How to change your mind
Brick by brick. Conversation by conversation. Book by book.
I used to think I knew myself inside and out. I had everything figured out—all my beliefs, opinions, likes, and dislikes set firmly in stone. Unchangeable. A monolith of me, looming resolute against the vastness of the universe.
But lately, I'm not so sure.
Have you ever looked at your reflection in a funhouse mirror? The way it warps and distorts your familiar face into something almost unrecognisable? I feel like that's been happening in my mind. My surefooted stances are wavering like a tower of Jenga blocks, teetering precariously with each new thought and experience.
They say the only constant in life is change. I used to scoff at that cliché, but now I'm starting to appreciate the wisdom behind the tired phrase. Our minds aren't meant to be stagnant pools—they're rivers, constantly flowing and shifting course as the landscape transforms around us. New ideas erode old beliefs, and fresh perspectives fill spaces we didn't even realise were hollow.
I think about who I was ten years ago—that skinny, stubborn, know-it-all boy who saw the world in stark black and white. She was so certain of her rightness, wielding her opinions like a sword to cut down anyone who dared to disagree. I barely recognise him now. The muted greys and iridescent colours have slowly seeped in, painting over that simplistic picture. Monochrome to rich, messy rainbow - how did I get from there to here?
Brick by brick. Conversation by conversation. Book by book.
Opening my mind has been like opening the windows in a musty room—uncomfortable at first as the fresh breeze sweeps away the stale air. But then, slowly, the space starts to breathe again. Somewhere along the way, I began to relish that rush of new ideas—the thrill of shedding old assumptions like snakeskin to make space for growth.
I'm still learning the art of truly listening. It's so easy to fall into the trap of waiting for your turn to speak, letting the other person's words drift past your ears without truly absorbing them as you mentally rehearse your counterarguments. But when I can quell that instinct, sit in the discomfort of a challenging thought and turn it over and over until the edges soften—that's when the magic happens. That's when I felt myself stretching beyond what I thought I knew.
Changing your mind isn't a sign of weakness; it's a mark of strength. It takes courage to admit that you might have been wrong and to release your white-knuckled grip on a belief that no longer serves you. There's a distinct vulnerability in allowing yourself to be swayed and acknowledging that you don't have all the answers.
But the wonders await on that vulnerability's other side—the dizzying realisations, the deepened empathy, and the unexpected kinship with those you once saw as adversaries.
Changing your mind is like trading a scratched-up pair of glasses for a crystal-clear new set of lenses—suddenly, the world becomes sharper, revealing details you never even knew you were missing.
I'm still learning, growing, and unlearning the habits of a once-rigid mind. But I'm starting to revel in the uncertainty, to find a strange comfort in the knowledge that I'll never be finished evolving. There's a liberation in admitting that I'm a work in progress, an unfinished piece constantly being revised and refined.
So, here's to the journey of changing our minds—may we always keep the wonder of discovering new pieces of ourselves and the world around us. Let's keep our minds open and our curiosity aflame. Because, in the end, Arcade Fire had it right all along—"If you want to be righteous, get in line."
