The bitter price of awakening
Breaking free
I was at our family barbecue, and the talk shifted to the latest headlines—whatever slop the media's pushing these days. My cousin -as usual- brushes off my skepticism with a shrug: "I don't have time to dig into that." It's a casual dismissal, but it hides a deeper dread—the unspoken "I don't want to know." Because if he did look closer, it might unravel everything: the belief in honest government, fair systems, and a just world he's built his life around.
That quiet refusal isn't laziness; it's self-preservation. Beliefs don't stand alone—they come bundled, like a house of cards. Question one official narrative, and suddenly you're doubting the whole web of assumptions, even the values instilled since childhood. The fear whispers: "If that's all a lie, then almost everything I've worked for, the values underwriting my choices, would be meaningless." It's a step away from "my life has no meaning," and the depression that crashes in afterward is as profound as it is paralyzing—a heavy, suffocating fog that turns ambition to ash, joy to hollow echoes, and every familiar routine into a haunting reminder of betrayal.
Imagine if my cousin had dug deeper, say during COVID, when he followed the rules lockstep: masks, shots, shutdowns, all in the name of "doing his part." Uncovering the inconsistencies—the shifting goalposts, suppressed debates, economic fallout—would spark initial anger, a flicker of clarity. But then the cascade: if the response was riddled with overreach and half-truths, what about the other "crises" he's bought into? Trust in institutions would crumble, leaving him adrift in regret for lost freedoms and strained relationships. Nights would turn sleepless, days listless, haunted by the visceral gut-punch of realizing his life's narrative was scripted by others—the isolation deepening as friends pull away, labeling him "weird" for daring to question. The pain swells like a tidal wave: raw grief for a worldview in ruins, a gnawing void where purpose once stood, making every breath feel like a battle against despair's unrelenting grip.
Ayn Rand nailed this moral vertigo through characters who reject the collective fog, vowing to live by their own judgment. Friedrich Hayek echoed it, warning that top-down myths steal our individual knowledge and resilience.
Yet, there's a way through—not easy, but possible. It starts with small anchors: rediscovering sound principles like family, fostering self-reliance over blind trust. Communities of like-minded skeptics can share the burden, turning isolation into strength. The depression lifts not by denial, but by forging new meaning on firmer ground.
The irony stings: in chasing security through comforting lies, we've bred fragility. Breaking free demands courage—to face the void, grieve the losses, and rebuild with truth. It's not just about survival; it's about lives worth living, beyond the shadows of shattered beliefs.