A collaboration between Lewis McLain & AI (Suggested by Becky Brooks)
Here is a funny, light-hearted, non-offensive survey designed as if a city or organization created it, full of the same bureaucratic absurdity but tailored for someone who’s just spent a couple of weeks in jail.
It is intentionally ridiculous — the kind of tone-deaf survey a city might send, trying to measure the “customer experience.”
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POST-INCARCERATION CUSTOMER SATISFACTION SURVEY
Because your feedback helps us improve the parts of the experience we had no intention of improving.
Thank you for recently spending 10–45 days with us!
Your stay matters to us, and we’d love your thoughts.
Please take 3–90 minutes to complete this survey.
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SECTION 1 — OVERALL EXPERIENCE
1. How satisfied were you with your recent incarceration?
• ☐ Very Satisfied
• ☐ Satisfied
• ☐ Neutral (emotionally or spiritually)
• ☐ Dissatisfied
• ☐ Very Dissatisfied
• ☐ I would like to speak to the manager of jail, please
2. Would you recommend our facility to friends or family?
• ☐ Yes, absolutely
• ☐ Only if they deserve it
• ☐ No, but I might recommend it to my ex
3. Did your stay meet your expectations?
• ☐ It exceeded them, shockingly
• ☐ It met them, sadly
• ☐ What expectations?
• ☐ I didn’t expect any of this
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SECTION 2 — ACCOMMODATIONS
4. How would you rate the comfort of your sleeping arrangements?
• ☐ Five stars (would book again on Expedia)
• ☐ Three stars (I’ve slept on worse couches)
• ☐ One star (my back may sue you)
• ☐ Zero stars (please never ask this again)
5. How would you describe room service?
• ☐ Prompt and professional
• ☐ Present
• ☐ Sporadic
• ☐ I was unaware room service was an option
• ☐ Wait… was that what breakfast was supposed to be?
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SECTION 3 — DINING EXPERIENCE
6. Rate the culinary artistry of our meals:
• ☐ Michelin-worthy
• ☐ Edible with effort
• ☐ Mysterious but survivable
• ☐ I have questions that science cannot answer
7. Did you enjoy the variety of menu options?
• ☐ Yes
• ☐ No
• ☐ I’m still not sure if Tuesday’s entrée was food
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SECTION 4 — PROGRAMMING & ACTIVITIES
8. Which of the following activities did you participate in?
• ☐ Walking in circles
• ☐ Sitting
• ☐ Thinking about life
• ☐ Thinking about lunch
• ☐ Wondering why time moves slower in here
• ☐ Other (please describe your spiritual journey): ___________
9. Did your stay include any unexpected opportunities for personal growth?
• ☐ Learned patience
• ☐ Learned humility
• ☐ Learned the legal system very quickly
• ☐ Learned I never want to fill out this survey again
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SECTION 5 — CUSTOMER SERVICE
10. How would you rate the friendliness of staff?
• ☐ Surprisingly pleasant
• ☐ Professionally indifferent
• ☐ “Move over there” was said with warmth
• ☐ I think they liked me
• ☐ I think they didn’t
11. Did staff answer your questions in a timely manner?
• ☐ Yes
• ☐ No
• ☐ I’m still waiting
• ☐ I learned not to ask questions
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SECTION 6 — RELEASE PROCESS
12. How smooth was your release experience?
• ☐ Smooth
• ☐ Mostly smooth
• ☐ Bumpy
• ☐ Like trying to exit a maze blindfolded
13. Upon release, did you feel ready to re-enter society?
• ☐ Yes, I am reborn
• ☐ Somewhat
• ☐ Not at all
• ☐ Please define “ready”
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SECTION 7 — FINAL COMMENTS
14. If you could change one thing about your stay, what would it be?
(Please choose only one):
• ☐ The walls
• ☐ The food
• ☐ The schedule
• ☐ The length of stay
• ☐ All of the above
• ☐ I decline to answer on advice of counsel
15. Additional feedback for management:
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(Comments will be carefully reviewed by someone someday.)
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Thank You!
Your answers will be used to improve future guest experiences,*
Actually, my first financial models were on green 13-columnar tablets. If you know what I am talking about, I can get pretty close guessing your age.
Most people assume that good analysis starts with a team gathered around a whiteboard, freely offering numbers, assumptions, and ideas. In theory, it sounds collaborative and egalitarian. In reality, that moment — the blank sheet of paper — is where analysis dies. People freeze. Smart, capable, experienced people who absolutely know their business suddenly say nothing when asked to put the first assumptions down.
Early in my career, I tried it the traditional way. I’d walk into a meeting ready to do things “the right way”: engage the group, ask for their best estimates, encourage open discussion. Instead, I got silence. Eyes drifted to the table. Pens clicked. People “would have to get back to me.” Suddenly, no one knew anything. It was as if asking someone to write the first number turned the room into a library reading room during finals week — quiet, anxious, and deeply unproductive.
It took me years to understand the psychology behind this. People aren’t reluctant because they lack insight. They are reluctant because they are afraid of owning the first mistake. The first assumption is the most vulnerable one. Once it is written down, it looks like a position, a commitment, a claim to be defended. And for many professionals — especially those who are cautious, political, or simply overwhelmed — that’s not a place they want to stand.
So, I developed a different approach. I stopped asking for the first draft of ideas and assumptions.
I started building the entire model myself — the assumptions, the structure, the logic, the forecasts — everything. I would take the best information I had, make the best reasonable assumptions I could, and produce a full version. Not a sketch. Not a preliminary worksheet. A full, working model.
Then I would send it to the very people who declined to give me assumptions and simply ask:
“Would you please critique this?”
That one sentence changed everything.
Why Critiquing Works When Creating Doesn’t
Something very human happens when someone is handed a complete model or draft of a report. The reluctance melts away. The fear of being wrong diminishes. The instinct to avoid being “first” is replaced by the instinct to correct, to improve, to clarify, to argue, to refine.
People who gave me nothing on a blank sheet suddenly became:
Detailed
Insightful
Opinionated
Protective of accuracy
Willing to explain nuances they never would have volunteered earlier
The entire room would come alive.
I used to think this was a flaw — that people should be willing to start from scratch. But then I realized the truth: starting is the hardest intellectual act in any field. Creation is vulnerable; critique is safe. The blank page is intimidating; a flawed draft is an invitation.
And here is the real secret:
People are most honest when they are correcting you.
They will tell you the real revenue figure. They will tell you why an assumption is politically impossible. They will tell you which number has never made sense. They will tell you what they truly believe once you’ve already said something they can push against.
Ironically, by giving them something to disagree with, I got the truth I was searching for.
The Picker–Pickee Method for Analytical Work
I call this my “picker–pickee” method (AI hates my term) — not in the social sense of drawing people into conversation, but in the analytical sense of drawing them into ownership. I pick the model. They pick it apart. And in that exchange, we arrive at what I needed all along:
Their actual knowledge. Their real assumptions. Their unfiltered expertise.
Without forcing them to start from zero.
Why This Technique Became One of My Career Signatures
Over time, I realized this was more than a workaround. It was a strategic advantage.
It accelerated projects.
It produced better numbers.
It revealed hidden politics and constraints.
It allowed people to save face while still contributing.
It created buy-in because the team helped “fix” the model.
It insured that the final product reflected collective wisdom, not my isolated guesswork.
I stopped apologizing for this method. I embraced it. I refined it. And eventually I came to see it as one of the most reliable tools in my entire professional life.
Because the truth is simple:
People don’t want to write the first word, but they will gladly edit the whole paragraph.
If you want real input from reluctant contributors, do the hard part yourself. Build the model. Write the draft report. Take the risk. Put the first assumptions on the page. And then ask for critique — sincerely, humbly, and openly.
They will show you what you needed to know all along.
Closing Reflection
If there is any lesson I wish I had learned earlier, it is this:
You don’t get better analysis by demanding contribution. You get better analysis by giving people something to respond to.
Once I accepted that, my work changed. My relationships with stakeholders changed. And the quality of every model I built improved dramatically.
It may not appear in textbooks, but after decades of practice, this remains one of my most effective — and most human — secrets of the profession.
How Music Becomes the Memory, Meaning, and Map of Who We Are
Linda and I met in the first week of college when we were only 18. To this day, we can hear a song and instantly recall when we first heard it. Some evenings we will call up a concert we have saved on DirecTV. Linda knows precisely where to fast-forward so we can listen to a favorite. So, the topic of this essay is very close to our hearts.
Most of the time we assume music is something we listen to — a pleasant accessory to the tasks and routines of the day. But if you pay attention, music is more like a hidden autobiography, quietly recording your inner life long before you are aware that a story is being written. The songs you return to, the ones that startle you when they play unexpectedly, the rare few that undo you in the quiet of a car or a grocery aisle — these are not just sound. They are memory in motion. They are identity with a rhythm.
Music does not simply accompany life; it arranges it. What memory loses, music preserves. What time distorts, music restores. And what emotion cannot articulate, music gives shape to with uncanny accuracy.
To understand this is to understand something profound about what it means to be human.
I. Music and the Mind’s First Language
Long before a child has words, they have rhythm. Infants calm at the steady cadence of a lullaby and recognize the pattern of a familiar voice long before understanding vocabulary. This is because the brain does not treat music as entertainment; it treats it as structure — a patterned, predictable, emotionally charged signal that is perfectly engineered for memory.
But music does something even deeper: it bypasses the intellectual filters adults use to sanitize emotion. A melody goes straight to the limbic system, sparking feelings before thought. That is why a song can make you cry before you even remember its meaning. The brain is reacting not to the information in the song, but to its emotional imprint.
Music, in this sense, is the first language of the inner life — the way feeling precedes understanding.
II. The Way Music Stores Time
Most memories fade, and many blur into general impressions. But not the memories attached to certain songs. These remain startlingly specific — not because the events were necessarily remarkable, but because music sealed them in.
What is remarkable is how effortless this process is. You do not choose to remember your first heartbreak through a particular ballad, or a college summer through a song that filled your roommate’s car. You do not choose the hymn that makes your throat tighten at a funeral, or the chorus that instantly brings back the living room of your childhood home. Music chooses for you.
There is something mysterious about the mind’s insistence on tethering emotion to sound. A song becomes a kind of timestamp. It gives the memory a fixed point in the otherwise loose fabric of time, and when the melody returns, the memory returns with it — intact, immediate, almost shockingly alive.
We often say a song “takes us back,” but the deeper truth is that the song allows the past to take hold of us again.
III. Music as Emotional Truth
There are emotions you can explain and emotions you can only feel. Music specializes in the latter. A melody can carry a complexity no sentence can hold. Consider the strange, tender ache of nostalgia — how a song can make you long for a life you no longer live or even one you never lived at all. Or consider the way a joyful song can suddenly reveal a sorrow you didn’t realize was sitting under the surface.
Music tells the truth of emotion without asking permission.
This is why people instinctively turn to it during grief, celebration, transition, or uncertainty. It steadies the self by restoring emotional coherence. In moments when language fails — when a prayer is wordless, when a loss is fresh, when a change is too large to understand — music becomes a way of anchoring the heart long enough for meaning to catch up.
IV. Why Some Songs Become Too Heavy to Carry
Everyone has songs they avoid — not because they dislike them, but because they are too full. A melody can carry the weight of a relationship, a season, or a dream that has since dissolved. Some songs hurt because they still tell the truth about who you were and who you loved, and the distance between then and now becomes too pronounced to bear.
But even these difficult songs serve a purpose. They remind us that the deepest chapters of our lives are rarely tidy. Music preserves the emotional residue of experiences that shaped us, even when we’d prefer to move on. The song remembers us more honestly than we sometimes remember ourselves.
And that honesty, however painful, is a form of reverence for what mattered.
V. Music as a Spiritual Technology
Even people who claim no religious belief often describe music in spiritual terms. It elevates, unites, quiets, or stirs the human spirit in ways that resemble prayer. Religious traditions have always understood this. Faith communities sing not because they need background noise, but because music allows meaning to move through people collectively, bypassing the intellectual hesitation that often dilutes belief.
A sung truth is felt before it is understood — and therefore becomes more deeply held.
Music is not a doctrine, but it delivers feeling with the force of revelation. It makes the invisible inner life audible.
VI. The Older We Grow, the More Our Soundtrack Solidifies
There is a moment in adulthood when you realize new music no longer imprints the way it once did. Songs still move you, but they do not become part of your inner architecture the way earlier ones did. Neurobiologists confirm this: the teenage and young adult years are when the brain is most porous to musical encoding, which is why those songs remain disproportionately powerful decades later.
By middle age, the soundtrack of your life is largely complete, and new music becomes something enjoyed but not absorbed. This is why older adults return to the songs they loved when they were young — not for nostalgia alone, but because those songs contain the memory of a self that time cannot fully dissolve.
Music becomes a way of maintaining continuity across the changing seasons of one’s identity.
VII. The Soundtrack We Become for Others
Most people think of their personal soundtrack as something private — the way certain songs follow them through life. What they often forget is that they have also become part of someone else’s soundtrack.
The lullaby you hummed. The song you danced to at a wedding. The hymn you sang beside a friend in a difficult season. The album you played on a long drive with your child. The record your mother played while cleaning the house.
Music is how we inhabit each other’s memories.
We rarely know which musical moments attach to the people we love. Years later, long after you’re gone, someone may hear a familiar song and be struck by a sudden, tender ache — not because of the music itself, but because it summoned your presence back into the room.
Music is one of the few ways we outlive ourselves without trying.
VIII. The Soundtrack as a Hidden Biography
A person’s life story includes far more than events. It includes the emotional texture of those events — the inner landscape where meaning took shape. Music is the most faithful curator of that landscape.
If you were to line up the songs that have moved you most deeply, you could trace the entire shape of your life:
When you felt safe
When you felt lost
When you fell in love
When you learned resilience
When you dreamed big
When you let go
When you grieved
When you healed
Music is not a chronicle of facts. It is a narrative of feeling — a record of who you became in the moments that mattered.
And because we never know which moments will matter most, the soundtrack evolves without our consent, revealing its meaning only in hindsight.
Conclusion: Listening Backward, Living Forward
Life changes, but the soundtrack remains. We grow older, but the songs stay young. We become different people, but music reintroduces us to every version we’ve ever been.
In the end, the soundtrack of your life is not merely a collection of songs. It is a map — a quiet, sensitive cartography of memory, identity, loss, love, change, and meaning. It tells the truth about you in ways you may not know how to express in words.
And the greatest mystery of all is this:
You did not choose most of it. It chose you — and in doing so, it carried pieces of your life forward that time alone could never preserve.
If you listen closely enough, you can hear your own story singing back to you.
A collaboration between Lewis McLain & AI (Please share my blog site with your friends and family and ask them to subscribe for free at http://www.citybaseblog.net)
A dialogue between a granddaughter and her grandmother
Scene: The kitchen is quiet now, the light outside turning golden. The teapot is empty, but the warmth between them lingers. The grandmother leans back, smiling softly at her granddaughter — the kind of smile that carries both memory and hope.
Granddaughter: Grandma, you’ve told me what love feels like when it’s real. But how do you really know if it’s right before you say “I do”?
Grandmother: That’s a wise question, sweetheart — wiser than most your age ask. Knowing isn’t about a single moment. It’s about the patterns you see when the emotions calm down.
Granddaughter: What kind of patterns?
Grandmother (counting gently on her fingers): Start with faith. If your heart is anchored in God, make sure his is, too. You can’t walk together if one’s following the light and the other’s still chasing shadows. Shared faith doesn’t guarantee an easy life, but it gives you the same foundation when the storms come.
Granddaughter: So religion really does matter?
Grandmother: It matters more than you think. It shapes how you forgive, how you raise children, how you see the world. Without that common ground, even small differences start to feel like miles.
Granddaughter: Okay… what else?
Grandmother: Money. Not how much he earns, but how he treats it. Does he plan, save, and give? Or does he spend like there’s no tomorrow? Marriage magnifies everything — especially money habits. You want to face life as partners, not as each other’s accountant.
Granddaughter: That’s practical, Grandma.
Grandmother (grinning): So is love, darling. It’s not all candlelight and violins. It’s budgets, calendars, and choosing to be kind when you’re both tired.
Granddaughter: And I guess it matters how you treat each other in public too?
Grandmother: Oh yes — never, never speak badly about each other to anyone. The minute you let criticism slip into someone else’s ears, you give them power over your marriage. Protect one another’s reputation like it’s your own.
Granddaughter: What about family?
Grandmother: You marry more than the person — you marry their whole world. Watch how he treats his parents and siblings, and how they treat him. Family is the soil that shaped him. And when you bring him home, see how he fits among your people. If there’s no respect both ways, there’ll be cracks later.
Granddaughter: That’s a lot to think about.
Grandmother: It should be. Also, watch how he treats strangers — the waitress, the cashier, the stray dog. The smallest gestures reveal the biggest truths.
Granddaughter: What about when life gets stressful?
Grandmother: That’s when the real person comes out. See how he reacts under pressure — with patience or temper, faith or fear. The right one won’t crumble at every hardship. He’ll steady you when you start to shake.
Granddaughter: And kids?
Grandmother: Talk about it early. Whether he wants them, how he imagines raising them, what he values in a home. You can’t build together if you’re dreaming in opposite directions. You will be married singles.
Granddaughter: You always say habits tell the truth.
Grandmother: They do. Look for balance. Someone who knows moderation — with food, drink, work, and even opinions. Extremes wear people out. Balance keeps peace alive.
Granddaughter: What about his purpose — like, his job or calling?
Grandmother: A man who feels called to something greater than himself carries a steadier joy. It doesn’t have to be glamorous. But it has to mean something. When life gets heavy, purpose keeps him from drifting. How does he handle disillusionment? It WILL come.
Granddaughter: Can he talk about emotions? Like fear, grief, or joy?
Grandmother: He needs to. If he can’t name what he feels, he’ll turn silence into walls. Find someone who can talk through pain, who can admit fear, who can celebrate joy without shame. That’s emotional honesty — and that’s love’s backbone.
Granddaughter: What about his heroes?
Grandmother: Ask who he admires. A man’s role models are the map to his values. If he looks up to people of integrity — who serve others quietly — that’s a good sign.
Granddaughter: And self-awareness?
Grandmother: Oh, that’s gold. Can he say, “I was wrong”? Can he admit when he’s hurt someone and try to make it right? Pride destroys more love stories than infidelity ever could.
Granddaughter (pausing): Grandma, this is a lot to remember.
Grandmother (smiling warmly): It is — because marriage isn’t luck. It’s wisdom, patience, and prayer. But I’ll tell you one last thing — maybe the most important of all.
Granddaughter: What’s that?
Grandmother (leaning close): If the boy — or the man — isn’t just as curious about you… your faith, your family, your hopes, your habits, your fears, your calling — if he doesn’t want to know your story and your soul — then make sure he knows without any doubt: you are not someone to be half-known. You are someone to be understood, cherished, and respected in full — or not at all.
Oh, one more thing: No regrets. Strive to make wise choices. The best thing you want to be able to say when you get to be my age is “No regrets!”
(The granddaughter nods slowly. The kettle whistles again, and her grandmother rises to refill it — calm, steady, radiant with the kind of wisdom only a lifetime of love can teach.)
An overly serious guide to surviving the smallest challenges in life — one crooked picture, dead battery, and existential dishwasher load at a time.
How to Hang a Picture Straight (Until Gravity Intervenes)
Step one: believe in yourself. Step two: realize that belief is misplaced. You begin with noble intentions — tape measure in hand, level app open, pencil behind your ear like a master craftsman. The first nail goes in perfectly. You step back, squint, tilt your head, and it’s crooked. You adjust. Now it’s more crooked. You consult the laws of physics, the spirit of Michelangelo, and finally your spouse, who declares it “fine.” You both nod in silence, knowing it’s not fine. The picture now leans like it’s whispering a secret to the floor. But here’s the truth: nothing is ever perfectly straight. Life, walls, and old houses all bend a little — and that’s where the charm hangs. You’ll pass by it tomorrow and think, maybe it’s the frame that’s off. You’ll leave it, knowing deep down that you’ve achieved something far more valuable than symmetry — peace through surrender.
How to Replace Batteries and Find the Remote Without Losing Faith in Humanity
First, accept that the remote has its own free will. It hides not out of malice but for sport. You’ll begin the search confident — couch cushions, coffee table, under the newspaper — and gradually devolve into muttering accusations at the cat. When you finally locate it (perhaps under a blanket or behind a decorative pillow), your victory is short-lived. The batteries are dead. You pry off the back cover, which instantly vanishes into another dimension, and dig through your junk drawer — a museum of expired warranties, old receipts, and exactly one AA battery. After aligning the mysterious + and – symbols, you press the button. Nothing. You flip them. Nothing again. You question the integrity of battery manufacturers and possibly the concept of hope itself. Finally, you find a new pair that works, and when the screen flickers back to life, it feels less like success and more like survival. The true moral: the remote controls you, not the other way around.
How to Assemble IKEA Furniture Without Destroying Your Marriage
It always begins the same way: optimism, an Allen wrench, and a relationship worth testing. The instructions are hieroglyphics drawn by someone who believes words are for the weak. Step one looks simple enough. By step five, you’re holding three dowels, two bolts, and a philosophical crisis. One of you insists on following the manual; the other claims to have “a system.” You take turns blaming the missing screw, the deceptive picture, and gravity itself. Hours later, you both stand over the completed furniture — slightly leaning, but functional — feeling as though you’ve survived a shared trauma. You swear never to shop there again, knowing full well you’ll be back by next weekend for a lamp named Flötsnörk. The furniture may wobble, but your love, against all odds, remains intact — loosely assembled, but holding.
How to Load a Dishwasher Correctly (According to Everyone Else)
The dishwasher is not an appliance — it’s a battleground of competing moral codes. The Pre-Rinsers believe every speck of food must be obliterated before loading, as if the machine requires purity. The Free-Loaders believe in faith alone: throw it in and let destiny decide. You hover between them, rearranging plates while pretending to be neutral. Forks go down, because safety; no, up, because sanitation. Cups must face inward for water flow, unless you’re married to someone who insists on “air efficiency.” By the end, you’re simply moving things for the illusion of control. You close the door with a satisfying click, hit “Start,” and hear the whoosh of reconciliation. In that moment, you realize the dishwasher doesn’t care who’s right — it just wants you both to stop arguing long enough for it to do its job.
How to Make Coffee Before You’re Awake
Before dawn, your brain negotiates with consciousness. You stumble toward the kitchen, guided only by instinct and caffeine withdrawal. You scoop grounds with the precision of someone performing brain surgery in mittens. Too much, and you’ll vibrate through space-time; too little, and the morning collapses. You pour water, forget the filter, remember too late, and baptize the counter in dark roast. The machine coughs, groans, and begins to hum like an angel warming up. That first drip hits the pot and fills the air with forgiveness. You take your first sip, feel your soul reboot, and briefly believe in the goodness of humanity. Then you realize you forgot to buy cream, and all faith is lost again. Coffee teaches humility: even perfection tastes bitter without balance.
How to Fold a Fitted Sheet (A Tragic Love Story)
The fitted sheet is proof that geometry has a sense of humor. You begin with optimism, clutching two corners like a bullfighter facing elastic destiny. You fold, twist, and tuck, determined to find logic in chaos. Somewhere along the way, you lose track of the corners — and yourself. You consult a YouTube tutorial, but the demonstrator’s hands move like divine beings beyond mortal comprehension. After twenty minutes, you accept defeat, roll the sheet into a soft cotton burrito, and declare victory. It’s not neat, but it fits in the closet, and that’s what matters. Like love, the fitted sheet cannot be tamed — only embraced, forgiven, and stored out of sight.
How to Decide What’s for Dinner Without Triggering a Family Civil War
Few negotiations in history are as fraught as the nightly dinner decision. It begins politely — “What do you want?” “I don’t know, what do you want?” — and descends quickly into stalemate. You scroll through takeout options like diplomats parsing a treaty, rejecting ideas not on merit but mood. Tacos sound good until someone remembers the cleanup. Pasta feels lazy. Salad sparks open rebellion. Thirty minutes later, you’ve burned more energy debating food than you would’ve spent cooking it. Eventually, pizza rises as the universal peace accord of modern civilization. It’s round, democratic, and no one has to wash dishes. The kitchen cools, the world steadies, and the family survives another night of culinary politics.
How to Leave a Party Gracefully (After Saying Goodbye 14 Times)
There’s no elegant exit — only stages of attempted escape. The first goodbye happens near the snacks, confident and cheerful. Then someone stops you with “Wait, before you go…” Twenty minutes later, you’re in the hallway, trapped in a conversation about podcasts. You edge toward the door, coat in hand, smile frozen in farewell fatigue. At the threshold, someone remembers a story you simply must hear. You stay, nodding, waiting for a natural pause that never comes. When you finally break free, you’ve achieved nothing short of diplomatic withdrawal. Driving home, you realize you left your casserole dish behind — and that you’ll have to return for it tomorrow, re-entering the social labyrinth anew.
How to Remember Why You Walked Into the Room
You stride in with purpose. You know you came for something — but what? You stand in silence, scanning the room like a detective in a crime scene, mentally retracing your steps. Was it your phone? Your keys? No, that’s too obvious. Perhaps it was your sense of direction, now gone forever. You backtrack to the kitchen, open a drawer you don’t remember opening, and — miracle — it comes to you! Then, by the time you reach the doorway again, you’ve forgotten why you remembered. Forgetfulness, like time, is circular. The best you can do is laugh and hope it comes back around before bedtime.
How to Use a Self-Checkout Without Being Judged by the Machine
The self-checkout promises efficiency and delivers psychological warfare. You scan your first item. Beep. You feel proud. Then it begins: “Unexpected item in bagging area.” Panic. You freeze, look at your hands as if they’ve betrayed you. You lift the bag, set it down again. “Remove item from bagging area.” The voice grows colder, the light flashes red, and the attendant approaches with that weary smile of someone who’s seen too much. You explain, they nod, and the machine resets — briefly. You reach for the next item, and it begins again. By the end, you’ve confessed to crimes you didn’t commit just to make it stop. You leave the store sweating, clutching your receipt like a pardon.
How to Set a Digital Clock on Your Microwave
It’s blinking 12:00. You try to ignore it, but it mocks you — a silent reminder that time itself has power over you. You press “Clock.” Nothing happens. You press “Set.” It resets the timer. You press “Cancel,” which erases your soul. The beeping grows smug. Eventually, you push random buttons until something changes, and for a brief, glorious moment, it shows the right time. Then there’s a power surge, and it blinks again. You surrender. The microwave has declared eternal midnight, and you are its obedient subject. Every time you glance at it, you’re reminded: control is an illusion, and punctuality is for the naïve.
How to Back Into a Parking Spot Like You Know What You’re Doing
You spot your space and line up your vehicle with the confidence of a seasoned stunt driver. The first attempt goes wide. The second sends your sensors screaming. You pretend it’s intentional, that you’re just “adjusting angles.” Onlookers pause, whispering. A line of cars forms behind you, the automotive equivalent of judgment. You finally slide in — slightly diagonal but close enough to legal — and sit in silence, pretending to check your phone while your heart rate stabilizes. When you exit, you nod to imaginary fans as though it were a deliberate flourish. You will never return to that parking lot again.
How to Pretend You Understand Modern Art at a Gallery
Walk slowly. Squint often. Tilt your head as if listening to the painting. Whisper phrases like “the tension between form and void” or “the artist’s relationship with entropy.” Never admit confusion; ambiguity is the currency of culture. If the piece looks like something your toddler could do, that’s when you lean in and murmur, “It’s a commentary on innocence.” Smile knowingly and move on before anyone asks questions. Remember, in the world of modern art, confidence is comprehension — and the more puzzled you are, the more profound you appear.
How to Look Busy on Zoom When You’ve Zoned Out Entirely
It’s 2:37 p.m., and your soul has left your body. The meeting drones on. You master the sacred trifecta: nod, squint, and furrow. Occasionally unmute to say “Yes, good point,” before quickly muting again to whisper apologies to your dog. Your eyes dart across fake spreadsheets as your brain replays childhood memories. When someone calls your name, you repeat their last three words in a thoughtful tone — a timeless survival technique. As the meeting ends, you smile, stretch, and pretend you’ve accomplished something meaningful. In truth, you’ve just earned an honorary degree in performance art.
How to Restart Your Computer (and Your Life)
You’ve tried everything. The screen freezes, your patience collapses, and you begin negotiating with technology like an ancient priest. “Just one more click,” you plead. It ignores you. You sigh, press “Restart,” and watch the glowing circle spin — the modern mandala of surrender. In that moment, you realize the wisdom hidden in circuitry: sometimes you have to stop everything to start again. As your computer hums back to life, so do you. A clean desktop. A fresh start. Proof that even machines believe in resurrection.
Final Reflection: The Philosophy of the Everyday
Maybe the point isn’t to master these things at all. Maybe it’s to laugh through the mess — the crooked pictures, tangled cords, burnt toast, and blinking clocks. Life’s small struggles remind us that perfection is a myth and humility the only real user manual. We don’t conquer the domestic world; we dance awkwardly with it. So hang the picture, fold the sheet, make the coffee, and misplace the remote. You’re not failing — you’re participating in the grand comedy of being human. Somewhere, the universe is chuckling too, slightly crooked on its own cosmic nail.
The first record I ever bought was a 45 rpm of Buddy Holly’s “Peggy Sue.” That tiny disc felt like it held the universe. I’d play it over and over, the guitar hiccupping like a nervous teenager and Buddy’s voice bouncing like he was trying not to spill a secret. And with every spin, my imagination took off. I could see myself out there in the middle of the dance floor, shirt collar open, fists pumping, sneakers pounding the wood in glorious rhythm. I wasn’t just dancing—I was inventing new categories of cool.
The Imagination
But imagination is a dangerous liar.
I was actually a wall flower somewhat comfortable just watching and wishing.
The Wall Flower Reality
Reality came when someone (probably one of my great friends from the third grade, Beverly or Janet) grabbed me by the sleeve and dragged me out onto the floor during a dance at the Teen Club in Farmers Branch. It wasn’t even a free form, “just shake and look natural” kind of number. No—this was a line formation. Rules. Steps. Coordination. I was in trouble.
My imagination became a mind recorder that night. I could practically see the playback: my feet trying to decide if left meant left or if left meant “trip over yourself.” My arms were pumping like I was milking invisible cows to some rock tune. And my face—my face was locked in that grimace-smile combination unique to teenagers who know they’re failing but are determined to look like they’re not.
I earned myself a C-minus, at best. And that was on a generous grading curve.
When I landed at the UNT campus (North Texas State University from 1961 to 1988), I thought maybe geography would help. New place, new people, new me. That’s when I met Linda, my Peggy Sue. Linda could dance. Linda had courage. And Linda—bless her—decided to loan me a little of both. With her experience and with a whisper of alcohol acting like rocket fuel to me at the time, dancing began to seem possible. Not easy, but possible. My grade improved to a C+ territory.
Still, I knew who the real dancer was. Linda glided. I lurched. Linda spun, and I rotated like a stubborn washing machine on its last cycle. But somehow it worked, because she kept encouraging me back onto the floor. She was patient and kind.
Fast forward to our mid-marriage years: Our solution? Humor. Any hopes for rhythm by booze were years in the past. But still—miraculously—we were moving and no longer needed the floor space we once did. Picture two hugging bears, braving the trip onto the floor, bobbing rhythmically and occasionally parting and then colliding. That was us. Linda still had it, but I set new lows even though we laughed through every step of it.
Now we’ve reached the senior edition of dancing. We’ve lost most of the urge to dance, yes, but we’ve also lost our audience. The dance floor has shrunk to the size of a kitchen, sometimes no bigger than the space between the refrigerator and the kitchen table. The music doesn’t come from Buddy Holly’s 45 anymore—it comes from whatever the Alexa thinks we meant when we said, “Play something we can dance to.” However, we don’t need any music.
We stick to slow dancing now. Easy to fake, harder to mess up. A sway, a shuffle, a turn if the knees allow. No one’s grading anymore. No one’s even watching. And that’s the secret: the freedom to just move, no grades, no pressure, no audience but each other.
From Peggy Sue to the kitchen floor, from C-minus to C-plus to “who cares,” we’ve carried the rhythm the best way we knew how. We never got to A-level dancing since I was the leg ball and chain. But we got the one grade that matters in the long run: an A in joy.
Because when the lights are low and the kitchen is ours, we aren’t as mobile anymore. We’re just two kids who never stopped trying. LFM
Few human experiences cut as deeply as being misunderstood. To speak with sincerity only to be misheard, to act with good intention only to be judged wrongly, is a wound that echoes in the soul. From Socrates on trial in Athens to artists whose work was only appreciated after death, history is filled with men and women whose essence was obscured by misunderstanding. Yet the experience is not reserved for the famous; it is part of the everyday fabric of marriages, friendships, and workplaces. Understanding why it happens, the pain it causes, and how it can be prevented is essential for any life that seeks peace, intimacy, and effective collaboration.
Why Misunderstanding Happens
1. The Imperfection of Language
Language is a fragile bridge between minds. Words carry multiple meanings, shaped by culture, upbringing, and emotion. The simple phrase “I’m fine” may mean relief, indifference, exhaustion, or deep pain depending on tone and context. Misunderstanding is built into the very tools we use to connect.
2. Psychological Filters
Every listener filters communication through personal experiences. If someone grew up in a critical household, even neutral feedback may feel like an attack. If a spouse feels insecure, a simple absence of words can be heard as rejection. These filters distort reality.
3. Assumptions and Cognitive Shortcuts
Our brains save time by assuming. When a colleague misses a deadline, we may assume laziness rather than hidden struggles. When a partner forgets an anniversary, we may assume indifference rather than stress. These shortcuts help us survive but often betray truth.
4. Cultural and Generational Differences
In multicultural workplaces and families, communication styles clash. A blunt statement meant as efficiency may feel like rudeness. Silence meant as respect may feel like distance. What one generation calls “honesty,” another calls “harshness.”
5. The Speed of Modern Life
Emails skimmed, texts dashed off, meetings rushed—modern communication often sacrifices clarity for speed. Misunderstanding thrives in the gaps where careful explanation once lived.
The Horrible Feelings of Being Misunderstood
To be misunderstood is not merely inconvenient; it is existentially painful.
Alienation: It creates a gulf between self and others. One feels exiled even in the midst of family or colleagues.
Helplessness: Attempts to clarify can deepen suspicion: “The more I explain, the less they believe me.”
Humiliation: Being misjudged damages reputation, sometimes irreparably. In the workplace, it can derail careers. In marriage, it can fracture intimacy.
Loneliness: Misunderstood individuals may retreat inward, carrying the unshakable sense that no one truly sees them.
Anger and Bitterness: Repeated misinterpretation corrodes patience, leaving resentment to fester.
The philosopher Søren Kierkegaard captured the torment when he wrote: “People understand me so little that they do not even understand when I complain of being misunderstood.”
Misunderstanding in Marriage
Marriage is both the most fertile ground for misunderstanding and the most urgent place to heal it.
Common Triggers
Unspoken Expectations: One partner assumes the other “should know” what they need without saying it. Disappointment follows.
Different Communication Styles: Some are verbal processors, others internal. Silence may feel like avoidance to one, thoughtfulness to another.
Stress and Fatigue: A weary tone may be mistaken for anger; distraction may be mistaken for indifference.
Conflict Escalation: During arguments, words are rushed, tone is sharp, and intentions are distorted.
Real-World Example
Consider a couple where the husband works long hours to provide financial security, while the wife longs for quality time. He believes he is expressing love through sacrifice; she believes he is expressing disinterest. Both are misunderstood because they equate love with different actions. Without clarity, affection curdles into resentment.
Preventive Practices
Radical Clarity: Instead of assuming, ask. “When you’re quiet, should I understand it as thoughtfulness or withdrawal?”
Regular Check-ins: Create safe spaces to ask: “Do you feel understood by me right now?”
Active Listening: Repeating back what was heard (“So you’re saying you felt hurt when I forgot…”) validates the partner’s inner world.
Love Languages: Recognize that affection is communicated differently—through words, gifts, service, time, or touch. Misunderstanding often arises when partners speak different “languages.”
Misunderstanding in the Workplace
Workplaces magnify misunderstanding because of layered hierarchies, pressures, and competing goals.
Common Sources
Ambiguous Instructions: Leaders say, “Get this done soon,” but each employee defines “soon” differently.
Lack of Context: When decisions are made without explanation, workers fill the gap with suspicion.
Email Tone: A curt response written in haste may be read as hostility.
Generational and Cultural Gaps: A younger worker may interpret silence from a manager as disapproval, while the manager thinks, “No news is good news.”
Case Study: The Boeing 737 MAX Crisis
Misunderstanding played a role in the Boeing 737 MAX tragedies. Engineers flagged risks, but managers misunderstood—or dismissed—their concerns, assuming compliance meant safety. The gap between intention and perception led to catastrophic consequences.
Preventive Practices
Explicit Communication: Replace vagueness with specifics. Deadlines, deliverables, and success measures must be clear.
Feedback Culture: Encourage employees to restate instructions in their own words to confirm understanding.
Cross-Cultural Training: Equip teams to recognize differences in communication styles.
Strategies for Prevention Across Life
Practice Humility: Accept that you may not have been clear. Re-explain without defensiveness.
Develop Empathy: Seek first to understand before seeking to be understood.
Slow Down: In moments of tension, resist the urge for quick reactions.
Use Multiple Channels: Important messages deserve both spoken and written forms.
Acknowledge Emotions: Sometimes, people need validation of their feelings more than explanation of your intent.
The Paradoxical Gift of Being Misunderstood
Though painful, being misunderstood can also sharpen self-awareness. Many great innovators, prophets, and artists were misunderstood in their time—Jesus of Nazareth, Vincent van Gogh, Emily Dickinson, Martin Luther King Jr. Their experience forced them to deepen conviction, clarify expression, and find identity not in approval but in truth. For ordinary people, the same paradox can hold: misunderstanding, though a wound, can also be a teacher.
Conclusion: Toward a Culture of Understanding
To be understood is to be seen; to be misunderstood is to be invisible. The difference can determine the health of a marriage, the morale of a workplace, or the direction of a life. Misunderstanding will never vanish, but intentional listening, clarity, and empathy can reduce its grip. When people slow down enough to ask, “What did you mean?” and to say, “Here’s how I felt,” they build bridges across the abyss. And in those bridges lies the possibility of love, trust, and shared humanity.
Reflection and Application Questions
For Personal Reflection
When was the last time I felt misunderstood? What emotions rose up in me?
Do I tend to withdraw, defend, or over-explain when misunderstood? Why?
How often do I assume I know what others mean without asking?
What patterns from my upbringing shape how I interpret others’ words?
For Couples
What’s one time in our relationship when you felt I truly misunderstood you? How did it affect you?
What signals (tone, silence, habits) do I often misinterpret in you?
What communication style differences exist between us, and how can we honor them?
How can we build a regular rhythm of checking in about whether we feel seen and heard?
For Workplace Teams
When has miscommunication in our team caused tension or lost productivity?
What instructions or messages are usually the most misunderstood here?
How can we improve feedback loops so people feel safe asking for clarification?
Do we share enough context for decisions, or do we leave colleagues filling in the gaps with assumptions?
How can we better acknowledge the emotions—stress, fatigue, pride—that affect how messages are received?
Scene: Two old friends, Harold and Frank, sit on a creaky porch, rocking chairs in rhythm. The cicadas are buzzing. Both are hard of hearing, but neither will admit it.
Harold: (leaning in) Frank, you remember the summer of ’62 when we went fishing down at Lake Benton?
Frank: (cupping his ear) What’s that? Went wishing for a baked ham?
Harold: (rolling his eyes) No, fishing at Lake Benton. We caught that big catfish.
Frank: (snapping his fingers) Ah, right! The cat. Scratched your leg something awful.
Harold: (sputtering) Not a cat! A catfish! In the lake!
Frank: (nodding, satisfied) Sure, sure. Mean old tabby. Always hung around the bakery.
Harold: (sighing) Anyway, that was the day you fell out of the boat.
Frank: (outraged) What? I never fell out of a coat! Fit me just fine!
Harold: The boat, Frank. You tipped the boat over!
Frank: (grinning proudly) Oh, yes, yes. That wool coat tipped me right over. Heavy as an ox in July.
Harold: (muttering) If you say so.
Frank: You still got those suspenders from that trip?
Harold: (perks up) Defenders? Oh, sure, I still believe in strong defense.
Frank: (shakes his head) Not defenders—suspenders! You hauled me out by ‘em. Nearly stretched to Kansas.
Harold: (snorts) And nearly pulled my back out too. You were kicking like a mule.
Frank: (offended) Mule? I never kissed a mule in my life!
Harold: (chuckling) Not kissing, kicking! You looked like you were swimming for the Olympics.
Frank: (relieved) Ah. Well. Good. Rumors get around in a small town.
Harold: Speaking of the town, you remember the county fair that year?
Frank: (nodding) Oh, yes, the one where you lost your hair.
Harold: (touching his bald head) My hair? I lost my hare—the rabbit race. Mine ran the wrong way.
Frank: (squints) Thought it looked fast. Shame it was made of fur.
Harold: (snorts) That’s not how races work, Frank.
Frank: What about the dance afterward? You asked Millie Thompson to waltz.
Harold: (confused) Waltz? I asked her to wash! Why would she wash me?
Frank: (grinning) She turned you down flat. Said you had two left feet.
Harold: No, no. She said I had two left boots! Mismatched shoes. Brand new, both for the left foot. Couldn’t hardly walk straight.
Frank: (laughing so hard he wheezes) And you tried to dance in ‘em! Looked like a turkey on stilts.
Harold: At least I tried. You were too scared to ask anyone.
Frank: (puffs his chest) Nonsense! I danced with Betty Lou.
Harold: (snorts) You danced with a barbecue?
Frank: Betty Lou, Harold! The preacher’s niece.
Harold: Ohhh. I thought you said brisket. Would’ve made more sense.
Frank: You remember our army days?
Harold: (smiling) Sure do. You were in the kitchen, peeling potatoes.
Frank: (confused) I was in the mission, stealing tomatoes?
Harold: (laughing) Well, that too probably.
Frank: (indignant) Hey now, I only borrowed them. They put ‘em back in the stew later.
Harold: (grinning) Yeah, after you ate half of ‘em raw.
Frank: You still go to church every Sunday?
Harold: (earnest) Oh yes, never missed a sermon. Pastor’s words keep me steady.
Frank: (nods) Same here. Those donuts in the foyer keep me ready.
Harold: (squints) Donuts? I said sermons!
Frank: (shrugs) Six of one, half dozen of the other.
Harold: You know, Frank, we remember things awfully different.
Frank: (smiling) Yep. That’s what keeps it interesting.
Harold: You ever wonder which of us has the story right?
Frank: (chuckles) Nope. I just assume it was better my way.
Harold: (laughing) Figures.
Frank: (leans back, sipping coffee) Harold, you and I may not hear so well anymore, but we still talk better than most folks do these days.
Harold: (nodding slowly) That’s the truth. Even if half of it’s wrong.
Epilogue: The Wives
(Inside the house, two women sit at the kitchen table drinking iced tea. They are listening to Harold and Frank through the open window as the old men keep rocking and swapping their muddled memories.)
Martha (Harold’s wife): (shaking her head) You hear those two out there? Harold’s got Frank falling out of boats again.
Evelyn (Frank’s wife): (rolling her eyes) Oh, I heard. If you ask Frank, he never even owned a boat. Said it was a heavy wool coat!
Martha: And the fair! Harold’s talking about losing rabbits. You and I both know he lost his paycheck at the ring toss.
Evelyn: (chuckling) And don’t get me started on Millie Thompson. Neither of them ever danced with her. She was too busy chasing the dentist’s boy.
Martha: (smiling wryly) Truth is, between the two of them, they couldn’t remember their own names without us.
Evelyn: (laughing) And yet, somehow, they think they’re the wise ones.
(The women clink their iced tea glasses, listening as Harold and Frank burst into laughter outside for no apparent reason.)
Martha: Let ‘em talk. Half of it’s wrong, but it keeps ‘em happy.
Evelyn: (nodding) And after fifty years, that’s what matters.
Let's Talk About It, Lewis! 
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