I’m not a fan of false binaries.
“Both things can be true at the same time,” I say this a lot. My family has heard it so many times that they can probably finish the sentence in their heads before I’ve completed it.
Sometimes I’m making a point. Sometimes I’m just being a smartass — usually in response to something like, “Am I crazy, or does this…?”
Either way, the statement’s truth remains.
I started writing this post yesterday morning. I wrote several paragraphs about false binaries after returning from the gym. The spark came to me on the treadmill while listening to The Race to Build God: AI’s Existential Gamble — Yoshua Bengio & Tristan Harris at Davos.
Sitting here this morning, I can’t remember what was said that made me want to pause the podcast and leave myself a voice note. And I can’t remember the emotion I was feeling in that moment either.
And now I find that a bit troubling.
Conversations With Real Humans
Andy Chaleff called me late yesterday afternoon. I left him a comment on LinkedIn earlier in the day. He had posted another beautifully written piece titled “The Intimacy of Inequality,” and I couldn’t resist telling him how much I enjoy his words.
He had never called me before. But it felt like he had. It was a wonderful, agenda-free conversation. Just two humans getting to know each other better. Free-flowing, kind, open, honest.
Eventually, the conversation shifted to my own writing and the struggles I have with it. Andy admitted he had not read much of my writing, and he told me why by not directly telling me why.
Instead, he told me about how he approaches his own writing. And I may get this part wrong, but this is what I heard. When he felt like he was writing too rationally, when it felt like he was trying too hard to convince someone of something, he knew he was headed in the wrong direction. People don’t connect to rational arguments.
I got it right away. I’m trying too hard to make arguments. He hadn’t read my writing because it was coming too much from my head and not enough from my heart. Again, he didn’t say that directly, but that’s what I heard.
He’s not the first human to tell me I needed to stop trying so hard. Peter Brewer attempted to tell me the same thing back in August of last year. It’s a text string I’ve kept to read back to myself when I’m feeling like I shouldn’t hit publish.
I told him then, “One of the things I loved about your book was the level of transparency and vulnerability you were able to muster. I am sure I feel it more because of our relationship, but I’m also certain that even people who’ve never met you will feel it and appreciate it. I struggle with that.”
I still struggle with that.
The Note I Should Have Left Myself
I’ve started testing a new tool from Every called Monologue. It’s a voice note app that I’m really enjoying. It took almost two minutes of my treadmill rambling and turned it into the following:
Central Argument: Many issues are presented in “harsh black and white tones” when, in reality, most things exist in a “grayscale” or “in between.”
Key Phrase: “Both things can be true at the same time.”
Motivation & Context
- Current Environment: The prevalence of social media and the rapid spread of “rage” have diminished our ability to identify false binaries.
- Need for Skill Development: It’s crucial to “exercise” and develop the “muscles” needed to recognize these false dichotomies.
- Human Element: Part of being human involves understanding that “two things can be true at the same time.”
Blog Post Goal: To encourage readers to critically evaluate information and resist simplistic, either/or presentations of complex issues.
It’s accurate, organized, and just what I want from a note-taking app. And what’s missing from these notes has nothing to do with the software. It has to do with me.
Where’s The Emotion?
You know what I failed to capture?
How I was feeling in the moment.
I clearly felt the topic was important enough to stop the podcast and leave myself a note. Important enough to write about. Why didn’t I think it was worth checking with my emotions in that moment? Why didn’t I think it was important to listen to my body, or to express into the microphone what caused me to take the action? What connected with me so powerfully in that moment? What was I really responding to in that moment?
Those moments are fleeting. That’s why I try to capture them. But it has passed now.
And here I sit, writing, and I can’t tell you what I felt in that moment.
Humaneering Me
I’m a better speaker than I am a writer. I think I know why.
When I’m on stage, I let my guard down. I’m very comfortable on a stage. I embrace the energy of the crowd and connect with them. Of course, I have a very specific plan for the presentation’s flow, but I often say things completely off the cuff in front of a crowd.
There’s no time to edit myself.
I’m more spontaneous.
I’m more connected to the moment.
And I believe that’s the energy I need to bring to my writing. Only, rather than being connected to an audience, I need to connect with myself. And share more of me.
I Should Be Better Than A Bot
I could give you a simple prompt to take to ChatGPT, Claude, or Gemini, and you’d get a pretty damn good argument for why you need to fight false binaries, to critically evaluate information, and resist simplistic, either/or presentations of complex issues. The AI response might even be better thought out than my arguments. In truth, it’s likely. And more likely with each new model release.
But it wouldn’t be connected to a real human emotion or grounded in a real human experience.
Am I crazy, or does this post feel grounded in a real human experience?
Both things can be true at the same time.
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