The View Through the Telescope: Why We're More Alike Than We Think

From the Archives — Jason's earlier writings, lightly revised.

I keep coming back to the idea that we're more alike than we think. Not in some bumper-sticker way — in a real, observable way. If you had a telescope and turned it on the human race, what you'd see might surprise you. Point it one way and we look like strangers, shouting past each other. Point it another way and we're family.

We need connection. Nobody makes it alone. We need somebody — a friend, a neighbor, a spouse — who knows our name and notices when we're gone.

We feel pain. Physical, emotional, both. Nobody gets through life without getting hurt, and nobody is tougher than a broken heart or a broken back.

We experience grief. We all lose people. The details change, but the ache doesn't. It's the one club nobody wants to join and everybody eventually does.

We try to stay alive. Call it self-preservation, call it instinct — every person on earth wakes up trying to make it to tomorrow, and to keep the people they love safe enough to do the same.

We tell stories. Every culture on earth does it. We tell stories to remember, to warn, to comfort, to laugh. The technology changes; the fireside doesn't.

We move through the same life cycles. Born, growing, learning, working, aging. Nobody skips steps. Nobody gets a different order.

We search for meaning. We all want to know our lives count for something. Some people find it in faith, some in work, some in family. But nobody just shrugs and decides it doesn't matter.

We need sleep. The great equalizer. Kings, farmers, presidents, truck drivers — everybody closes their eyes and is gone for a while, and nobody's better than anybody else when they're dreaming.

We feel emotions. Joy, anger, fear, love, shame, pride. The same set of feelings runs the whole human machine. We just wear them differently.

We hope for tomorrow. However bad today is, most of us believe tomorrow could be better. That little stubborn belief is what gets people out of bed.

Now here's the thing about that telescope. Zoom out — watch the news, scroll the feeds — and we look like strangers, divided into camps that can't stand each other. Zoom in — sit across a table from somebody, hear their story, see what they've lived through — and we're family.

The differences between us are real. I'm not pretending they're not. But they're the top layer. Underneath, there's a whole foundation we share, and it's a lot bigger than the part we argue about.

Maybe we should spend more time zoomed in. That's where the people are.

Zoom out, and we look like strangers. Zoom in, and we're family.