Are there good people and bad people? I don’t think so.

I lean toward a largely deterministic view of life. Our genetics, early experiences, culture, and reinforcement histories shape us far more than we like to admit. If I had been born with someone else’s biology and lived a similar life, I would be much like them. For that reason, I try to judge behavior rather than label people.

When I worked in prison, I knew Postel Lasky, the Cincinnati Strangler. Nothing about this diminishes the horror of his crimes or the suffering of his victims. I mention it because knowing him challenged my instinct to divide the world into “us” and “them.” In daily life, he appeared much like anyone else—trying, failing, and coping. That experience made it harder for me to see myself as fundamentally better than others.

Life is too complex to reduce people to moral categories. I believe we are better off resisting that impulse.

I’m pausing these posts for now. If there is interest in continuing this space—or if others want to contribute—I’d welcome it.

What is reality? Is there one shared reality, many realities, or something else entirely? I don’t know—and I no longer think I need to.

I’m confident that my dog, Teddie, does not live in the same reality I do. His sense of smell gives him access to information I will never perceive. Human beings are similarly different from each other, though the differences between us are subtler. Our histories, values, fears, and expectations shape what we notice and how we interpret it.

Phenomenology focuses on this first-person experience—how reality appears to each individual. That idea resonates with me.

I see this clearly in politics. People on opposite sides are often convinced they see reality plainly, while the other side is deluded. They cannot both be objectively right, yet each experiences their view as obvious and justified. If there is an underlying truth, it doesn’t live neatly inside either perspective.

A German tour guide once told me that many guides avoid concentration camps because they feel overwhelmed by what their ancestors did. When he asked his grandfather about the Holocaust, the response was a simple shrug. Perhaps he could not reconcile the two realities that he has lived in.

We usually adopt the reality of our group. It’s safer, easier, and socially rewarded. A few years ago, I gave up labels altogether. I now think of myself simply as another human being. I’ve found that surprisingly freeing.

Here is my rough, practical take on existentialism.

Much of our behavior is automatic—shaped by biology, upbringing, culture, and habit. Existentialism asks us to interrupt that process and take responsibility for our choices. If we don’t, we experience existential anxiety. If we do, we experience anguish, because the responsibility is heavy and the outcomes uncertain.

There is no winning path. Suffering is part of the deal.

I don’t see existentialism as automatically hostile to religion. If one believes in a creator who does not intervene, the two can coexist. If one believes in an active metaphysical force directing outcomes, there is tension. One approach relies on faith; the other relies on personal responsibility.

I feel better when I make decisions based on my own reasoning rather than emotional habit. That doesn’t make life easy. It makes it honest.

I still feel conflicted about writing these posts. Intellectually, they seem worthwhile. Emotionally, they feel wrong. Psychology calls this cognitive dissonance, a discomfort that arises when we act against ingrained patterns. I’ve learned that if I tolerate that discomfort long enough, my emotions usually catch up to my behavior. When they do, life tends to improve.

Existentialism is not truth. It’s a tool. For now, it works for me.

I’ve always been interested in the “why” of life. The more I read and learned, the less certain I became.

After years in clinical psychology and decades of circling different philosophies, I returned—again—to existentialism in my 60s. It isn’t elegant. It isn’t comforting. But it helps me function.

At its core, existentialism treats life as something you are responsible for authoring. Imagine your life as a book. If the next chapters look familiar and unsatisfying, you can keep writing them—or you can change direction. That choice is difficult, and it comes with consequences either way.

Existentialism rose to prominence after World War II, when faith in simple answers collapsed under the weight of the Holocaust and nuclear weapons. It makes sense to me that people turned inward at that point.

In the next post, I focused on the aspects of existentialism that actually affect how I live.

I am one human among billions on a small planet in a vast universe. I have no cosmic importance. I do, however, have importance in my own life—and that is where my attention lies.

I was born Jewish in New York and grew up with a learning disability that made reading difficult and memory unreliable. Much of the advice that worked for others didn’t work for me. I often felt out of sync with the world around me.

I married a Christian woman, and we faced a choice about how to raise our children. We chose to raise them without religion. One eventually embraced science; the other embraced religion. Both choices were right for the individuals who made them.

Human beings can’t fully solve chess, let alone life. We develop theories based on culture, genetics, religion, and experience. We may call them truths, but they are provisional at best.

I write this because life demands responsibility. If we want our lives to change, we must act deliberately rather than automatically. That process creates anxiety. I feel it strongly. But I’ve learned not to let discomfort decide for me.

These posts are a way of thinking out loud. If any of it helps you clarify your own life, that’s enough.