Why Do We Cling to Systems That Dim Our Light?

I’ve been wrestling with a question that’s been gnawing at me lately: why do we keep playing along with systems that seem designed to keep us small, tired, and compliant? It’s a thought that hit me hard after reading many compelling, raw piece of writing that laid bare the mechanisms of control woven into the fabric of our lives. It’s not just about the rules we follow or the jobs we endure—it’s about the subtle, insidious ways we’re taught to surrender our power, our curiosity, and our freedom, all while convincing ourselves we’re choosing it. As I dove into the text, I found myself nodding, sometimes wincing, at truths I’ve felt but never fully articulated. 

The world runs smoother, I’ve noticed, when most of us stay powerless—not crushed, not imprisoned, but dulled. Comfortably numb, distracted by routine, drained just enough to keep us from pushing back. I see it in the way I move through my own life: the alarm clock’s relentless beep, the commute, the inbox that never empties. I’m not forced into this rhythm; I’ve chosen it, or so I tell myself. But the text I read made me pause. It argued that powerlessness isn’t always imposed—it’s offered, wrapped in the language of safety, responsibility, even kindness. I think about the times I’ve stayed quiet in meetings, nodding along to ideas I didn’t believe in, because speaking up felt too risky. Not risky in a dramatic, life-or-death way, but in that quiet, social way—fear of being seen as difficult, of losing favor, of stepping out of line.

Education is one of the first places this conditioning begins. I remember my school days vividly: the gold stars for neat handwriting, the praise for memorizing answers, the subtle disapproval when I asked “why” too many times. It wasn’t about empowerment; it was about obedience. I was taught to fit in, not stand out, to repeat rather than create. And it worked. By the time I entered the workforce, I was fluent in compliance, trained to follow instructions rather than question them. The system doesn’t want critical thinkers because they make poor employees. I see that now in the way my job rewards predictability over innovation, loyalty over honesty. I trade my hours for a paycheck that just covers the bills, and I’m told to be grateful. Gratitude, it turns out, is weaponized—a way to make exhaustion feel noble.

But it’s not just work. It’s psychological. I’ve internalized the idea that my ideas don’t matter, that my voice is too small, that the system is too big to challenge. This is called the “ultimate trick”: making us complicit in our own disempowerment. I think about the times I’ve censored myself, not because anyone told me to, but because I’ve learned what happens when I don’t. A raised eyebrow, a cold shoulder, a subtle shift in how people treat me. Defiance, even quiet defiance, is seen as a threat, not because it’s irrational but because it disrupts the illusion that keeps everything in place. And illusions, I’m starting to realize, are everything.

Freedom is a word that’s thrown around a lot—on flags, in speeches, in ads. It’s seductive, pure, a promise of autonomy and possibility. But the text made me question what freedom really means. I’ve been told I’m free to speak, but only if I’m not too loud. Free to protest, but only if it’s orderly. Free to choose my job, but not free from the bills that chain me to it. The freedom I’m offered isn’t about power; it’s about boundaries I’m not supposed to cross. I think about my phone, how it promises connection and knowledge, but its algorithms decide what I see, shaping my reality to keep me clicking, not thinking. I’m free to browse, but only within a walled garden designed to profit off my attention.

The scariest part? I believe I’m free. The illusion is so well-crafted that challenging it feels like madness. I’ve caught myself blaming my own shortcomings when I’m unhappy, as if I’m failing at a game I was free to win. But the text argues that this is by design: control evolves through consent. I become my own warden, policing my own thoughts, calling it freedom. Real freedom, the kind that threatens systems and disrupts hierarchies, feels like chaos. It’s raw, risky, untamed. I wonder what it would feel like to step into that kind of freedom, to take the leap without knowing what’s below. Would I feel alive, or would I just feel terrified?

Then there’s the uncomfortable truth about whose lives matter more. I’ve seen it in the headlines: a missing woman from a wealthy neighborhood becomes a national crisis, while a refugee’s death barely makes a ripple. I’ve scrolled past stories of suffering, not because I don’t care, but because some pain feels distant, unrelatable. The text called this “programming,” and it hit me hard. I’ve been trained to care selectively, to see some lives as tragedies and others as statistics. It’s not an accident; it’s a feature of the system. In hospitals, schools, courtrooms, the value of a life is calculated by race, wealth, status. I’ve internalized this hierarchy, too, without even realizing it. I’ve looked away, stayed quiet, told myself it’s not my problem. But every time I do, I’m feeding the system that ranks lives and discards the inconvenient.

This selective empathy isn’t just personal—it’s systemic. we must acknowledge how justice becomes a privilege, not a principle. I think about the times I’ve seen people punished not for their actions but for their lack of power. A poor person with a minor offense goes to prison; a corporation causing harm gets a settlement. I’ve accepted this as normal, but it’s not. It’s a choice, a collective one, and I’m part of it. This asks what would happen if we refused to accept this hierarchy, if we unmade the choice to value some lives over others. I don’t have an answer, but the question haunts me. It makes me wonder how many times I’ve looked away, how many lives I’ve let disappear because it was easier than caring.

Fear, not empathy, is what keeps us in line. I’ve felt it: the tightening in my chest when I think about breaking a rule, speaking out, or stepping away from what’s expected. Fear is a more powerful tool than compassion. I see it in the way I behave at work, more careful when my boss is around, not because I’m kinder but because I’m afraid of consequences. Society doesn’t run on shared humanity; it runs on deterrence. Laws, surveillance, even religion—they’re built on the threat of punishment, not the promise of love. I’ve donated to causes anonymously, not out of pure altruism but to avoid the guilt of doing nothing. Even that is a kind of fear—fear of my own judgment.

This reliance on fear makes me question my own morality. Am I good because I believe in goodness, or am I just afraid of being caught? The answer is unsettling: most of us avoid wrongdoing not because we’re virtuous but because we’re scared. Fear is immediate, visceral; it grips us in ways empathy never could. I think about the cameras on every corner, the tracking in my phone, the invisible eyes I’ve internalized. I’m not just being watched—I’m watching myself, ensuring I stay in line. It’s a panopticon, and I’m both prisoner and guard.

The truth, I’ve realized, is heavy. It’s not what I crave, even though I tell myself I do. What I really want is comfort, something that feels true enough to ease my anxiety. This a neurological addiction to self-deception, and I can’t deny it. My brain rewards lies with dopamine, soothing me when I tell myself I’m doing enough, that the world is fair, that my struggles will pay off. But the truth scrapes against those certainties. It forces me to confront the gap between what I believe and what I do. I’ve stayed in jobs I hate, relationships that drain me, not because I’m weak but because change feels like chaos. Comfort is a sedative, and I’ve been lulled into submission more times than I’d like to admit.

This craving for comfort extends to how I care—or pretend to care. I’ve shared posts about tragedies, felt a twinge of sadness, then moved on. It’s performance, not action. Real caring is costly; it demands time, sacrifice, discomfort. But I’ve been trained to simulate concern, to believe that a like or a share is enough. We called this a “ritual around tragedy,” and it’s true. I perform empathy to feel good, to shield myself from guilt, but it changes nothing. The system loves this, because my pretend caring keeps me compliant, scrolling, consuming, while the world’s pain continues unabated.

The most haunting idea is that my suffering isn’t sacred—it’s manufactured. I’ve bought into the narrative that struggle builds character, that my exhaustion is a badge of honor. But who benefits when I’m too tired to question, too busy to resist? Not me. The system thrives on my dependency, my predictability. It needs me struggling, not thriving, because a struggling person is a compliant one. I think about the times I’ve hustled, sacrificed sleep, called it loyalty. I wasn’t growing; I was being drained, my energy funneled into someone else’s profit.

Even progress, that shining beacon we’re all taught to chase, comes at a cost. My smartphone, my clothes, my conveniences—they’re built on exploitation. Someone, somewhere, is paying the price for my comfort. The text called this “moral laundering,” and it’s a phrase that sticks with me. I’m complicit, even when I try not to be, because the system is designed to make ethical living nearly impossible. I rationalize, I compartmentalize, I scroll past the guilt. But deep down, I know: my progress, my comfort, often comes at the expense of someone else’s pain.

So where does this leave me? I’m starting to see the cage for what it is—not physical, but psychological. I’ve been trained to fear my own freedom, to obey rules I despise, to value loyalty over honesty. But it also gave me a spark of hope: awareness is the first step. I can ask the hard questions: Which rules do I follow just to be accepted? What does my obedience cost me? What would my life look like if I wasn’t just surviving? These questions are uncomfortable, but they’re also liberating. They remind me that I don’t have to stay small, that I can refuse to shrink, that I can demand to be seen.

Change is terrifying, but it’s also where my power lies. The system doesn’t want me to change—it wants me predictable, manageable, safe. But every time I question, every time I resist, every time I choose truth over comfort, I chip away at that control. I’m not naive enough to think it’s easy. Real freedom, real change, demands risk, sacrifice, and a willingness to step into the unknown. But maybe that’s the point. Maybe the only way to reclaim my light is to let go of the comfort that dims it.

As I sit with these thoughts, I’m left with a question that feels both daunting and urgent: What would it take for me to stop playing the game, to step off the board, to live not as a pawn but as a person? What would it take for you?