Tag: wisdom

The Age of Performed Identity.

How much of our lives have we spent trying to be something—or someone—we’re not?  It is one thing to pursue growth, to refine our character, and to enrich our inner life, yet it is quite another to adopt a false identity for the sake of impressing others, whether for money, status, or the fleeting approval of strangers, family, and acquaintances.

Lately, it seems that the art of pretending has become a widespread habit, a kind of cultural contagion.  Over the past decade especially, I’ve watched this phenomenon snowball.  It has become easier and fiendishly tempting to put on a polished façade while abandoning genuineness, humility, and empathy.  Social media, with its curated illusions and endless opportunities for self‑promotion and keyboard commandos, has been the chief purveyor of these false faces.

And how easy it is.

In a world moving at swift speed, the pressure to perform seems to be ceaseless.  Some people feel compelled to reinvent themselves for every audience, to appear more educated, more virtuous, more high class, more enlightened than they truly are.  Some people, unfortunately, strain to become the moral authority in every conversation, to project wisdom they have not earned, and to cloak their insecurity in a thin veil of false humility.  Some people invent and re-invent their live story continuously.

It must be exhausting.  From my vantage point, watching someone puff himself up by preaching from an imaginary pulpit, presenting himself as all‑knowing while sprinkling in counterfeit modesty, or looking down their nose at others, is a disheartening sight.  There is nothing admirable in self‑inflation or pretend self-deflation.  It does not elevate a person; it exposes him.  False humility serves only the ego.  It leaves no room to serve God, despite all their claims of “thanking God everyday” for such-and-such.  It comes across Pharisee-like when you know their true history and that they are putting on a public show.

Putting on an act for selfish gain is, at its core, a fabrication of the truth.  Duplicity demands constant maintenance, and after a while, there is so much maintenance that fabrication becomes sloppier and sloppier.  One must remember every false detail with perfect precision just to keep the fiction intact, and that’s the hard labor one has to do for a hollow reward in the prison of their mind’s fantasy.

It is far better to remember that the one thing you can do better than anyone else is to be yourself.  Of course, one could make the argument that being phony for some people is “being themselves.  Yet there is less work and stress to admit one’s true self and not make up stories to impress an audience.  Or in one case, I have seen one person who has shared his childhood as first “middle class,” then defined it as “not quite middle class,” to the sad Dickensian tale of “being poor.”  Is that the “fake it until you make it” mantra at work, or the pretend “rags to riches” story?  I won’t bother to hazard a guess.  All I can say is I have little regard for counterfeits.

The world does not need more people parroting platitudes or mimicking the latest persona.  It needs more of the original, the sincere, the unvarnished.  Pretending to be someone else is not only dishonest because it is truly a quiet betrayal of your own dignity.

As we step into another day, we should do so with sober eyes and clear hearts.  Remember who you really are beneath the noise and the pressure, and do not compromise that reality.  Be honest, be considerate, and be grounded in your principles.  Respect yourself and extend that respect to others.

 

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Leaving the Secular Carousel.

A Reflection on the Gradual Reordering of My Life

Over these many, many years as I have been becoming more and more serious about my Catholic faith, I have noticed a remarkable change in myself—one that has unfolded slowly, almost imperceptibly at first, but unmistakably over the last fifteen years or so.  In this article, I write about how the secular world has been shrinking in my life, not out of disdain for the people in it, but because its offerings no longer nourish me.  I have been moving away from many secular things, both by deliberate choice and by the quiet providence of circumstance.  What once occupied my time, my attention, even my imagination, now feels strangely distant, as though it belonged to someone else’s life.

In my youth, I wasn’t a fan of modern music, particularly rock and roll.  But in my sophomore year, one morning while getting ready for school, I tuned into the local rock radio station to find out what the current music fad was all about.  My friends were into that music, and I didn’t want to be left out of conversations.  It felt harmless enough—just a way to fit in, to understand what everyone else seemed to enjoy.

Over the years, my taste in music expanded to that genre, though it never went into grunge or the harsher styles that followed.  But now, even that earlier music has become distasteful to me. The beat and melody might still be attractive, but the lyrics—so often vulgar, suggestive, or simply empty—are sickening.  That’s what gets people hooked: catchy rhythms and memorable musical notes.  The lyrics are an afterthought, or worse, a poison pill wrapped in sugar. I find myself wondering why I ever tolerated it, let alone enjoyed it.

The same goes for television programs.  I didn’t grow up in a house where the television was constantly on.  Until age sixteen or so, television was rare—a special thing to watch, almost an event.  But then something shifted, and before long meaningless programs like Happy Days, Laverne and Shirley, Three’s Company, WKRP, and various variety shows were playing regularly in our home.  Looking back, I am appalled that I allowed myself to waste time on such trivia: scantily clad people, taking God’s name in vain, sexual innuendo, name-calling, yelling, and cheap, vulgar laughs.  I don’t even find those programs funny or edifying now.  The detective and cop shows might have been tolerable—good guys catching bad guys—but even those were repetitive, predictable, and shallow.  And for what?  To kill time in the evening?  Why did I watch that garbage when I could have been reading good books, learning something worthwhile, or helping around the house?

Unfortunately, I was in a marriage once many moons ago where the television dominated the household the moment he walked through the door.  It stayed on until bedtime, a constant drone that filled every corner of the evening.  And even then, the bedroom television (yes, the senseless bedroom television) often blared until 11:30 PM.  That kind of environment was never for me.  I complained, he questioned why I wouldn’t watch because I’d have to have something to talk about at work in the morning with my co-workers.  I replied that I talked to my co-workers about work, not some stupid television program; that’s what I was paid for— work!  I tried to carve out pockets of quiet, busying myself with anything that felt less corrosive, but the noise was relentless, and the contrast between what I longed for and what surrounded me grew sharper with time.

Now that I have been away from television entirely for a good eighteen years, I don’t miss any part of it.  I couldn’t tell you what the latest shows are, or even if there are any worthwhile.  Yes, I still own a television, and I’ve used it to stream old movies from time to time, but even that has gone by the wayside for Lent this year, and I may not return to it afterward.  I don’t miss it.  I don’t crave it.  Its absence feels like fresh air.

And then there is social media—another thorn I am trying to remove.  It is astonishing how easily it lures, distracts, and scatters the mind. Even when I think I am using it “responsibly,” it has a way of pulling me into trivialities, arguments, or endless scrolling.  It promises connection but often delivers agitation.  It promises information but often makes noise.  It promises community but often fosters comparison and restlessness. I am working slowly but steadily, to loosen its grip.

Over time, these renunciations—vapid music, insipid television, thieving social media—have revealed something deeper than mere preference.  They dull the mind, yes, but more importantly, they crowd the soul.  By tossing them aside, I have begun to see the shape of my interior life gradually reclaimed.  What once felt “normal” now feels foreign, and what once seemed harmless now appears hollow.  I find that the less I cling to the secular world, the more interior freedom I gain.  This is not withdrawal but refinement: a quiet choosing of what leads me toward God and a holy life and away from the emptiness and noise that once filled my days.  In that choice, I am discovering a steadier, simpler, more meaningful, and far happier way to live. I write more, I pray more, I read more, I use my life better.

 

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Losing It with Quiet Discipline.

I have long known that the most reliable way to lose weight is also the least glamorous: change the way I eat, and do it without powders, liquids, pills, or any of the other gimmicks that promise transformation without effort.  They don’t work.  Real change comes from willpower, ordinary food, and an honest attitude.  These matter more than any trend.

This year, my efforts began even before Lent arrived.  A goal of losing eight pounds is losing eight pounds for more energy and just feeling better overall.  As January unfolded, I found myself preparing not only my interior life but also my habits.  I started cutting down on unnecessary snacking that crept in after supper.  Sure, I still indulged in a snack here and there, but it wasn’t gorging myself.  I continued my quiet campaign against corn syrup and the sugary additives that hide in so many foods.  And I returned to simpler cooking—meals that didn’t need to resemble anything from a fancy restaurant menu.  I proved to myself that I can cook anything well, so why do it every day?  That should be saved for special occasions.  Then I returned to meals that I grew up on that nourished rather than entertained.  There was a certain relief in that simplicity.

By the time Ash Wednesday arrived in mid‑February, I wasn’t scrambling to begin anything new.  I was simply continuing what had already taken root and ramping it up a bit.  The weight began to come off, slowly and steadily, and it still does.  But more importantly, the discipline of eating differently began to shape the discipline of living differently.

Attitude is half the work.  I stopped letting the noise of the secular world dictate my mood or my focus.  I ignored the foolishness that swirl around in headlines and conversations.  Instead, I turned my attention toward things that actually strengthen the soul: spiritual reading that lifts and edifies the mind and praying the Rosary with attentive meditation rather than mindless haste.  These practices didn’t just support my physical goals—they steadied my interior life.

There is a quiet joy in sacrifice when it is chosen freely and offered with purpose.  Lent simply gave me the structure to continue what had already begun: a return to simplicity, a clearer mind, and a heart more anchored in God than in the world’s distractions.

In the end, this has reminded me that caring for the body and caring for the soul are not competing tasks but parallel ones.  The more I simplified my meals, the more I found myself craving a simpler interior life as well — one less cluttered by noise, distraction, and the endless commentary of the world.  Lent simply gave shape to what I already sensed: that discipline is not a burden but a quiet form of freedom, and that small, steady acts of intention at the table and in prayer can reshape a life from the inside out.

 

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The Noise We Mistake for Knowledge.

 

We live in an age where information is abundant, but much of what passes for “news” today is not news at all.  It’s noise, and you know that.  It’s carefully packaged, endlessly repeated, and designed to keep us stupidly watching rather than sensibly thinking.  The problem is not merely the volume of what we consume, but the nature of it because much of what presents itself as “news” is, in truth, non‑news — content engineered to provoke reaction and emotion rather than understanding.  Discernment, then, becomes not a luxury but a moral necessity.  Headlines flash, opinions multiply, and yet very little of it has any bearing on our actual lives.  The result is a subtle erosion of time, attention, our brain cells, and inner peace, and if we bow down to the mindless blather, we allow others to steal our time.  Yes—steal our time and ultimately shapes our habits.

Non‑news thrives on immediacy.  It demands attention without earning it.  It offers the illusion of being informed while quietly draining the very faculties that make genuine understanding possible.  The result is a culture that is constantly stimulated yet rarely enlightened.  We scroll, we skim, we react, and at the end of it, we are no closer to truth.  The deeper danger of non‑news is not that it wastes minutes but that it shapes habits.  It trains us to expect superficiality, to prefer outrage over reflection, to treat every passing headline as a crisis.  A society that cannot tell the difference between the essential and the irrelevant becomes easy to manipulate and difficult to awaken.

True news informs and clarifies, and it should edify us.  It should help a person understand the world.  But this blather does the opposite: it distracts, inflames, and consumes hours that could have been spent on something productive.  It is astonishing how quickly a day can disappear into commentary, speculation, and manufactured outrage that leaves us no knowledgeable than before.

The danger is not merely wasted time; it’s also wasted focus and a counterfeit form of engagement.  When we allow trivial stories to occupy our minds, we lose the capacity to notice what genuinely matters: the people around us, the responsibilities entrusted to us, the quiet work that builds a meaningful life.  Non‑news thrives on urgency, but it produces nothing lasting.

Discernment asks a different question: Is this worthy of my time, my mind, my peace?  It is a refusal to let trivialities masquerade as significance.  It is the discipline of distinguishing between what is merely loud and what is actually important.  In a culture that profits from distraction, such clarity is countercultural.  Choosing to step away from it is not ignorance; it is discernment.  It is the decision to guard one’s attention as a precious resource rather than surrender it to whatever happens to be fashionably trending.  A person who refuses to be pulled into the churn of non‑news gains something rare in our age: clarity of mind and control of oneself.

When we decline to participate in the churn of non‑news, we reclaim our attention for what is real: the responsibilities before us, the people entrusted to us, the truths that do not change with the news cycle.  We become less reactive and more rooted.  Sure, the world will always offer distractions, but we are not obligated to accept them.  Our time is finite, and our attention is inviolable.  Spending it wisely is an act of both strength and sanity.

 

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Are Our Lives Truly Well-Lived?

A lifetime spent chasing approval, possessions, and the noise of the world gradually drifts away from its own center.  From an early age, we learn to shape ourselves around external expectations, as if our worth could be measured by admiration, status, awards, or the objects we manage to collect, and the amount of money we amass.  Yet these pursuits, however dazzling in the moment, dissolve quickly.  What remains is the quiet sense that we have been living outward rather than inward – living as part of the world, rather than in it.

Philosophers across centuries have warned of this drift.  They remind us that the self becomes fragmented when it is scattered among too many desires, especially those desires that are not truly our own and those that make us look “better” to our family and friends.  Simplicity, then, is not merely a lifestyle but a discipline.  It is the art of refusing to be ruled by the shifting opinions of others or by the endless accumulation of things that promise satisfaction but deliver only distraction.

To live a life well done is not one that has a swanky mansion, a jet set lifestyle, and a fat bank account.  It is, rather, one that turns toward what endures: clarity of mind, steadiness of good character, faith, humbleness, and the courage to act from one’s deepest convictions.  Approval fades, possessions decay, and the world’s applause is notoriously fickle and false.  But integrity and true faith — quiet, unadorned, and often unnoticed — has a way of anchoring the soul.  It allows us to move through life with a sense of coherence rather than fragmentation.

When we stop performing for the world and begin listening to our inner voice that asks for honesty, restraint, and purpose, something positively shifts.  The anxieties that once governed our choices loosen their grip.  We begin to see that the real measure of a life is not what we accumulate but what we cultivate: meekness, compassion, wisdom, and a mind unburdened by the distractions of excess.

This is the freedom available to anyone willing to step away from the noise and chaos.  It is the freedom to walk lightly, to choose meaning over clutter, and to rest in the quiet assurance that a life of depth will always outshine a life of accumulation.

Peace,

Susan Marie Molloy

 

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