My love affair with psychology started at a young age. I was all but eight years old; it was two years my elder, that book of black-and-white optical illusions. We met at a book fair, where I handed the cashier two crisp dollar bills, my soft and tender hands already reaching out for what I had decided was infinitely better than every other book underneath the gazebo's roof.
It was the most magical object in my house. In inclement weather, I invariably reached for the comfort of its pages. It was a great heavy book, the sort which you would expect to cost twenty dollars or more, not two. The cover's silver embossing that used to read "Now You See it, Now You Don't" now read "N w ou See t, ow You Do 't." But while the letters outside may have been fading, I only had eyes for the wonders which lay inside.
Pupils widening over the illustrations within, I marveled at Muller-Lyon lines. How was it possible that I had believed with such conviction that the line on top was longer than the line beneath it, but upon measuring them both, found them to be exactly the same length? If anything, I thought my own brain could be trusted to make a simple observation.
Ten years have passed since I first encountered those lines that confounded and confused me. I have since made a hundred thousand more erroneous judgments, many of which were followed by should-have-would-have-could-have statements tinged with hindsight bias. ("I knew I should have bought the dark chocolate instead of the milk chocolate." "I knew I should have waited for the M train instead of walking to the bus stop." "I knew I should have trusted my instincts; if I had just picked my favorite number, I would now be the sole winner of the California Super Five Lotto.")
There's no telling what makes my brain works the way it does, in part because psychology offers too many answers to ever sift through completely. The answers belong to over a dozen different schools of psychology, each providing plenty of food for thought. I like thinking, and I like the thought that for as many hours I spend picking apart the musings of Freud, Beck, or Rogers, I will never fully comprehend all there is to know, as psychology branches out to all other disciplines that somehow collide together to provide infinite answers for the most basic questions about human existence.
Being completed baffled by optical illusions is still a hobby of mine, but I now spend nights by indulging in the musings of Malcolm Gladwell and Carol Dweck. Reading about the workings of the human mind, I am in a state of flow, the same feeling artists have when they sweep a brush across a fresh canvas. It is the feeling of being stretched, mixed with a heady dose of utter and sheer contentment. Each time I grasp a new concept that answers ten other questions about life, I am elated. So until a credentialed scientist declares the meaning of human existence to be forty-two, indeed, my love for psychology continues unabated.
It was the most magical object in my house. In inclement weather, I invariably reached for the comfort of its pages. It was a great heavy book, the sort which you would expect to cost twenty dollars or more, not two. The cover's silver embossing that used to read "Now You See it, Now You Don't" now read "N w ou See t, ow You Do 't." But while the letters outside may have been fading, I only had eyes for the wonders which lay inside.
Pupils widening over the illustrations within, I marveled at Muller-Lyon lines. How was it possible that I had believed with such conviction that the line on top was longer than the line beneath it, but upon measuring them both, found them to be exactly the same length? If anything, I thought my own brain could be trusted to make a simple observation.
Ten years have passed since I first encountered those lines that confounded and confused me. I have since made a hundred thousand more erroneous judgments, many of which were followed by should-have-would-have-could-have statements tinged with hindsight bias. ("I knew I should have bought the dark chocolate instead of the milk chocolate." "I knew I should have waited for the M train instead of walking to the bus stop." "I knew I should have trusted my instincts; if I had just picked my favorite number, I would now be the sole winner of the California Super Five Lotto.")
There's no telling what makes my brain works the way it does, in part because psychology offers too many answers to ever sift through completely. The answers belong to over a dozen different schools of psychology, each providing plenty of food for thought. I like thinking, and I like the thought that for as many hours I spend picking apart the musings of Freud, Beck, or Rogers, I will never fully comprehend all there is to know, as psychology branches out to all other disciplines that somehow collide together to provide infinite answers for the most basic questions about human existence.
Being completed baffled by optical illusions is still a hobby of mine, but I now spend nights by indulging in the musings of Malcolm Gladwell and Carol Dweck. Reading about the workings of the human mind, I am in a state of flow, the same feeling artists have when they sweep a brush across a fresh canvas. It is the feeling of being stretched, mixed with a heady dose of utter and sheer contentment. Each time I grasp a new concept that answers ten other questions about life, I am elated. So until a credentialed scientist declares the meaning of human existence to be forty-two, indeed, my love for psychology continues unabated.
