Default Could Be Your Fault

We often behave by default. In fact, there is a brain neurological structure called the Default Mode Network (DMN). It is an extensive collection of interacting brain regions most active when we are engaged in internal, self-oriented, rather than external, world-oriented thought. Consider the DMN as the region activated during wakeful rest, introspection, and mind-wandering.

In a positive mood, the default mode can be your best friend. In a negative mood, it can be your worst enemy.

When the mind is left unattended, it usually drifts toward its dominant emotional and cognitive habits. The DMN does not create thoughts out of nowhere. Rather, it amplifies what is already psychologically available. If your life is filled with gratitude, purpose, competence, meaningful relationships, and intellectual curiosity, then periods of mental drifting often become creative, restorative, and psychologically enriching. However, if your mind is saturated with resentment, anxiety, insecurity, regret, or bitterness, the DMN can become a repetitive echo chamber of emotional pain.

In many ways, the DMN functions like a psychological “home screen.” Whatever programs are most practiced become the automatic default. The brain economizes effort by repeatedly activating familiar pathways. This is one reason why habits—both healthy and unhealthy—become increasingly automatic over time. Repeated thoughts strengthen neural networks through neuroplasticity. In effect, the brain becomes better at whatever it repeatedly does (Doidge, 2007).

This helps explain why two individuals can experience the same external event yet react in profoundly different ways. One person may interpret adversity as a challenge to overcome. Another may interpret it as proof of helplessness or victimization. Over time, these interpretations become increasingly automatic. Eventually, they no longer feel like interpretations at all. They simply feel like “reality.”

The danger is that people frequently assume their default reactions are objective truths rather than conditioned mental habits. A pessimistic person may sincerely believe he is “just being realistic.” A chronically angry person may believe outrage is moral clarity. A catastrophizing individual may believe constant worry is responsibility. Yet many of these reactions are simply overlearned default patterns reinforced through repetition.

Solitude affects people differently at least in part due to the DMN.  Some individuals flourish when alone because their internal psychological environment is stimulating, organized, hopeful, and emotionally meaningful. Others dread being alone because silence exposes the chaos of their own internal dialogue. Blaise Pascal once observed that many of humanity’s problems arise from our inability to sit quietly in a room alone. Modern neuroscience suggests he may have been describing the consequences of an unmanaged default mode network.

The DMN, obviously, is neither inherently good or bad. It contributes to autobiographical memory, imagination, future planning, creativity, moral reasoning, and identity formation (Buckner et al., 2008). Many of humanity’s greatest creative insights likely emerged during periods of mind-wandering and reflective thought. The problem is not the existence of the default mode. The problem is the quality of what occupies it.

The practical question therefore becomes: How does one cultivate a healthier default mode network?

First, cognitive input matters. The brain is shaped by repeated exposure. If you constantly immerse yourself in outrage-based media, tribal conflict, fear-inducing narratives, and social comparison, your default mental state will increasingly mirror those inputs. Psychological nutrition matters just as much as physical nutrition. What you repeatedly consume mentally becomes incorporated into your emotional baseline.

Second, purposeful activity matters. Human beings generally do poorly when drifting without structure for prolonged periods. Meaningful work, intellectual engagement, hobbies, volunteering, exercise, and social connection provide stabilizing frameworks that reduce maladaptive rumination. An idle mind often becomes a breeding ground for negative recursive thinking.

Third, relationships matter enormously. The emotional tone of the people surrounding you gradually becomes internalized. Chronic exposure to cynical, hostile, chronically anxious, or perpetually victimized individuals subtly reshapes one’s own default cognitive style. Conversely, psychologically resilient individuals often “lend” emotional regulation to those around them. Emotional states are socially contagious.

Fourth, attentional training matters. Practices such as mindfulness meditation appear capable of reducing maladaptive self-referential rumination by altering activity within the DMN itself (Brewer et al., 2011). Mindfulness does not eliminate thought. Rather, it changes one’s relationship to thought. Instead of becoming trapped inside every passing emotion or narrative, one learns to observe thoughts without automatically identifying with them.

Fifth, physical health matters more than many people realize. Sleep deprivation, sedentary behavior, chronic stress, inflammation, alcohol misuse, and poor diet all impair emotional regulation and cognitive flexibility. The brain is a biological organ. Psychological resilience is partly physiological resilience.

Finally, one of the most effective ways to cultivate a healthier default mode is through intentional gratitude and constructive reflection. This is not naïve positivity or denial of hardship. Rather, it is the deliberate strengthening of neural pathways associated with appreciation, competence, hope, and meaning. The brain tends to scan for what it repeatedly rehearses. If you continually rehearse grievance, grievance becomes easier to find. If you continually rehearse gratitude, opportunity, and meaning, those become easier to perceive as well. Over time, the mind increasingly becomes what it repeatedly practices. In this sense, your defaults eventually become your destiny.

References

Brewer, J. A., Worhunsky, P. D., Gray, J. R., Tang, Y. Y., Weber, J., & Kober, H. (2011). Meditation experience is associated with differences in default mode network activity and connectivity. Proceedings of the National Academy of Sciences, 108(50), 20254–20259. https://doi.org/10.1073/pnas.1112029108

Buckner, R. L., Andrews‐Hanna, J. R., & Schacter, D. L. (2008). The brain’s default network: Anatomy, function, and relevance to disease. Annals of the New York Academy of Sciences, 1124(1), 1–38. https://doi.org/10.1196/annals.1440.011

Doidge, N. (2007). The brain that changes itself: Stories of personal triumph from the frontiers of brain science. Viking.

 

Your Personalities?

Last weekend I spoke to a neighbor, Bob, about my new book, Clear Thoughts, Rational Decisions. He said the ideas made sense to him because he was struggling with his son, Harry. Their conversations had become tense and confusing. Bob felt they misunderstood each other’s motives, and he worried that Harry’s personality had changed for the worse.

That conversation inspired this blog, since it was consistent with an article that I had explained in my book.

Two psychologists, Colin J. Lee and Emorie D. Beck, published research in 2026 suggesting that personality is not fixed. Instead, personality is something we express moment by moment through thoughts, feelings, and actions.

Using thousands of real-time reports from participants, they found that each person shows a unique pattern. We may react differently depending on the situation—at work, with family, under stress, or when relaxed—but there is still a recognizable “signature” to how we behave. In other words, personality is both stable and flexible.

This is an important shift in both professional and layperson thinking. Many people treat personality as a label: shy, outgoing, disciplined, anxious, stubborn. But these labels can be misleading. A person may be organized in one setting and careless in another. Someone may seem patient with friends but irritable at home. What matters is not just traits, but patterns.

That idea supports a central theme of Clear Thoughts, Rational Decisions: self-understanding begins with noticing your own habits in real time.

For example:

• Do you become defensive when criticized about your reliability?
• Do you procrastinate when anticipating a long term project?
• Do you think more clearly early in the day as opposed to later?
• Are you kinder to strangers than to family members?

When we notice these recurring patterns, we gain power over them.

A fixed view of personality can lead to resignation: “That’s just how I am.” A dynamic view creates opportunity: “This is what I tend to do, and I can change it.”

That is where personal agency begins. We do not need to erase our personality. We need to understand it well enough to guide it. If you know stress makes you impatient, you can pause before reacting. If you know structure improves your focus, you can build routines. If you know certain people trigger anger or insecurity, you can prepare yourself differently.

So Bob may not be seeing a completely “new” Harry. He may be seeing Harry under new pressures, in a new life stage, expressing parts of himself that were always there but now showing differently, perhaps more intensely or more frequently.

The same is true for all of us. We are not statues carved in stone. We are patterns in motion.

Cognitive freedom comes from learning to read those patterns—moment by moment, situation by situation—until they become tools instead of blind forces.

As is obvious, I tend to endorse and accept the Colin J. Lee and Emorie D. Beck study results—for now.  I am inclined to believe that every person exhibits their own multivariate “signature”—a recurring pattern of personality expressions that shifts with context but remains recognizably theirs. However, the particulars of the study warrant careful consideration. Although it was conducted drawing on more than fifteen thousand momentary reports from two undergraduate samples and used experimental  modeling, the limited study sample and limited age range makes replication and use of diverse research participants essential.

                                                                        Reference

 Idiographic momentary profiles of personality facets. Lee, Colin J. , Beck, Emorie D.  Journal of Personality and Social Psychology, Vol 130(1), Jan 2026, 160-185

Indifference, Ignorance, Engagement, and Enlightenment

Human beings naturally oscillate among states of indifference, ignorance, engagement, and enlightenment. Each of these states carries potential benefits and drawbacks, especially with respect to one’s sense of comfort. Indifference can be psychologically protective, shielding people from distressing information; ignorance can simplify life by reducing cognitive load; engagement can provide meaning and agency; and enlightenment can offer clarity, ethical insight, and informed direction.

Yet comfort does not necessarily equate to what is best—either for an individual or for society.

In everyday life, the tension between comfort and what is ultimately beneficial shows up in quiet, almost invisible ways. Consider the person who avoids opening a medical test result because “no news feels better than bad news.” In that moment, ignorance provides relief. Anxiety is held at bay, and the individual can proceed with the day undisturbed. But the longer-term cost may be delayed treatment or missed opportunity for early intervention. Research on health behavior consistently shows that avoidance coping—choosing not to know—reduces immediate distress but is associated with poorer long-term outcomes (Sweeny et al., 2010). What feels comforting in the moment can quietly undermine future well-being.

A similar pattern emerges in financial decision-making. Many individuals do not regularly check their retirement accounts during volatile markets. This indifference protects them from emotional swings tied to daily fluctuations. Indeed, behavioral economists such as Daniel Kahneman and Amos Tversky demonstrated that people are loss-averse; losses feel more painful than equivalent gains feel pleasurable (Kahneman & Tversky, 1979). Avoiding information about losses can therefore preserve emotional equilibrium. Yet sustained disengagement may also lead to missed opportunities to rebalance investments or correct poor financial habits. Again, comfort trades off with competence.

Even in interpersonal relationships, the lure of comfort can quietly distort judgment. It is often easier to remain indifferent to subtle but recurring problems—an inconsistency in a partner’s behavior, a growing emotional distance, or unspoken resentment—than to engage directly. Addressing such issues requires emotional effort, vulnerability, and the risk of conflict. Indifference, in contrast, allows the relationship to continue without immediate disruption. However, over time, what was ignored tends to accumulate. As John Gottman has shown, small unresolved issues can compound into patterns that predict relational breakdown (Gottman & Levenson, 2000). The short-term comfort of “not making a big deal out of it” can lead to long-term instability.

Engagement, by contrast, is often uncomfortable precisely because it requires effort and confrontation with complexity. A person who decides to understand their medical condition, learn the details of their financial situation, or have a difficult conversation is voluntarily stepping out of the protective buffer of ignorance or indifference. Yet this discomfort is often productive. It aligns with what psychologists describe as “active coping,” which is associated with better adjustment and outcomes over time (Carver & Connor-Smith, 2010). The individual sacrifices immediate ease for longer-term control and resilience.

Enlightenment—understood not in a mystical sense but as a state of informed awareness—introduces a different kind of discomfort. To know more is to see more, including ambiguity, trade-offs, and sometimes unsettling truths. A person who becomes well-informed about nutrition, for example, may find grocery shopping more complicated, not less. The simple pleasure of eating without thought is replaced by an awareness of ingredients, long-term health implications, and conflicting dietary advice. Similarly, someone who becomes informed about global issues such as climate change or geopolitical tensions may experience a heightened sense of concern or even moral burden. Knowledge expands responsibility. As Socrates is often paraphrased, wisdom begins with the recognition of one’s own ignorance—a realization that can be more disquieting than comforting.

What becomes evident across these examples is that the human tendency to gravitate toward comfort is not inherently misguided; it is adaptive in the short term. Cognitive and emotional resources are finite, and constant engagement with every possible concern would be overwhelming. The challenge lies in calibrating when comfort serves a restorative function and when it becomes a form of avoidance that undermines well-being.

In practical terms, this calibration often requires small, deliberate acts of engagement. Opening the medical test result rather than postponing it. Reviewing a bank statement instead of ignoring it. Asking a clarifying question in a conversation that feels slightly off. These are not grand gestures of enlightenment but incremental shifts away from passive comfort toward active awareness. Over time, such shifts accumulate into a more informed and resilient way of navigating life.

Ultimately, the movement from indifference and ignorance toward engagement and enlightenment is not linear or permanent. People cycle through these states depending on context, stress, and capacity. The goal is not to eliminate comfort but to recognize its limits. Comfort can soothe, but it can also sedate. And when it sedates too effectively, it dulls the very awareness needed to respond to reality as it is rather than as one might prefer it to be.

The question is not whether comfort is good or bad, but whether it is timely and proportionate. When comfort follows effort, it restores. When it replaces effort, it constrains. The distinction is subtle in the moment but profound over the long term.  Agency requires effort. And your agency determines whether you are in control or are being controlled by outside forces and persons.

References

Carver, C. S., & Connor-Smith, J. (2010). Personality and coping. Annual Review of Psychology, 61, 679–704.

Gottman, J. M., & Levenson, R. W. (2000). The timing of divorce: Predicting when a couple will divorce over a 14-year period. Journal of Marriage and Family, 62(3), 737–745.

Kahneman, D., & Tversky, A. (1979). Prospect theory: An analysis of decision under risk. Econometrica, 47(2), 263–291.

Sweeny, K., Melnyk, D., Miller, W., & Shepperd, J. A. (2010). Information avoidance: Who, what, when, and why. Review of General Psychology, 14(4), 340–353.

Conversation Contagion

Social contagion theory suggests  that thoughts, emotions, and behaviors spread through social interaction much like a virus. It proposes that people “catch” attitudes, moods, and interpretive frames from those around them through subtle mechanisms such as mimicry, emotional attunement, shared attention, and the human tendency to align with the norms of a group. In this view, a conversation is not simply an exchange of information but a transmission event in which one person’s affective stance can shift another’s outlook, sometimes within minutes. The theory helps explain why pessimism, enthusiasm, anxiety, or hope can propagate through families, workplaces, and communities, shaping the psychological climate in ways individuals may not consciously recognize.

So, at least in the short term, talking with another person can alter your mental status. Mood, interpretive frame, and even the felt sense of what is possible can shift simply through exposure to another mind. Because of this, it becomes essential to think carefully about the conversational partners we allow into our cognitive environment. The mind is not sealed; it is permeable, suggestible, and shaped by the emotional and interpretive habits of those around us. Conversations are not neutral exchanges of information but reciprocal regulatory events that can either stabilize or destabilize our internal state.

A study by Kevin Eschleman and colleagues (2015) illustrates this dynamic with unusual clarity. They examined individuals high in what they termed “dispositional negativism,” a trait‑level tendency to evaluate a wide range of stimuli through a pessimistic or cynical lens. What is striking about their findings is the breadth of the negativity. It was not limited to personally relevant issues or emotionally charged topics. Instead, these individuals expressed sour evaluations of architecture, vacations, soccer, and even fictional consumer products. The negativity was not reactive; it was ambient. It colored everything.

When one interacts with people who carry this kind of globalized pessimism, the effects can be subtle but cumulative. Conversations with individuals who chronically devalue experiences, possibilities, and ideas can reinforce any latent tendencies toward negativity in oneself. Over time, this can shift your baseline interpretive stance. The person who begins the relationship with a relatively balanced outlook may find that their own cognitive habits drift toward the same global devaluation. This is not because the other person “convinces” them of anything in a rational sense, but because emotional tone is contagious. Interpretive frames are socially transmitted. The mind calibrates itself to the emotional climate it inhabits.

Low self‑esteem compounds this effect. Individuals who chronically doubt their own worth or competence often express their insecurity through pessimistic predictions, self‑protective cynicism, or anticipatory disappointment. These conversational patterns can create a relational field in which negativity becomes the default mode of engagement. If you are not attentive, one can begin to internalize this stance, gradually becoming the kind of person others avoid and, eventually, the kind of person one avoids in oneself. The danger is not dramatic but incremental. It is the slow erosion of one’s interpretive generosity and emotional openness.

The broader implication is that conversational life is a form of psychological hygiene. Just as one is mindful of diet, sleep, and physical environment, one must also be mindful of the emotional and cognitive environments created by relationships. Conversations can elevate or diminish, clarify or distort, energize or deplete. They can reinforce one’s agency or subtly undermine it. Recognizing this does not require withdrawing from those who struggle with negativity, but it does require awareness of the interpersonal forces that shape your mental life. To cultivate a stable and constructive inner world, choose conversational partners with discernment, understanding that every exchange is, in some sense, an intervention in one’s own cognitive ecology.

A positive discussion often reveals how quickly another person’s interpretive frame can broaden your own. Imagine talking with a colleague who has a grounded sense of agency and a habit of noticing what is workable rather than what is broken. You mention a project that has stalled, expecting the usual sympathetic sigh. Instead, she listens carefully, asks a clarifying question, and identifies one small, actionable step you had overlooked. Her tone is steady, her interest genuine, and her comments implicitly affirm your competence. By the end of the conversation, your mood has shifted. The problem has not disappeared, but your sense of efficacy has returned. You walk away with a clearer mind and a more constructive orientation toward the day. This is the kind of interpersonal exchange that stabilizes mental status rather than distorting it.

A negative discussion shows the opposite pattern. Picture a conversation with someone who carries chronic self‑doubt and a trait‑level pessimism of the sort Eschleman et al. (2015) describe. You mention the same stalled project, and before you finish the sentence, the other person responds with a global dismissal: “Nothing ever works out in that department anyway.” When you offer a possible solution, they counter with a list of reasons it will fail. Their tone is resigned, their posture closed, and their comments subtly imply that your efforts are naïve. Even if you entered the conversation in a neutral or mildly frustrated state, you leave it feeling heavier, more doubtful, and vaguely irritated with yourself. Nothing in the situation has changed, but your interpretive frame has been pulled toward their habitual negativity. This is how conversational environments can erode one’s mental status in small but cumulative increments.

Conversations are not merely exchanges of information but interpersonal regulatory events. They can either reinforce your well-being or undermine it, depending on the person across from you.  The lesson is obvious: choose your conversational partners carefully, maximizing your time with positive people and minimizing your time with negative ones.

 

REFERENCE

Eschleman, K. J., Bowling, N. A., & LaHuis, D. M. (2015). The dispositional basis of attitudes: A meta‑analytic review. Personality and Individual Differences, 75, 120–128. 

Does It Give You the Chills ?

If it’s cold enough, everyone becomes chilly. But everyone does not get aesthetic chills—the intense, shiver‑like wave that races across the body, especially the skin, usually in response to beauty created by nature or humanity. Researchers estimate that as much as 35 percent of the population does not experience frisson, the technical term for these aesthetic chills (Harrison & Loui, 2014).

I deliberately used the phrase "get aesthetic chills" to emphasize that frisson is triggered outside the self. It is not a mood, not a personality trait, not a free‑floating emotional state. It is a response to a stimulus—a sight, a sound, a moment—when something in the world reaches into the nervous system and pulls a lever we did not consciously know existed. Frisson is a physiological event, but it is also a cognitive one. It requires perception, appraisal, meaning, and a kind of openness to being moved. When it happens, it feels as if the boundary between self and world briefly dissolves. A piece of music swells, a landscape opens, a line of poetry lands with unexpected force—and the body answers before the mind fully understands why.

Scientific research has tried to map this experience with increasing precision. Although frisson has been studied most extensively in the context of music, the underlying mechanism appears consistent across domains: a sudden violation of expectation paired with a sense of safety and meaning (Grewe et al., 2007). Neuroscientific work shows that frisson involves simultaneous activation of the brain’s reward circuitry—particularly the nucleus accumbens—and regions associated with emotional appraisal, such as the insula and anterior cingulate cortex (Salimpoor et al., 2011). This combination is important. Frisson is not merely pleasure; it is pleasure fused with significance. The stimulus must be perceived as meaningful, surprising, or transcendent. Without that interpretive layer, the same stimulus remains just a song, just a view, just a moment.

This helps explain why some people experience frisson easily while others rarely or never do. The strongest predictor of frisson is the personality trait known as openness to experience, which includes curiosity, imagination, aesthetic sensitivity, and emotional absorption (McCrae, 2007). Individuals high in openness tend to notice sensory detail, appreciate complexity, and allow themselves to be emotionally moved. They do not merely perceive the world; they receive it. That receptivity creates the conditions in which frisson can occur.

Another important factor is the capacity for absorption—the ability to become fully immersed in an experience. People who naturally lose themselves in music, art, or nature show higher rates of frisson (Silvia & Nusbaum, 2011). Absorption is not passive. It is an active willingness to surrender attention, to let the experience unfold without defensive distance or constant self‑monitoring. Emotional responsiveness also plays a role. Individuals who feel emotions vividly or intensely are more likely to experience the physiological cascade that produces chills. And because frisson often occurs at moments of surprise—a harmonic shift, a sudden crescendo, a dramatic reveal—people who are attuned to patterns and enjoy the tension between expectation and deviation are more susceptible to the effect.

Just as certain traits make frisson more likely, others make it less so. People low in openness to experience, who prefer predictability, simplicity, or emotional restraint, may not engage deeply enough with aesthetic stimuli to trigger chills. Some individuals maintain strong top‑down cognitive control over their emotional responses; they analyze rather than absorb, evaluate rather than feel. This stance can inhibit the spontaneous surge that produces frisson. Others simply have lower baseline emotional reactivity, whether temperamentally or through learned regulation, which dampens the physiological response. And for many, the barrier is attentional. Frisson requires immersion. If a person rarely gives undivided attention to music, art, or natural beauty—or tends to multitask through such experiences—the necessary conditions for chills never fully assemble.

Frisson is not a measure of sophistication or sensitivity. It is simply one way the nervous system signals that something meaningful has occurred. But it does reveal something important about how we engage with the world. Some people walk through a forest and see trees. Others walk through the same forest and feel a shiver rise along the spine as the light shifts through the branches. The difference is not in the forest. It is in the openness, attention, and emotional permeability of the observer.

Aesthetic chills remind us that beauty is not merely perceived—it is received. And receiving requires a certain posture of mind: receptive, curious, unguarded. Not everyone gets aesthetic chills. But for those who do, frisson is a momentary alignment of perception, meaning, and emotion—a brief, electric reminder that the world still has the power to move us.

In sum, frisson appears to be less a universal reflex and more a signature of how an individual encounters the world. It arises at the intersection of openness, attention, emotional receptivity, and meaning-detection. Those who experience aesthetic chills are not simply more sensitive; they are often better tuned to complexity, more tolerant of uncertainty, and more willing to let external reality impress itself upon them. Those who do not experience frisson may still appreciate beauty, but they do so at a cognitive distance, without the embodied confirmation that something profound has occurred. 

Given how ugly our contemporary world  sometimes can be, we  should strive—as much as possible—to experience personal frisson, and to encourage it in those around us. That way, we make our own lives and the lives of those we love far more beautiful.

                                                                            References

Grewe, O., Nagel, F., Kopiez, R., & Altenmüller, E. (2007). Listening to music as a re-creative process: Physiological, psychological, and psychoacoustical correlates of chills and strong emotions. Music Perception, 24(3), 297–314.

Harrison, L., & Loui, P. (2014). Thrills, chills, frissons, and skin orgasms: Toward an integrative model of transcendent psychophysiological experiences in music. Frontiers in Psychology, 5, 790.

McCrae, R. R. (2007). Aesthetic chills as a psychological construct. Psychology of Aesthetics, Creativity, and the Arts, 1(1), 10–19.

Salimpoor, V. N., Benovoy, M., Larcher, K., Dagher, A., & Zatorre, R. J. (2011). Anatomically distinct dopamine release during anticipation and experience of peak emotion to music. Nature Neuroscience, 14(2), 257–262.

Silvia, P. J., & Nusbaum, E. C. (2011). On personality and piloerection: Individual differences in aesthetic chills and emotional responses to music. Psychology of Aesthetics, Creativity, and the Arts, 5(3), 208–214.

Scapegoats

Originally, the word scapegoat referred to the literal biblical animal whose sacrifice  symbolically carried away the sins of the community. Over time, the term evolved into a metaphor describing any individual who is unfairly blamed for the failures, conflicts, or anxieties of others. In contemporary psychological literature, the concept has taken on a more structural meaning: families, especially those under chronic stress or marked by unresolved conflict, often select a scapegoat to absorb the system’s tension. The individual becomes the repository for the family’s disowned emotions, unspoken conflicts, and unacknowledged dysfunctions. In this sense, the scapegoat is not chosen because of who they are, but because of what the family needs them to be.

Family systems theory posits that families operate as emotional units, seeking equilibrium even when that equilibrium is unhealthy (Bowen, 1978). When anxiety rises—due to marital conflict, parental trauma, financial instability, or intergenerational wounds—the system attempts to stabilize itself by redistributing emotional tension. One common mechanism is triangulation, in which two members stabilize their relationship by focusing negative attention on a third. The scapegoat becomes the identified problem, allowing the rest of the system to avoid confronting deeper issues.

In this dynamic, the scapegoated individual is often labeled as “the difficult one,” “the problem child,” or “the one who never fits.” Their behaviors—whether rebellious, anxious, withdrawn, or simply different—become the focal point of family concern. But the psychological literature is clear: the scapegoat’s behavior is often a symptom of systemic dysfunction rather than its cause (Minuchin, 1974). The family maintains equilibrium by externalizing its internal conflict onto one member, even if that equilibrium is psychopathological.

The selection of a scapegoat is rarely conscious. It emerges from patterns of interaction, emotional vulnerabilities, and intergenerational scripts. Several psychological mechanisms contribute to this process.

First, families under stress often seek simplicity. It is easier to locate the “problem” in one person than to confront the diffuse, complex, and painful realities of marital discord, parental inadequacy, or unresolved trauma. Second, the scapegoat often occupies a structurally vulnerable position—being temperamentally sensitive, developmentally different, or simply unwilling to conform to the family’s implicit rules. Third, scapegoating allows the family to maintain a coherent narrative: “If only he would behave, everything would be fine.” This narrative protects the system from confronting its deeper fractures.

The consequences for the scapegoated family member can be profound. Research shows that children who are chronically blamed or pathologized internalize distorted beliefs about their worth, agency, and identity (Johnson & Ray, 2016). They may come to believe that they are inherently defective, that conflict is their fault, or that their role in relationships is to absorb others’ anger. These internalized narratives can persist into adulthood, shaping attachment patterns, self-esteem, and emotional regulation.

Moreover, scapegoated individuals often develop symptoms—anxiety, depression, acting out, or withdrawal—that ironically reinforce the family’s narrative. The system interprets these symptoms as evidence that the scapegoat truly is the problem, completing a self-fulfilling cycle.

Recognizing scapegoating requires both introspection and systemic awareness. Several indicators can help identify when a family has designated a scapegoat.

One sign is disproportionate blame. When one individual is consistently held responsible for conflicts that involve multiple people, scapegoating may be at play. Another sign is narrative rigidity: the family repeatedly tells the same story about the scapegoated member, often ignoring contradictory evidence. A third sign is emotional displacement—anger, fear, or disappointment directed at the scapegoat that seems unrelated to their actual behavior.

Clinicians often look for patterns in which the scapegoated individual’s “problems” conveniently distract from marital conflict, parental distress, or intergenerational trauma. When the family becomes calmer or more unified in the presence of a shared target, the dynamic is almost certainly systemic.

Addressing scapegoating requires disrupting the family’s equilibrium—not by attacking the system, but by increasing its capacity for honesty, differentiation, and emotional regulation.

One strategy is to broaden the narrative. Families must be encouraged to see problems as relational rather than individual. This shift requires careful facilitation, as it threatens the system’s defensive structure. Another strategy is to strengthen the scapegoated individual’s sense of agency and identity. When they develop clearer boundaries and a more coherent self-concept, the family’s ability to project dysfunction onto them diminishes.

Therapeutic interventions often focus on increasing differentiation of self—the ability to maintain one’s identity while remaining emotionally connected to the family (Bowen, 1978). As differentiation increases, the family becomes less reliant on scapegoating to manage anxiety. Finally, families must learn to tolerate discomfort. Scapegoating persists because it offers emotional relief. When families develop the capacity to sit with tension rather than displace it, healthier patterns emerge.

Scapegoating is a tragic but understandable response to emotional overload. It reflects the family’s attempt to maintain coherence in the face of unresolved pain. But it is also a betrayal—of the scapegoated individual, of the family’s potential for growth, and of the truth. Combating scapegoating requires courage: the courage to look inward, to acknowledge systemic wounds, and to distribute responsibility more fairly. When families embrace this courage, they move from equilibrium to health, from blame to understanding, and from distortion to authenticity. 

If you or someone you know is being scapegoated, consider the following: Focus first on understanding the scapegoating group.  Try to determine the problems that it seeks to avoid by scapegoating. If you are the scapegoated one, try to understand  your victimhood and how to cope with it. Same strategy for helping some else being scapegoated .

                                                                            References

Bowen, M. (1978). Family therapy in clinical practice. Jason Aronson.

Johnson, S., & Ray, W. (2016). Family roles and systemic blame: The dynamics of scapegoating. Journal of Family Psychology, 30(4), 475–486.

Minuchin, S. (1974). Families and family therapy. Harvard University Press.

Control Your Memory, Control Your Life

The primary purpose of memory is not to review the past. But to deal with your present and to anticipate your future. To understand these ideas, you first must be clear on what aspects of memory are being discussed. The major forms of memory are generally classified by duration and function into three core types: sensory memory (fleeting input), short-term/working memory (active processing for 15-30 seconds), and long-term memory (semi-permanent storage). Long-term memory further splits into explicit (conscious facts/events) and implicit (unconscious skills) forms. For purposes of this blog, we will limit ourselves to explicit memory, and how we can use it to further our well being.

If the purpose of explicit memory is not to nostalgically review the past but to navigate the present and anticipate the future, then the question becomes: How do we use memory well? The first step is recognizing that explicit memory is not a literal recording of events. It is a dynamic, reconstructive process shaped by attention, emotion, expectation, and context. Cognitive psychologists have long emphasized that memory is not reproductive—it does not play back the past like a video—but reconstructive, meaning that each act of remembering is also an act of interpretation (Schacter, 2012). What you call a “memory” is actually a present-moment construction built from fragments, inferences, and priors.

This has profound implications. If your memories are reconstructions, then your priors—your stored expectations about how the world has been working—are not always accurate. They may be distorted by selective attention, emotional salience, cultural narratives, or simple forgetting. Yet these priors are exactly what your brain uses to generate understandings about what is happening now and predictions about what is likely to happen next. Predictive processing models argue that perception itself is a negotiation between incoming sensory data and prior expectations (Clark, 2016). In other words, your past is always shaping your present, whether you realize it or not.

This is why controlling your memory—meaning, controlling how you use memory—is central to controlling your life. You cannot change the events of your past, but you can change how you interpret them, how you retrieve them, and how you allow them to influence your present situation and your predictions about the future. When you become aware that your priors may be unreliable, you gain the freedom to revise them. When you revise them, you change your interpretation of the present and the predictions your brain generates. And when you change your predictions, you change your behavior, your emotional responses, and ultimately your trajectory.

To make this practical, consider the role of memory in everyday decision-making. If you have a prior that “I always fail at new things,” that prior will shape your perception of present and future opportunities, your willingness to try, and your interpretation of ambiguous feedback. But if you examine that memory—really examine it—you may discover that it is based on a handful of selectively recalled events, reconstructed in a way that supports a negative narrative. By updating that prior with more accurate or more complete information, you change the prediction your brain generates about your future performance. This is not positive thinking; it is Bayesian updating applied to the self.

A useful way to operationalize this is to adopt a simplified version of the scientific method as a personal cognitive discipline. Treat your memories and priors as hypotheses, not facts. Test them against new evidence. Ask whether your current interpretation of a past event is the only plausible one, or simply the one that fits your existing narrative. Generate alternative explanations. Seek disconfirming evidence. And when the evidence warrants it, revise your priors. This approach aligns with research showing that deliberate, reflective retrieval can reshape memory traces and reduce the influence of cognitive distortions (Nader & Hardt, 2009).

The goal is not to erase the past but to use it wisely. When you treat memory as a tool for adaptive prediction rather than a museum of fixed artifacts, you reclaim agency. You become less governed by outdated priors and more responsive to the actual conditions of your present life. And in doing so, you create a more accurate, flexible, and empowering model of your future.

Whether  alone or with others, reminiscences distorted  in a positive direction often confers emotional and social benefits. However, in consequential situations, don’t blindly accept your recollections.  Memory can be your best friend or worst enemy. You must proactively work to maximize the former. 

                                                                      References

Clark, A. (2016). Surfing uncertainty: Prediction, action, and the embodied mind. Oxford University Press.

Nader, K., & Hardt, O. (2009). A single standard for memory: The case for reconsolidation. Nature Reviews Neuroscience, 10(3), 224–234.

Schacter, D. L. (2012). Searching for memory: The brain, the mind, and the past. Basic Books.

Superbowl halftime: Uniting America ?

Sports regularly is cited as helping to create a unified America.  For instance, we rightly hear that sports excellence is extraordinarily achievement based. And that usually is true.  An often-cited archetypal example is Jackie Robinson’s breaking baseball’s so-called “color barrier” through virtue of his outstanding capabilities. What is almost never mentioned is that Robinson’s ascension into the major leagues was facilitated by a white man—Wesley Branch Rickey who would not tolerate racial injustice. 

Because of people like Jackie Robinson and Wesley Branch Rickey, sports continually proves that every human being deserves complete, unbiased opportunities and recognition.  And, as our country’s primary sports platform, when viewing the Superbowl, every American citizen should feel valued and included.  There is no reason to privilege one group over the others. But the Superbowl halftime show violated that common sense essential perspective.  Although about 13 percent of Americans claim Spanish as their first language, halftime entertainment was almost totally devoid of English.  That is not to say that the event should have been exclusively in English but that unity would be encouraged by a linguistically balanced approach.

Unity is not achieved by symbolic inversion—by marginalizing one majority in order to elevate a minority—but by deliberate inclusion that signals mutual recognition. A nationally shared ritual such as the Super Bowl halftime show carries an implicit civic responsibility: it is one of the few cultural moments that simultaneously reaches across region, class, race, age, and ideology. When that moment is linguistically or culturally exclusionary, even unintentionally, it undermines the very premise that sports uniquely occupy a unifying role in American life.

The problem is not the celebration of Latino culture, which is both appropriate and long overdue in many contexts. Rather, the issue is proportionality and intent. A unifying event should reflect the pluralistic composition of the nation while maintaining a shared symbolic vocabulary. Language is not merely a communicative tool; it is a marker of belonging. When a significant portion of the audience cannot linguistically access the performance, the message—however artistically sophisticated—becomes segmented rather than shared. Inclusion without intelligibility risks becoming performative rather than integrative.

Historically, the most successful national symbols have worked precisely because they invite participation rather than demand adaptation. Jackie Robinson did not enter Major League Baseball by redefining the rules of the game for one group; he entered by demonstrating excellence within a framework that then expanded its moral boundaries. Branch Rickey’s role mattered because he understood that justice does not require cultural erasure or symbolic dominance, but principled insistence on fairness within shared institutions. The lesson is not merely historical; it is structural. Unity emerges when institutions emphasize common ground while honoring difference—not when difference is foregrounded in ways that fragment the audience into insiders and outsiders.

A linguistically balanced halftime show would have modeled this principle. Alternating languages, incorporating translation, or blending performances in a way that preserved mutual intelligibility would have signaled respect for diversity without sacrificing cohesion. Such an approach would have affirmed that American identity is not zero-sum—that cultural recognition need not come at the expense of shared experience.

If sports are to continue serving as one of the last broadly trusted arenas of national unity, then those who curate its most visible moments must take that responsibility seriously. The Super Bowl halftime show is not merely entertainment; it is a civic mirror. When that mirror reflects only parts of the nation at a time, rather than the nation as a whole, it misses an opportunity to do what sports have historically done best: remind us that excellence, fairness, and belonging are not competing values, but mutually reinforcing ones.

 

Resolving Repetitive Arguments: A Brief, Practical Guide

Repetitive conflicts are extremely common. In fact, nearly half of all couples—around 48–50%—say they have the same arguments again and again. And research from the Gottman Institute shows that about 69% of marital conflicts involve perpetual problems: issues that never fully resolve.

There’s no guaranteed way to eliminate these patterns, but if you think carefully about the ideas below and adapt them to your own situation, you can improve things. Doing so requires steady effort and mutual respect.

Why Repetitive Arguments Happen

Recurring arguments are stymied primarily by process,  only secondarily by content. In other words, the problem is less about what you’re arguing about and more about how the argument unfolds. This is why the most effective way to break the cycle is to start with metacommunication—communication about the communication process (Watzlawick et al., 1967). Most repetitive arguments persist because metacommunication fails (McCusker, 2025). The underlying disagreement never gets addressed in a clear, rational way.

Step 1: Start With Your Own Contribution to the Pattern

Before trying to solve any specific issue, each person pauses to reflect on their own role in the interaction. The first person—let’s call them Sam—begins by identifying flaws in their own metacommunication process. Examples include:

• interrupting
• becoming defensive
• shutting down under stress
• assuming intent instead of asking questions

This is a self-assessment, not a criticism of the other person. After stating it, Sam asks the second person—let’s call them Pat— whether they agree.

At this point, Pat does not correct or challenge the statement, but simply affirms or disconfirms the self-assessment. The discussion continues until both agree on Sam’s contribution to the metacommunication problem.

Step 2: The Second Person Mirrors the Process

Next, Pat identifies their own metacommunication flaws, again without interruption, and then ask whether the Sam agrees.

This reciprocal structure creates balance, reduces defensiveness, and strengthens mutual accountability—factors known to improve conflict resolution (Gottman & Silver, 2015).

Step 3: Each Person Proposes  Their Own Remedy

Sam acknowledges the owned metacommunication issue, and proposes a specific remedy. Examples include:

• pausing before responding
• summarizing the other person’s point before replying
• naming emotions instead of acting them out

Pat says whether they agree that Sam's metacommunication remedy is appropriate. If not, the conversation stays focused on refining the proposed remedy—not on who is right.

Then Pat goes through the same sequence: identifying their own metacommunication flaw, asking for agreement, proposing a remedy, and refining it collaboratively.

Through this process, the pair builds a shared metacommunication strategy—clear rules for how they will talk during disagreements. Research shows that explicit process agreements reduce escalation and increase perceived fairness (Burleson, 2010).

Step 4: Only Then Do You Address the Actual Issue

After completing the metacommunication phase, the participants choose one manageable problem to address. Using their agreed-upon metacommunication strategies, they work toward a solution.

If both are satisfied, they explicitly agree to the resolution and end the interaction. Closure matters; unresolved endings often lead to recurring arguments (Markman et al., 2010).

If other issues remain, they are addressed later—one at a time. Each new discussion begins anew with metacommunication, reinforcing and adjusting the process rules as needed.

Over time, this structured approach turns repetitive arguments into opportunities to strengthen both metacommunication and problem-solving. The goal shifts from winning to collaborating.

A Brief Example

Imagine a recurring conflict where:

• Sam feels Pat is always lecturing.
• Pat feels Sam never listens.

This dynamic often escalates: Pat explains more, Sam withdraws more, and both feel confirmed in their beliefs.

Using the metacommunication sequence, the conversation begins with process, not rebuttal.

Sam might say: “I notice that when conversations become detailed or directive, I experience them as lecturing. When that happens, I disengage. My flaw in the metacommunication process is that I don’t signal this early—I just shut down internally. Do you agree?”

This is an “I” statement: it focuses on personal experience, not blame (Gordon, 2003). Pat’s role is simply to say whether they agree that this pattern occurs.

Then Pat identifies their own metacommunication flaw: “When I feel unheard, I respond by explaining more forcefully and at greater length. I intend to clarify my needs, but I can see how it may feel like lecturing. Do you agree?”

Once both agree on the patterns, each proposes a remedy.

Sam’s metacommunication remedy: “I’ll try to signal earlier—by saying ‘I’m starting to feel overwhelmed’—and ask for pauses instead of withdrawing. Does that seem workable?”

Pat’s metacommunication remedy: “I’ll check in before continuing—by asking whether you want input or just to be heard—and I’ll limit myself to one point at a time. Does that work for you?”

This structured exchange creates a shared metacommunication plan that makes future disagreements more manageable.

At this point both parties are free to deal with the originally-targeted problem in a meta-communicatively rational manner. This then becomes a true test of each contributor’s willingness to give and take. If neither can compromise a bit, they must either agree to disagree. Or, more constructively, they can use their intellect singly and/or conjointly. to reach mutually acceptable accommodations.

                                                                          

References

 

Burleson, B. R. (2010). The nature of interpersonal communication: A message-centered approach. In C. R. Berger, M. E. Roloff, & D. R. Roskos-Ewoldsen (Eds.), The handbook of communication science (pp. 145–163). Sage.

Gottman, J. M., & Silver, N. (2015). The seven principles for making marriage work (revised ed.). Harmony Books.

Markman, H. J., Stanley, S. M., & Blumberg, S. L. (2010). Fighting for your marriage (3rd ed.). Jossey-Bass

McCusker, P. J.  (2025) Weaponized Communication: Improvised Explosive Devices.  Amazon.

Watzlawick, P., Bavelas, J. B., & Jackson, D. D. (1967). Pragmatics of human communication: A study of interactional patterns, pathologies, and paradoxes. Norton.

 

Losing Someone

You almost certainly  at some point, euphemistically have spoken of “losing” someone.  The expression implies that you had possessed that person, even if that person also possessed you. Especially when the loss is recent, the metaphor is quite apt. It implies that we very much would want to have that person again. But of course, repossessing them sometimes is impossible.  At one extreme, speaking un-euphemistically, that person literally is dead.  At the other extreme, the possibility of finding that person theoretically exists. but presumes  that they want to be found. For instance, if the lost person permanently, irrevocably “canceled” you, there is no possibility of reuniting. In that case, perhaps the old poetic expression that” it is better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all” might offer you some  conciliation.  If poetry is insufficient for you, what does current psychological research say about longing for someone lost.

Contemporary psychology treats longing not as a sentimental indulgence, but as a predictable, measurable, and often adaptive response to attachment disruption. Whether the loss is due to death, estrangement, or what we now describe as social cancellation, the same psychological machinery is activated. The form of the loss changes; the underlying processes do not.

From an attachment-theoretic perspective, longing is the cognitive-emotional residue of a bond that once regulated our sense of safety and meaning. Bowlby’s foundational work on attachment emphasized that humans do not simply grieve the absence of a person; they grieve the collapse of an attachment system that previously organized emotion, behavior, and expectation (Bowlby, 1980). In this view, longing is not pathological by default. It is the mind’s attempt to restore coherence after the sudden or ambiguous removal of a central figure.

Modern empirical work has refined this idea. Neuroimaging studies suggest that longing activates reward and motivation circuits similar to those involved in craving, particularly dopaminergic pathways associated with anticipation and pursuit (O’Connor et al., 2008). This helps explain why longing can feel both painful and compelling. The mind continues to “search” for the lost person, even when consciously we know the search is futile. In cases of death, this pursuit gradually extinguishes. In cases of social rupture—ghosting, estrangement, or cancellation—it often does not.

This distinction matters. Pauline Boss’s concept of ambiguous loss captures why some losses are harder to metabolize than others (Boss, 2016). When a person is physically absent but psychologically present—as in estrangement or cancellation—the loss resists closure. There is no funeral, no culturally sanctioned endpoint. Longing persists because the attachment system never receives definitive confirmation that reunion is impossible. In fact, intermittent cues—memories, social media traces, mutual acquaintances—may repeatedly reactivate hope, even when reunion is not desired by the other party.

What, then, of the old claim that it is better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all? Research offers a qualified endorsement. Longitudinal studies on close relationships suggest that deep attachments, even when lost, are associated with greater long-term meaning-making and narrative coherence than a life characterized by emotional avoidance (Wrosch et al., 2007).

However, this benefit depends on one’s capacity to integrate the loss into a revised self-concept. When longing becomes fused with rumination—endless counterfactuals, imagined dialogues, or moral scorekeeping—it predicts poorer mental health outcomes, including depression and complicated grief (Nolen-Hoeksema et al., 2008).

Importantly, current psychology does not advise the eradication of longing. Rather, it emphasizes transformation. Adaptive coping involves shifting from a reunion-oriented longing (“If only they would come back”) to a meaning-oriented longing (“What did this bond make possible in me?”). Research on post-loss growth indicates that individuals who can reframe longing as evidence of their capacity for attachment—rather than as proof of deprivation—fare better over time (Neimeyer, 2019).

In the context of modern social life, this has unsettling implications. Cancellation and abrupt relational severance exploit vulnerabilities in the attachment system while denying the rituals that help resolve loss. The longing that follows is not weakness; it is the predictable cost of having once been emotionally invested. Psychological health, then, does not lie in pretending the loss did not matter, but in refusing to let longing dictate the terms of one’s future agency.

So, you might ask one last time whether it is better to have loved and lost? The research, I conclude, is this: loving and losing expands the emotional range of a life, but only if longing is eventually integrated rather than endlessly rehearsed. Longing tells the truth about what mattered. Wisdom lies not in silencing it, but in deciding what we do with the truth once we hear it.

Since each person is unique, you never will be able to “find” a permanently ”lost” person, or any single person to replace them. However, there are ways to cope. One strategy is to think about what that person provided for you. And to think about it very concretely and segmentally. They may have been a person with whom you had a meal, a walk, a discussion, or a project. Any conjoint, lost, valued engagement is a possible candidate. Having done that, set about—as best you can—to find a collection of “compensatory” people. Each of them might fill one  or more of your lost interpersonal benefits. That’s one possible way to cope with an irretrievable loss.

Psychological research supports this intuitively pragmatic approach. When we decompose a lost relationship into its functional components, we reduce the tendency to globalize the loss into something total and irreplaceable. Studies on coping and adjustment consistently show that people fare better when they shift from person-focused rumination (“only they could do this”) to function-focused substitution (“this need can be met in multiple ways”) (Wrosch et al., 2007). This is not denial of uniqueness; it is acknowledgment of psychological pluralism. One person cannot be replaced, but many of the relational goods they provided can be distributed across multiple relationships.

From an attachment standpoint, this strategy works because attachment systems are more flexible than our grief initially suggests. While a specific bond may be irretrievable, the underlying needs for connection, validation, shared activity, and meaning remain viable and responsive to new inputs (Bowlby, 1980). Importantly, this does not require emotional amnesia. Longing may persist, but it becomes less monopolizing when daily life once again contains moments of shared engagement.

This is particularly relevant in cases of ambiguous or socially imposed loss, such as permanent estrangement or cancellation. In such situations, the mind often waits—implicitly—for moral repair or reconciliation that never comes. Segmenting what was lost allows agency to re-enter the picture. Rather than waiting to be “found” again, one begins actively rebuilding a workable interpersonal ecology (Boss, 2016). The question subtly changes from Why did this happen to me? to What kind of relational life can I now construct, given what I know I value?

In that sense, coping with loss is less about closure than about reorganization. The goal is not to stop caring, nor to retroactively judge the love as a mistake, but to let the evidence of that love guide future decisions. Longing, then, becomes informational rather than paralyzing. It tells us what mattered—and therefore what is worth seeking again, albeit in altered form.

References

Boss, P. (2016). The context and process of theory development: The story of ambiguous loss. Journal of Family Theory & Review, 8(3), 269–286. https://doi.org/10.1111/jftr.12152

Bowlby, J. (1980). Attachment and loss: Vol. 3. Loss: Sadness and depression. Basic Books.

Neimeyer, R. A. (2019). Meaning reconstruction in bereavement: Development of a research program. Death Studies, 43(2), 79–91. https://doi.org/10.1080/07481187.2018.1456620

Nolen-Hoeksema, S., Wisco, B. E., & Lyubomirsky, S. (2008). Rethinking rumination. Perspectives on Psychological Science, 3(5), 400–424. https://doi.org/10.1111/j.1745-6924.2008.00088.x

O’Connor, M. F., Wellisch, D. K., Stanton, A. L., Eisenberger, N. I., Irwin, M. R., & Lieberman, M. D. (2008). Craving love? Enduring grief activates brain’s reward center. NeuroImage, 42(2), 969–972. https://doi.org/10.1016/j.neuroimage.2008.04.256

Wrosch, C., Bauer, I., Miller, G. E., & Lupien, S. (2007). Regret intensity, diurnal cortisol secretion, and physical health in older individuals: Evidence for directional effects and protective factors. Psychology and Aging, 22(2), 319–330. https://doi.org/10.1037/0882-7974.22.2.319