On Criticism, Perspective, and the Freedom to Think: A Philosopher’s Journey

There was a time in my life when I was utterly imprisoned by the perceptions of others. I couldn’t breathe freely unless I knew I was liked. I couldn’t exist fully unless I felt approved of. The weight of another’s judgment bore down on me like an invisible shackle, and I bent myself into impossible shapes just to be accepted. I feared being hated, criticised, misunderstood—and I would do almost anything to appease someone I viewed as a threat to my emotional security. It was exhausting, not just physically, but spiritually.

But somewhere along the way, amidst the pain and the emotional upheaval, a singular thought kept returning like a gentle bell in the distance: people will hate you regardless. Even if you do everything right, even if you strip yourself of all malice and approach the world with softness, someone will misread you. Someone will take offence. Someone will decide you’re wrong.g

It was in my mid-twenties that this realisation took root—not as a fleeting idea, but as an epiphany. I began to understand that reality isn’t fixed. There’s what I see, what you see, and then there’s what really happened—something we may never fully access. Much of life, it seems, unfolds through subjective lenses. We don’t see things as they are, but as we are. And this alone reshaped how I viewed criticism and even myself.

People interpret the world according to what they’ve been conditioned to believe, what they hope to find, and what their internal narratives demand. We think we’re being rational, but really, we’re often just reinforcing our own biases, our familiar pain, or our need to be right. Once I understood this, I felt no urgency to prove myself to anyone who wasn’t truly listening. If someone doesn't have the emotional, mental, or spiritual capacity to understand where I’m coming from, I no longer see that as a failure on my part. I am not here to contort myself for palatability. I am not clay for other people’s moulds.

Of course, I still value the opinions of a select few—those whose insights are thoughtful, grounded, and sincere. But even then, I take it all with a pinch of salt. No one can live inside my mind, nor should they try to govern it. There is something liberating in knowing that I do not owe every explanation to those who’ve already decided not to understand me. That kind of freedom, once tasted, is not something you easily relinquish.

As I began to embrace Stoicism, I found a sturdy framework for this inner transformation. The Stoic emphasis on accepting what lies beyond our control, while mastering the realm of our own thoughts and values, felt intuitively right to me. It helped me detach, not with bitterness, but with clarity. It gave me the space to think and write more freely, with courage and depth. And it deepened my creative voice.

I no longer write to appease. I write to reveal. To excavate the uncomfortable truths that many would rather keep buried. And yes, sometimes that provokes resistance. There’s a tension I feel when I release a piece that isn’t palatable to the average reader, especially those reading through a biased lens, unwilling to ask why I wrote something the way I did. But there’s also a quiet intensity in the act of breaking through that bias, of making someone pause and reconsider what they once held as gospel. That is the writer’s high: not applause, but awakening.

I still keep parts of myself private. I believe it is sacred to have thoughts that belong only to you. What is the point of a mind if every corner is exposed to public scrutiny? But what I do share—what I do give voice to—is fiercely honest. It is the product of deep thought, rigorous self-questioning, and the decision to live on my own terms.

I suppose what I’ve learned, more than anything, is this: it is not enough to believe something. You must understand why you believe it. Only then does your belief carry the weight of evidence and conviction. Only then can you meet the world with a mind that is not afraid to stand alone.