Five Things I Was Wrong About (Until I Was Right)

The truth matters. But I’ve learned that getting to it usually means being wrong first. And being wrong—really wrong—is the best way to figure out what’s actually right.

Because of that, I don’t get too attached to what I believe—just to the idea that it was the best information I had at the time.

So, in the spirit of being wrong before you can be right, here are five things I’ve changed my mind about… until new information proves me wrong—making me right all over again.

All Information Is Good Information.

I find comfort in information. I make decisions based on information. So the more I know, the better—right?

No.

For the longest time, I believed that more knowledge always meant better understanding, better decisions, a better me. But I learned the hard way that too much of certain types of information is bad for our brains.

Constant exposure to distressing content—whether through words or video—does a few things:

Chronic stress can be triggered by too much distressing content. Your brain reacts as if you’re in real danger, keeping you stuck in a low-level fight-or-flight state.

Constant exposure to distressing content doesn’t just make us more aware—it changes how our brains process the world. The more we see suffering we can’t change, the more our brains register it as unsolvable. It's learned helplessness, and over time, this can lead to emotional fatigue, making it harder to engage—not just with that issue, but with everything.

Negativity bias is reinforced by consuming too much bad news. Our brains are already wired to react more strongly to threats than positive experiences. If you keep feeding it distressing information, you train it to expect and focus on the worst.

Some people become numb, while others develop addiction-like behaviour. While some shut out bad news entirely, others compulsively seek more of it—even when they know it makes them feel worse.

Emotional regulation is also affected. Chronic exposure to distressing content impacts the prefrontal cortex, making people more reactive, more impulsive, and less able to process things with nuance.

Bo Burnham says it best

I don’t believe we should ever allow ourselves to become desensitised to the very real horrors of the world. To make sure that doesn’t happen, and this might sound counterintuitive, we have to limit how much of the horror we absorb.

That doesn’t mean ignoring the problems, or the suffering of others. It means being intentional—knowing how it’s affecting you so you can engage appropriately.

And it’s worth mentioning—just as too much bad news can warp your perspective, bad information can do the same. Misinformation isn’t just useless—it’s dangerous and damaging. And it’s not always obvious. We all like to think we’re smart enough to spot it, but you only know when you know. You know?

Unless we’re willing to do significant work to separate the good from the garbage, maybe it’s time to just consume less.

...And that’s not all I’ve changed my mind about.

Being Liked Is Important.

I am pretty unlikeable.

And by that, I mean that these days I don’t feel the same urge to perform social niceties as I used to.

I’m very aware of the little prisons we can build for ourselves, and British society, with its obsession with politeness and “being nice,” is one of them. We’ve reduced politeness to never disagreeing, never making anyone uncomfortable—and that’s bullshit.

Discomfort is necessary.

Niceness is often confused with kindness, but they’re not the same. Niceness is surface-level—about approval, about avoiding conflict. Kindness is deeper—it’s about caring, and sometimes caring means letting situations, and people, be uncomfortable.

How many times have you watched someone say something awful—racist, sexist, whatever—and the person calling it out gets told they’re being rude?
Not the person who said the awful thing, but the person who dared to challenge it (It’s me. I’m that person.) That’s how I know niceness isn’t about morality—it’s about obedience.

Niceness keeps power structures intact without anyone having to look like the bad guy. It’s why many of the most harmful people are often the most charming or the most innocuous—never calling things out. Laughing along and moving on. And it’s why the expectation to ‘just be nice’ usually serves those in power more than those who need actual kindness.

P.S. Everyone needs therapy. You too.

Rationality Will Prevail.

I used to believe this. I thought that if we just waited long enough, common sense would win out. But I’ve let go of that idea.

Humans react to what feels scary, not what is actually dangerous. If something has been normalised, we see it as safe by default. If something is new or unfamiliar, we panic—until it feels normal. Governments don’t just create these conditions; they are shaped by them.

In 2025, we seem especially resistant to inconvenience. Many don’t see certain risks as severe enough to justify change. Habit, muscle memory, and the pull of social conformity keep people locked into routines, even when the risks are obvious. Governments, instead of implementing necessary policies, often avoid common-sense changes to keep voters happy. And people? We’re terrible at long-term thinking—short-term discomfort is almost always prioritised, with problems kicked down the road for our future selves to deal with.

We also misunderstand probability. A small percentage of a huge number is still a huge number—which is why policies based on individual risk perception often fail. At a personal level, we get risk assessment wrong all the time. We panic over small, visible risks, like a 0.3% vaccine side effect, but barely register the much greater but familiar risks, like the daily dangers of driving. The difference? What feels immediate and what feels normal. That’s why flying feels scarier than driving, even though statistically, driving is far more dangerous.

People also trust their gut over data. If they’ve texted while driving and survived, they assume the risk is overblown. If they’ve had COVID and were fine, they believe that will always be the case.

And people don’t just trust their own gut—they trust other people's guts too. Herd mentality is very real, and it’s making us dumber, both collectively and individually.

What Doesn't Kill You Makes You Stronger - Immune System Edition.

I grew up hearing the same old wives’ tales as everyone else—"Feed a cold, starve a fever," "Being cold gives you a cold," "You lose most of your body heat through your head."

One of the most persistent myths? That getting sick repeatedly is how you "train" your immune system. I believed that too, until I got more accurate information.

The immune system isn’t a muscle you bulk up through suffering. It’s a complex defence system that works best when it’s not constantly under attack. Even the most hardened gym-goers don’t do leg day every day.

Here’s the reality:

Illness doesn’t inherently strengthen the immune system—it challenges it. An infection might provide temporary immunity to a specific virus or strain, but not all viruses behave the same way.

• Rhinoviruses (which cause around 50% of common colds) have over 160 distinct strains, making reinfection possible within weeks or months, especially when exposed to a different strain
• Flu, RSV, and COVID offer some short-term immunity, but this fades within a few months to a year. However, frequent mutations can lead to reinfection even before immunity fully wanes, particularly with flu and COVID.
• Chickenpox can provide lasting immunity, but the virus that causes it—varicella-zoster—hides in your nerves, potentially reactivating decades later and leading to the universally acknowledged shit time that is shingles.

So, being ill doesn’t automatically grant future protection—immunity depends on the virus, the severity of infection, and individual immune response. Frequent or severe illness stresses the body, leading to chronic inflammation and long-term damage.

And some viruses don’t just challenge the immune system—they actively weaken it. HIV is the most well-known example, directly attacking immune cells, but measles wipes immune memory, erasing years of acquired responses to previously encountered pathogens. COVID doesn’t erase memory but can cause immune dysregulation, leading to long-term dysfunction in some people—such as increased susceptibility to other pathogens, chronic inflammation, or autoimmune issues.

Then there’s bacteria. Unlike some viruses, most bacterial infections don’t trigger strong or lasting immunity. That’s why you had strep throat two hundred times as a kid—Group A Strep doesn’t trigger strong immunity. It’s also why urinary tract infections (often caused by E. coli) tend to recur—bacteria can persist, and immunity against them is weak.

So my question is: what exactly is being 'strengthened'? Other than your ability to suffer.

Of course, you can’t avoid every pathogen, but getting sick all the time isn’t boosting your immune system the way you think it is. If anything, it’s wearing it down.

If repeated illness truly made the immune system stronger—like lifting weights does for your arms—humans would be immunologically jacked by age eight. Teachers and doctors would be immortal. And yet, they still get sick—because that’s not how immunity works.

I’ll leave you with one of my favourite XKCD comics, which sums it all up in two stick men and twenty-two and a half words.

Socialising Is Inherent To Humans, And That Means Going To Dinner Parties, Heading To The Pub, And Having Loads Of Friends.

We’ve all heard the saying: "The loneliest I’ve ever been is when I was surrounded by other people."

Because socialising isn’t the same as connecting.

Twenty superficial conversations on a night out don’t equal one meaningful conversation where you feel truly understood, inspired, or seen. And the way we socialise? It’s largely dictated by capitalism. It’s not 'spend time with other people'—it’s 'spend time with other people while spending money.

And we don’t just apply this to ourselves—we force kids into it, too.

We act like socialisation and socialising are the same thing. That for kids to be socialised they must be exposed to large groups, structured activities, outside the home. We panic if a kid prefers their own company, or if they’re more comfortable one-on-one than in a crowd. But being around people isn’t the same as learning how to relate to them.

Being forced into group settings doesn’t really teach social skills—it teaches survival skills. How to perform, how to adapt, how to blend in. But real social skills? How to build relationships, how to navigate conflict, how to actually connect? Those don’t come from just being in a room with a lot of other people.

Not all social experiences are positive. If a child is surrounded by peers who exclude, ridicule, or ignore them—if they’re constantly misunderstood or exposed to things that harm them—that’s not ‘healthy socialisation.’ That’s just learning how to be lonely in a crowd.

Maybe we’d all be a little better at socialising if we weren’t taught from childhood that it’s about quantity over quality. That our emotional wellbeing and safety are just as important as having friends.

Personally, I don’t thrive in large groups or busy spaces. I also don’t always have the energy for in-person activities. For me, connecting over messages or a phone call is, more often than not, just as meaningful, more meaningful even—but people who prefer these quieter ways of socialising are often labelled anti-social. It's seen as unhealthy.

For many, the need to socialise isn’t as strong as the need to avoid being alone. And let’s be clear: being alone isn’t the same as loneliness. But maybe silence and ‘boredom’ feel terrifying because they force introspection. Self-reflection. Sitting with yourself without distraction. And that’s when the real shit bubbles up—the thoughts and feelings we’d rather drown out with background noise, busy schedules, and obligatory small talk.

But if connection is the goal, why does it have to look a certain way? Why is a night at the pub seen as inherently more ‘real’ than a long, meandering voice note exchange? Why does choosing solitude sometimes feel like a confession? Maybe the problem is that we’ve been taught connection only counts when it looks a certain way.

And maybe we cling to certain things simply because we’ve never really examined them. Maybe being wrong isn’t failure—it’s just proof we’ve started asking the right questions.

Thanks for reading. I appreciate you being here.

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