Foolishness of Being Human

A light column

There are days when I'm convinced that the greatest renewable resource on Earth isn't solar power, wind energy, or even the optimism of start‑up founders. No—it's the human capacity to forget something I just explained five minutes ago.

And I say that with love. Deep, pedagogical love.

Because I teach this topic—this one topic—to so many people, in so many slightly different situations, that I've begun to suspect the universe is running a cosmic experiment. Perhaps somewhere, in a distant galactic laboratory, an alien sociologist is taking notes:

But here's the thing: I've come to adore this cycle. There's a kind of sacred rhythm to it. Every new learner arrives with the same hopeful sparkle in their eyes, the same determination, the same belief that this time they will grasp it instantly. And every time, without fail, we end up in the same place:

"Could you explain that again, but… differently?"

Of course I can. I have explained it differently so many times that I now have a personal internal menu:

• The Gentle Version

• The Dramatic Version

• The Version With Farm Animals

• The Version That Accidentally Becomes a Therapy Session

• The Version That Uses a Metaphor I Immediately Regret

And yet, despite the repetition, despite the déjà vu so strong it should count as a superpower, I never get tired of it. Because this is the good kind of human foolishness—the kind that keeps us curious, keeps us humble, keeps us learning.

We forget. We misunderstand. We ask again.

And again.

And again.

And somehow, in that repetition, something beautiful happens: people grow. Not in a straight line, but in loops, spirals, and occasional faceplants. It's messy, it's imperfect, and it's absolutely magnificent.

So yes, I teach the same thing endlessly. And yes, humanity's charming inability to absorb it on the first try might be setting world records.

But honestly?

I wouldn't trade this glorious, cyclical foolishness for anything. It's the most human thing we do—and the reason teaching never gets old.