How to master your own mind
Bangarang, Peter!
The game of life
They say the Olympics are the closest thing we have to world peace—which is a rather depressing thought when you realize it involves people flinging themselves over bars, hurling objects great distances, and occasionally punching each other in the face. But, for a few short weeks, the entire world agrees to put aside its usual squabbling, play by the same rules, and settle its differences with an elaborate display of human excellence (and an alarming number of spandex-clad individuals).
Every country sends its finest—some of whom have trained since birth, others who simply have an unnatural ability to lift heavy things or run absurdly fast. There are no negotiations, no backroom deals—just raw competition. And for once, victory isn’t determined by who has the most money, the biggest army, or the loudest opinions—it’s about who can swim in a straight line the fastest without drowning.
And perhaps that’s why we love it. Because, deep down, we all crave a world where success is earned rather than handed out, where rules are clear, and where the only real argument is whether that was a legitimate gold-medal performance—or a tragic case of someone peaking too soon.
How is it supposed to be played?
I watch Hook once a year. A ritual. A blood pact of how not to become a sellout.
Because Hook isn’t just a movie—it’s a warning. A cautionary tale about how easy it is to forget who you are, how simple it is to let the world steal your fire, and how adulthood is a slow descent into mediocrity if you’re not careful. It’s the story of Peter Pan—fearless, untamed, limitless—who does the unthinkable. He leaves Neverland. He grows up. He trades adventure for spreadsheets and board meetings, buries his imagination under deadlines, and forgets how to fly.
And worst of all? He doesn’t even realize what he’s lost.
When you're young, life is one big improv game. Every sidewalk crack is lava, every stick is a sword, and every person you meet is just another potential player. The only rule? Say yes, and… and see where the story goes.
The risk of fouling
There’s always that one kid.
The one who refuses to play unless they’re in charge. The one who decides the game isn’t about fun, adventure, or the sheer joy of making things up as you go—it’s about them. Their rules, their control, their need to ensure no one else shines too brightly.
And just like that, the game changes. It stops being about skill, creativity, or even good old-fashioned fun. Instead, it mutates into a grim little power struggle, where the goal is no longer to rise to the challenge, but to rig it. Winning isn’t about playing well—it’s about playing politics.
What was once a game everyone could play together shatters into factions, alliances, and whispered strategies. Suddenly, it’s not about how you play, but who you play for.
And that’s when the magic dies.
The losing playbook
Wound (I got hurt) → Fear (Not being good enough) → Defense Mechanism (This game is stupid) → Rigid Belief System (Ideology: It’s not fair) → Resistance to Healing (The game is only fair if I control the rules) → Blocking Meaning & Purpose (Identity: I am morally superior) → The World Suffers (The game is ruined for everyone.)
And That One Kid sits atop their self-made throne, smugly watching the lifeless husk of a game they once despised, unaware that in their quest to make it "fair," they have made it completely unplayable.
Play stupid games, win stupid prizes. 🎉
How to backtrack to higher truth
You’re back at home plate. Bat at the ready. Lock eyes with the pitcher. The game is in motion, but this time, something’s different.
Recognize the false belief system (Maybe we shouldn’t play the game for fairness?)
Seek alternative viewpoints from outside of the belief system (Coach thinks the game was more fun back in the day when we played for skill.)
Accept uncertainty and discomfort instead of controlling it (If the game can be fun, maybe it isn’t stupid and I’m not morally superior afterall?)
Choose growth over certainty (And maybe I need to be comfortable with sucking for awhile until I practice enough to keep up and show what I can bring to the game.)
And that’s when it happens—the moment you let go. The moment you stop gripping the bat like a life raft and just swing. Not because you need to win. Not because you need to control.
But because that’s the only way to hit the ball.
The magic of the game
We’ve completely botched the game of life. In trying to make it inclusive, we stripped everyone of agency, smothered the magic, and replaced it with mental illness.
We took away people’s reason to live, and when they inevitably spiraled, we labeled it, medicated it, and called it a day. Now, everything from existential despair to indecision over lunch qualifies as suffering. And just to make sure no one ever finds their way out, we’ve removed their ability to struggle, fail, or—God forbid—figure things out for themselves.
So here we are: a society that doesn’t know how to get its A-game back. Strip away the jargon, and all that’s left is a world full of unresolved wounds throwing tantrums, wondering why life feels so pointless.
I say this with confidence because I spent a solid decade hosting my own personal misery marathon. Depression—the great artistic affliction—had me in a chokehold. But instead of coddling it like a fragile, sobbing child who must never be held accountable, I took a different approach. I treated myself like a fully functional adult who simply never learned it was okay to be bad at something. A game-changer, really—because as it turns out, failure is only crippling if you believe it shouldn’t happen.
Having successfully bullied my own brain into cooperating and overcoming my fear of uncertainty, I decided to test my theory on others—because what’s the point of an epiphany if you don’t impose it on unsuspecting acquaintances? One had lifelong OCD, another was drowning in anxiety. Rather than gently validating their suffering like a well-meaning but utterly useless therapist, I did something radical: I ignored it entirely. Instead, I traced their struggles back to the moment they first got stuck—the original wound buried under layers of elaborate suffering rituals.
And in a single day—poof!—there they were, back in their childlike selves, as if I’d slapped a bandaid on a scraped knee and they were ready to get back in the game. No drawn-out interventions, no endless coping mechanisms—just a quiet reminder that they were never broken in the first place.
In other words, I never treated them like they were mentally ill. I simply pointed out that they had wandered off the path and suggested, politely, that they turn around. Because in the end, the mind is a bit like an old man lost in a supermarket—he doesn’t need medication, he just needs someone to remind him where the exit is.