your life looks to strangers on the internet.

But there's a choice: keep fighting for the approval of people who aren't really watching, or put your phone down and really feel what you're doing.

The highway is long. The scenery is worth seeing. But you won't see it if you're staring at a screen showing you what others think of you.

Stop fighting for attention. Stop chasing proof of your superiority. Stop filming the ride and just… go.

Chapter 5: Who's Keeping Score?

Imagine putting everything you've worked for on the line over a bet with a stranger.

And I mean absolutely everything.

Education – all those years at school, playing games during recess, childhood admiration for your sports idol, memorizing the lyrics to your favorite songs. Hanging out with friends. Time with your parents when they took you on vacation. All the hard work they put in to get you into university. The shifts you worked to pay for your studies. Countless sleepless nights poring over textbooks before the toughest exams, pushing through because you were building your future.

The home you created with your partner. The people waiting for you at home. Your siblings, who have known you their whole lives. Your children, who would never dream of anything happening to their hero. They depend entirely on you – for their education, their home, their safety, their future.

All of it. Everything you built. Everything you sacrificed. Everything you worked for. Everything you want to leave a mark on.

And all this – for the sake of arguing with a stranger over a game. Or changing lanes. Or over who's right. Over someone you don't care about.

Sounds crazy, right?

People do this every day.

Fight at the stadium

You're at a match. Your team scores. You're celebrating. The guy sitting behind you—wearing the opposing team's jersey—says something. Not even to you, just muttering to a friend. But you heard.

Now you have a choice.

You could ignore it. Enjoy the game. Go home to your family. Wake up tomorrow with your job, your health, and your life intact.

Or you can turn around and respond. Escalate. Inflame the conflict. Let your ego convince you that you must put this stranger in his place because he disrespected your team, and therefore you personally, and now you have to defend your honor.

And what happens next?

Maybe it'll be nothing. Maybe he'll back off. Maybe you'll both yell at each other, security will break it up, and you'll go home feeling like you've "won."

Or maybe it will come to blows. Maybe you'll hit first. Maybe he'll hit you back. Maybe you'll fall. Maybe you'll hit your head on a concrete step. Maybe you'll lose an eye. Maybe you'll be paralyzed. Maybe you'll end up in jail.

For what purpose?

For your team? Honestly, they usually don't care about your existence. They won't come visit you in the hospital. They won't pay your lawyers. They won't babysit your kids while you recover from a brain injury.

For pride? How much is your pride worth? Is it worth the ability to walk? Is it worth your children losing a good father or mother because of a stranger's insult? Is it worth your children seeing their parent arrested? Is it worth losing a job because of a criminal record?

The point is that there is no judge who awards points for being right.

There are no grades for conflict. There's no committee that will review the recording and declare, "Yes, you did the right thing by escalating the situation. Here's your trophy for defending your honor." Fanfares. Fireworks. You did it!

In reality, only consequences remain. You have yours, that guy has his. And both of you risked everything… for nothing.

Conflict on the road

Same layout, different location.

Someone cuts you off in traffic. Maybe they didn't see you. Maybe they're rushing to the hospital. Or maybe they're just a jerk behind the wheel. It doesn't matter—you're furious.

You have the same choice as the guy at the stadium. Whether you're hurt or not, make your decision.

Ignore it and move on. Or start a fight.

You accelerate. You grind against him. You yell. You gesture. You honk the horn. You chase him. You want him to understand how wrong he was. You want him to feel guilty. You want to win this fight.

The stupidest thing? Your being "right" won't stop his car from crashing into yours.

Let's say he cut you off really badly. Let's say you're 100% right and he's 100% wrong, and if it went to court, the judge would side with you completely.

Congratulations. You're right.

But if his car hits yours because you decided to stand on principle and not let him change lanes, it doesn't matter whether you're right or wrong. Your car is totaled. You could get injured. You could end up in the hospital.

The laws of physics don't care about traffic laws. The other driver's insurance company doesn't care that you were technically right. They won't put a sign on your tombstone that says, "AT LEAST HE HAD THE RIGHT-OF-WAY."

There is no test to determine how justified your road rage was.

There's only an outcome. And the outcome could be this: you're right and you're crippled. Or you're right and you're in intensive care. Or you're right and you're mired in lawsuits for causing an emergency.

Take care of yourself. On the road, no one but you will look after you.

Invisible judges

So who do you think is judging you?

When you feel that urge to defend your honor, to prove someone wrong, to make sure everyone knows you've won—who's watching? Who's keeping score?

Most people, if they're honest with themselves, imagine themselves as some sort of committee. Some invisible audience tallying up victories and defeats. Some sort of cosmic accountant who notes whether you've allowed yourself to be disrespected or whether you've stood your ground.

Perhaps it's your parents' voices in your head: "Don't let anyone bully you." Perhaps it's your cultural beliefs: "A real man doesn't back down." Perhaps it's your own inner conviction that giving in means showing weakness, and weakness means failure.

But these judges do not exist.

Your parents don't watch every fight you have, judging whether you defended yourself properly. Your culture doesn't keep track of how many times you stood your ground and how many times you gave up. Your future self won't look back and think, "I wish I'd argued more with strangers."

The imaginary commission is a myth.

When someone cuts you off in traffic and you feel a surge of rage—like, "I won't let them get away with this"—who do you want to let them get away with it? There's no traffic police awarding points for your response. There's no manhood council checking to see if you properly defended your lane. There's no cosmic justice system doling out bonuses for standing up to jerks.

The judge you imagine – the one who decides whether you are too passive, aggressive, weak, or confrontational – exists only in your head.

And the strangest thing is: even though you know intellectually that no one is really judging you, you still feel this urge. You still feel like there's something at stake. That if you let it go, you'll lose some invisible game.

This feeling is real. The game itself is not.

The question isn't "how do I win?" The question is: Do I want to play a game that exists only in my imagination, risking something that actually exists in reality?

You don't have to win at everything.

You can visit Disneyland and not ride ALL the rides.

Seriously. You can come to the park, ride three carousels, eat, watch the parade, and go home. You don't have to squeeze the most out of every minute. You don't have to visit every location. You don't have to "beat" Disneyland.

But people try. They plan their itineraries with military precision. They rise at dawn. They rush between attractions with a sporty gait. They skip lunch to squeeze in more lines. They drive families to the brink of nervous breakdown trying to squeeze the maximum benefit out of the ticket price.

They end up coming home exhausted, burnt out, broke, and barely remembering what they actually enjoyed because they were too busy optimizing.

In life, everything is the same.

You don't have to engage in dialogue with every idiot. You don't have to fight every battle. You don't have to defend your honor in every skirmish. You don't have to correct everyone who's wrong on the internet.

You can just… let it go.

Let them be wrong. Let them take this strip. Let them talk nonsense at the match. Let them cut us off. Let them think they "won."

There is no scoreboard.

No one tracks how many arguments you win. No one grades you on how effectively you defended the team's honor. No one gives you awards for being right.

You are participating in a competition that does not exist.

Overtake the navigator

When was the last time you tried to arrive before your GPS's estimated time of arrival (ETA)?

Even if you arrived one minute early, you won! Right? We beat the system!

Except no. You aggressively cut other drivers off. You probably ruined their mood for the rest of the trip. You probably risked an accident. And for what? To arrive 60 seconds early.

Nobody keeps track of how many times you beat the navigator's forecast.

In 2018, when I was buying a car, I even subconsciously set limits for myself. I got a Toyota Prius C. It's basically impossible to drive recklessly in this car. After the Mini Cooper, it felt like: hey, man, you can (and even have to) drive calmly.

It's not like I'm trudging along at 30 km/h now. But I'm not speeding anymore. And the arrival time in the GPS could stay the same or even increase. No one cares. There's no arrival time test.

This is what imaginary competition on the highway looks like: racing against an arbitrary number that doesn't really mean anything, creating stress and risk for yourself and those around you – all for the sake of “winning” something that was never a competition.

Imaginary leaderboard

Have you ever played Candy Crush or similar games?

They're designed to be addictive. You beat a level. You feel a surge of joy. You see your friends' scores. Some of them are ahead of you. And you beat another level. And another. And another.

And then you realize you're spending real money on a free game. You're not getting enough sleep. You're ignoring your family. You're stressing out about…colored candies.

For what? To become number one on a leaderboard that means absolutely nothing?

Your best friend or your kids won't remember you as "that Candy Crush pro." No one will carve "Top 10 Candy Crush" on your tombstone.

But in real life, we treat conflicts in exactly the same way.

We risk our jobs, relationships, freedom, and health—all to climb an imaginary leaderboard. To prove we're better, smarter, and more right than some stranger we'll never see again.

We act as if there were a cosmic scoreboard recording every argument won, every boor put down, every instance of honor defended.

He is not there.

Stop tilting at windmills

There is no teacher who checks your life decisions and counts how many times you stood your ground and how many times you gave in.

At the end of the journey, there will be no cosmic certificate assessing whether you defended your honor correctly, whether you allowed people to treat you without due respect, and whether you proved yourself right often enough.

There is only the life you live now. The security you provide. The relationships you cherish.

When you're lying in a hospital bed because a fight at the stadium went wrong, the doctor won't give you a "But you were right" certificate. When you're dealing with the legal consequences of a traffic dispute, the judge won't award you bonus points for technically correctly pointing out the other driver's traffic violation.

The only criteria that matter are:

Are you safe?

Are the people you love safe?

Is this conflict worth what you might lose?

That's it. That's the whole question. And you already know the answers.

A stranger at the stadium is unimportant. A driver who cuts you off is unimportant. A person on the internet who makes a mistake is unimportant.

It's important to return home to your family. It's important to wake up tomorrow without a criminal case. It's important not to throw away everything you've built over the years for the fleeting satisfaction of proving you're right to someone who will forget about you in five minutes.

So stop fighting battles that mean nothing. Stop risking everything for nothing.

There is no exam. There never was one.

The only grade that counts is whether you were able to protect what is truly important while letting go of what is unimportant.

And this is a test that you can pass just by passing by.

First pit stop

We've been on the road for quite some time now. Five chapters, to be precise.

You hit the highway. You realized you were your own point of reference. You became familiar with all the versions of yourself that passengers see. You recognized the cultural viruses you'd been carrying within you. You saw how everyone around you was playing roles instead of simply living. You came face to face with a system of evaluation that never really existed.

So let's slow down for a bit. Let's find a rest area. Turn off the engine. Let's get out and stretch our legs.

Look how far we've come from your neighborhood. When we started, you were rolling down familiar streets where everything was clear because you'd driven there thousands of times. Now we're on the highway, and from here, everything looks different.

The cars around you are no longer enemies you need to overtake—they're simply going along at their own speed. The lane doesn't belong to you. And all those rules you thought were mandatory? Most of them turned out to be just inherited ideas, not real requirements.

You saw how much of what you believed in was just software code. The belief that you had to be first. The idea that you had to stake out your own lane. The assumption that someone was judging your success. The pressure to keep up with others.

None of this was real. It was just learned.

We're about to get back on the road, but the next stretch will be different. We're now taking the scenic route—one that will show you how everything changes depending on where you stand.

Ready to see how everything changes from this perspective?

Let's go.

Part 3: The Roundabout

When you choose a long road, you understand that everything in the world is relative.

Chapter 6: Speed is Relative

Now I'm going to take you on a scenic route—not a highway where all you can think about is keeping up and getting ahead. A scenic route is when you slow down and start looking around. You notice the landscape. Trees, mountains, other cars where people are going about their lives.

That's the whole point of this part of the journey. To slow down and truly see what's around you—the people around you, the very essence of things. Not to change your position, but to understand what exactly you're looking at from where you are. You have a unique perspective on this landscape because no one else is standing in your place.

And it's about how you perceive other drivers – and, frankly, not all of them seem like geniuses.

There are people who are dumber than you, and there are those who are smarter.

Stupidity is relative to YOU personally. People are either smarter or dumber than you. That's how our perception works.

Let's return to the highway example. When you're driving 65 mph, a car speeding along at 80 mph seems reckless. A car trudging along at 50 mph seems like an obstacle. But neither of these observations is objective—they're both relative to YOUR speed. You are the reference point. Everything else is measured as "faster than me" or "slower than me."

Have you ever noticed a car in your rearview mirror following you at the same distance for miles? You immediately feel a connection with this driver—they match your pace, they drive like you. This empathy arises automatically because they match your speed. They feel "right."

It's the same with intelligence. You're the starting point. People who think faster than you, see patterns you miss, and grasp concepts that baffle you—they're "smart" in your eyes. People who take longer to understand, who don't see the obvious, and who get stuck on problems you find easy—they're "stupid" in your eyes.

Mental ranking scale

Your brain does this automatically. Without even realizing it, you've subconsciously placed everyone in their place in your head—you've built an imaginary line of people stretching to the horizon, where everyone occupies their place based on their level of intelligence relative to you.

You stand at your position in this line. Every person you meet is assigned a place in it. Those in front are "smarter." Those behind are "stupider." This isn't the ultimate truth; it's relevant only to your interactions with them.

And here's the hardest thing to grasp: you can't move people up YOUR queue. That person you think is stupid? You can't teach them to be smarter than you. You can't "fix" them. You can't explain things so clearly that they suddenly move up in your rankings. They're up there based on how your brain interacts with theirs.

This queue is fixed relative to you.

But—and this is crucial—that same person also exists in everyone else's queues. And in their best friend's queue? There, they might be way ahead of everyone else. The person you considered "stupid" might be the most brilliant person in someone else's world.

So, when you're tempted to "correct" or "teach some sense" to someone behind you in line, remember: you're not measuring universal intelligence. You're measuring their position relative to YOUR reference point. And that measurement has nothing to do with their position in anyone else's line.

You can't correct the people behind you. And you don't need to, because they're not "behind" in the eyes of the world—they're just behind in your perception.

The driver who cut you off? You won't correct him by honking louder.

There are stupid people everywhere and that will never change.

You can't change them. You can't educate them. You can't make them listen to reason. You can't make them admit they're wrong.

And more importantly, you don't get graded on how many fools you set straight.

There's no teacher looking at your life and thinking, "Wow, look how effective he is at putting idiots in their place. A+!"

Let them make mistakes. Let them cut you off. Let them talk nonsense in the stadium stands. Let them have fun. Let them be stupid on the internet. Let them be delusional without making it your problem.

You are also in someone's queue

While you're busy assigning everyone to YOUR place in line, everyone in your life has their own scale. Your parents had theirs. If you have children, they have theirs. Your partner has theirs.

And you are present in each of them.

Think about it. If you have children, they don't compare you to other parents. For THEM, you are the benchmark for what it means to be a "parent." You are their zero. You are the standard by which all other parents are measured. And not because you are competing with anyone, but because you are literally their foundation.

For your partner, you're not just one of many on a list. In their world, you're the benchmark for the concept of "life partner." When meeting other people's spouses, they might notice differences: "Oh, they're more patient," or "They're less organized," but these observations are merely measurements relative to YOU. You're the benchmark. You don't compete with others. You're the standard.

This means trying to be the "best" parent or the "best" partner is impossible. You're not in a race. You don't need to outrank other parents or spouses. You're already their benchmark. You're already "zero" on their scale.

Feeling relieved? You don't fit into anyone else's coordinate system. Your child's friend doesn't even think about you. That "zero" for him is his own father. You're somewhere in his line, maybe ahead, maybe behind, but you're not his reference point. Not his standard.

Stop trying to compete with other parents or partners. You're not in that race. You're already someone else's standard. And they don't judge you by others—they measure everyone else by you.

This is not pressure. This is freedom.

We call someone "right" when they agree with us.

Have you ever noticed that people who think like you are "rational" and "logical," while those who disagree with you are "deluded" or "naive"? It's not because you have access to objective truth. It's because you judge their opinions by your own.

When someone agrees with you, your brain says: Yes, this person has a correct understanding of the truth (which, by a lucky chance, coincides with my position). When someone disagrees, your brain says: This person is mistaken about the truth (which is still my position).

You don't evaluate their arguments on their merits. You evaluate how well they align with your beliefs. And they do exactly the same to you.

Take political views, for example. No matter which side you're on, the other side isn't just wrong for you—their delusion is dangerous. It's mind-boggling. They're destroying the country. How can they fail to see what's so obvious to you?

And here's the irony: I haven't even mentioned which country, which flags, or which parties I'm talking about. But you've already projected this onto your political landscape, haven't you? Because this pattern works everywhere. In every country, people find their political differences uniquely toxic, uniquely irritating, uniquely insurmountable. "Our politics are broken," we all say, as if we invented social polarization.

We all think our situation is unique. But the mechanism is the same everywhere: you measure someone else's political position by your own. People whose position aligns with yours are "informed." Those whose position doesn't are "victims of propaganda." And they make exactly the same measurements from their own point of reference.

Remember that car in the mirror, driving at your speed? You felt a connection because it was driving like you. It's the same with like-minded people: they seem "right" because they match your speed, your rhythm, your point of reference. You both consider yourself right. You both consider the other wrong. You both measure yourself by your standard and act as if it were universal.

But that's not true. He's just yours.

Everything measurable is relative

If everything is relative to your position—intelligence, consent, perception—then what about things we consider objective? Wealth, for example? Or beauty?

Let's test the principle of relativity:

Who is richer – a homeless person with no debt and pennies in his pocket or a middle-class person with $50,000 in debt?

Objectively, a homeless person's net worth is higher. One cent is more than minus fifty thousand. On paper, he's "richer."

But we don't think that way, do we? Because we don't measure wealth objectively. We measure it relative to social status, access to resources, quality of life, and security. A middle-class person has debt, sure, but they also have a home, food, access to healthcare, and job prospects. A homeless person has a penny and nowhere to sleep tonight.

So when we say someone is "rich" or "poor," we're not really talking about numbers. We're talking about how their situation compares to our basic understanding of what's normal.

If you grew up poor, an income of $50,000 a year feels like wealth. If you grew up in luxury, that same $50,000 is a failure. It's the same number, but the feelings are polar opposites, and it all depends on where YOU started.

Wealth is relative. It always has been and always will be.

Beauty and attractiveness

The same principle applies to beauty. You know what you like—but where does this standard come from? It's partly biological (we're programmed to find certain things attractive: smooth skin, symmetry, signs of health), partly cultural (what's valued in your society), and partly personal (what feels familiar, what reminds you of a pleasant experience).

But here's what most people don't realize: your standard of beauty is based on YOU, on your face, on your body.

You are your own benchmark for attractiveness. Your own traits become the foundation of what you find "right" and attractive.

That's why people often choose partners who look similar to them. Not identical, but similar. Similar facial features, appearance type, proportions.

It's no coincidence. You're subconsciously drawn to people who resemble you because they match your internal beauty standard, which has been shaped by your own appearance. You see yourself in the mirror every day. These features become familiar, comfortable, "true." And when you see them reflected in someone else? Your brain reads them as attractive.

There's a phenomenon where partners in a couple often look like they're related; it's called assortative mating. Similar body types. Similar facial features. Similar skin tones. And it's not because they've lived together for so long that they've mimicked each other. It's because they initially chose each other based on their physical resemblance.

You are drawn to your own reflection more than you realize.

When you see someone whose facial features echo yours—the same eye shape, a similar nose, or jawline—that person feels "right." They match the standard you've spent your whole life building by looking at your own face.

This isn't narcissism. It's just how reference points work. You are your own "zero point" for beauty, just as you are the reference point for intelligence, speed, and everything else.

The same principle applies to pets. People choose dogs that look like them. Or act like them. Or both.

It's not always obvious—you don't intentionally look for a dog with your face. But subconsciously, you're drawn to a dog whose appearance or temperament seems familiar. Seems… like you.

You see a dog with your energy level, your facial structure (proportion), or your coloring—and something clicks. This dog seems "the one." It meets your internal standards.

And again, relativity. You are the standard, and you are drawn to what corresponds to it.

When your own standard doesn't suit you

But what happens when you don't like your starting point? When you look in the mirror and wish you looked different?

This is where body modification comes in. Plastic surgery, hair transplants, implants, lifts, injections—all ways people try to change their "basic package."

And that's completely normal. Your body is your business.

But there's one critical question to answer before you change anything: are you doing this for yourself or for someone else?

Because if you're doing it for someone else, you're not really changing your body. You're changing yourself to fit someone else's standards. And that never ends well.

Modification traps

You see a celebrity with a certain type. This person is successful, attractive, and everywhere. And you think, "If only I looked like that, my life would be better."

But wait.

This celebrity NEEDS THIS look. Their career literally depends on maintaining it. They're paid to look that way. Entire teams of people help them stay in shape: stylists, trainers, nutritionists, surgeons. Their job is to look exactly like that.

Your work is not.

You're not getting paid to look like them. You don't have their team. You don't have their income to maintain that image. And more importantly, you don't have their specific career that requires that specific appearance.

So if you remake your body to suit them, you take on all the costs and burdens of maintaining a professional image… without receiving any professional dividends.

In your everyday life, you cosplay other people's career demands.

Now about living up to someone else's standard.

You might be thinking: “If I just change one detail about my appearance, I’ll finally attract the person I dream about.”

You will stop.

If someone didn't find you attractive before the modification, but does after… what exactly is it that attracts them?

Modification. Not you.

They're attracted to what you've become for them. They're attracted to the very fact that you've bent to their standards.

And now you are trapped in a relationship, the foundation of which is this: you have remade yourself to become acceptable to them.

Consider what this means in the long term. If your body changes naturally—aging, weight fluctuations, just life—will you still be attractive to them? Or will they demand more modifications to keep you up to their standards? Or will they go looking for someone else with the same characteristics?

You have taught them to love someone other than who you really are.

Think about it: if someone loves you only AFTER modification, they don't love you. They love the result you became to please them.

They like the artificial outcome. The altered version. The "you" that has been broken to fit their standards.

And now you're stuck. Because if you ever stop maintaining this modification—if your body changes, if you age, if you can't pull off this image anymore—will they still love you? Or will their attraction evaporate because the one thing that really hooked them is gone?

You built a relationship on the basis of physically remaking you to suit someone else's tastes. That's not love. That's a deal.

Do it for yourself or don't do it at all

Change your body only if and only if YOU want to. For YOUR own personal reasons. Because YOU sincerely want to look or feel different in a way that benefits your life.

Not to look like a celebrity who needs that appearance for work.

Not to finally lure someone who didn't really like you.

Not to fit someone else's idea of what you "should" look like.

Because if you do it for them, you're not just changing your body—you're changing your personality in search of external approval. And that approval will never be enough, because it's not directed at you.

Your body. Your choice. Your reasons.

And not them.

Look, I'm so passionate about this because I've been through it myself. A few months ago, I had a hair transplant (or "relocation," as I jokingly call it—it's just moving your own hair from one part of your head to another). I did it to correct a receding hairline, and it went great. I feel great.

But here's the key: I did it for myself. Not because someone told me I needed it. Not to be like someone else. I did it because I wanted to.

And that's the only reason that matters.

What if everyone disappeared?

Here's a thought experiment that demonstrates the absurdity of external comparisons:

Imagine everyone else on Earth vanished overnight. Pandemic, apocalypse, rapture—it doesn't matter. You're the only one left.

Suddenly you're the smartest person on the planet. And the dumbest. You're the richest and the poorest. The most attractive and the most unattractive. The fastest and the slowest.

All ratings disappear because there is no one to compare yourself to anymore.

Would it still be important to you to be “the best”?

If you're the only person alive, does it matter that you can't run as fast as someone who's gone? Does it matter that you're not as smart as someone who's gone? Does it matter that you have less money than someone who's gone?

Of course not.

So why does this matter now?

Other people are effectively invisible to your actual daily progress. Their existence doesn't change your abilities. Their achievements don't devalue your growth.

You're participating in a race where the other runners don't even know you're there. And winning this race doesn't boost your personal odometer—it just flatters your ego.

Compare yourself to yourself. Yesterday's you is the only person who had exactly the same circumstances, resources, and challenges. Yesterday's you is the only person whose progress you can truly measure, because you have complete data.

Have you moved forward compared to where you were yesterday? Yes? That means you're growing. Have you stayed the same or fallen back? Now you have information on what needs to be adjusted.

That's it. That's the entire grading system.

Other people's progress has no bearing on yours. You don't know their starting point. You don't know their strengths or difficulties. You don't even know what "forward" means on their unique path.

But you know your "forward." You know where you were yesterday. You know where you are today. You know if you're moving in the direction you really want. And that's the only metric that matters.

Einstein discovered that space and time are relative—they change depending on your position and speed. There is no absolute frame of reference. Everything is measured relative to the observer. Two people moving at different speeds perceive time differently. And neither is "wrong." Both are correct in their frames of reference.

There is no absolute standard of success, intelligence, beauty, or progress. There is only your frame of reference and everyone else's frame of reference.

Stop trying to jump into someone else's system and measure yourself by their coordinates. It's impossible. You always measure from where YOU are.

So measure your progress relative to your own position. Your coordinates yesterday compared to today.

Your odometer is yours alone.

Remember: your odometer measures distance traveled, not speed. It records accumulated experience, not ranking.

Some people have higher odometer readings because they've been driving longer. Some have lower odometer readings because they started later. Some people drove the same distance, but on completely different roads.

None of this changes YOUR mileage.

Your odometer may show 10,000 miles or 100,000 – the only thing that matters is that today's number is greater than yesterday's.

Are you moving forward on your path? That's success.

Are you riding at a pace that's appropriate for the road you're on? That's progress.

Are you comparing your odometer readings to your own previous data, not to others? That's wisdom.

There is no test that checks whether your mileage matches someone else's schedule.

There is only your odometer, your route and your decision to keep moving forward.

Chapter 7: Their Trip, Your Memory

Look in the rearview mirror and see the road behind you. All those miles you've driven—the exits you've taken, the rest stops, the stretches of highway, the towns you've passed through.

Which of these do you REALLY remember?

Maybe a particular sunset. Maybe that time you got caught in a downpour. Or maybe that playlist that's been on repeat for three hundred miles.

Now ask the person sitting in the passenger seat what he remembers from that same trip.

Completely different details. Different moments. Different vivid impressions.

Same road. Same car. Same mileage. But completely different memories.

You want to create memories

We constantly plan events specifically for the purpose of creating memories.

The perfect vacation itinerary. A scenic detour. A stop at a special restaurant. A surprise at the destination. We meticulously plan every detail because we want our travel companions to remember this trip forever. We're constantly searching for travel tips: the perfect schedule, must-see spots, the best time to leave.

Why? Because we feel like it's a test of sorts. We think we're being graded on how good of a host we are, how well we've organized the experience, and whether we've created that "perfect" memory for them.

And we believe that if we plan well enough, visit all the right places, and time it down to the minute, we can create exactly the memory they need to keep.

The reality is this: control is sometimes an illusion. You control the route. You control the stops. You control the time.

But… you don't control what that experience will be like for the other person.

You even plan everything based on how you think you would perceive it, trying to put yourself in their shoes. But that only works for you, your experience, and your frame of reference. They have their own. What delights you might bore them. What you find significant, they might not even notice.

Your child might remember the panoramic observation deck you drove two hours off-route to reach. Or they might remember the fight over ice cream that broke out right before you got there.

Your partner might remember the surprise at the end of the journey. Or they might remember how nervous you were about the GPS the whole way.

Your friend might remember the perfect moment of arrival at sunset. Or they might remember how they'd been desperately needing to pee for the last hour, the discomfort preventing them from enjoying the view.

What do they actually remember? They remember what caught their attention, what was important to them at the time, what their brain deemed worth preserving. Often, it's something you didn't even notice: a strange billboard, a song on the radio, the way the light fell on the dashboard. Sometimes, it's something you'd rather forget: a wrong turn, a closed restaurant, an argument with your GPS.

You planned an event. They built a memory. And what they built may have nothing in common with your plan.

Brothers and sisters always remember different trips

Ask your siblings about a family trip they all went on together.

I did it myself. My sister remembers everything one way. I remember it completely differently. Same car. Same parents. Same route. Same stops. Everyone was there.

Ask them and listen to their stories.

One remembers it as the best trip of his life: laughter in the backseat, word games, snacks, the anticipation of the destination. Another remembers being bored and uncomfortable in the middle seat, constantly asking, "Are we there soon?" and being told to keep quiet. A third barely remembers the trip at all: he brought a book and read the entire way, completely disconnected from the proceedings.

Who is right?

Everyone. And no one.

Memory isn't a video camera capturing objective truth. Memory is a reconstruction. Your brain takes fragments—images, emotions, sensations—and constructs a story from them every time you recall something. And that story changes depending on what meaning you need from it right now.

The sibling who remembers the trip as a wonderful experience may have been in a great mood that day, or perhaps they desperately needed a good family memory, and their brains supplied it. The bored child may have been going through a tough week, and the trip was just another challenge. The reader found their own escape, and it was exactly what they needed.

The same experience. Three completely different memories. And they are all real. They are all true for whoever has them.

How we tend to plan for the future

Planning has a built-in limitation: we always plan based on what's in our heads right now. Our experience. Our starting point. Our current understanding.

We think we're constructing a scenario for the future—imagining what will be important, what will work, what will be meaningful years from now. But if you look at this concept more broadly, you realize: we're simply using our current mindset and understanding of what's achievable today.

In reality, we can't imagine the future. We can only imagine an improved version of the present.

Bear with me for a second – I'm going to look at this question from a completely different angle.

Let's talk about how we design cars. We're currently developing technologies to make our current cars drive themselves. Waymo's cars are "regular cars" with steering wheels, simply controlled by computers instead of human hands. Google-owned Waymo is a camera-based, self-driving car.

This is our "vision of the future," based on today's foundation. We have cars with steering wheels, so we're adding cameras that monitor the surroundings, calculate risks, and calculate routes in their intelligent systems so they can use that steering wheel and drive themselves, without any driver input.

But what will the real future be like? It might not even have a steering wheel. The car will be designed from the ground up as an autonomous vehicle. No steering wheel. No pedals. No controls for a human driver, who won't be needed.

We can't imagine such a car yet because we're still thinking in terms of "a car with a robot driver" instead of "a car as a robot."

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