I’ve been reading a fascinating book recently titled 

Determined: The Science of Life Without Free Will

 by Robert Sapolsky. This book has deeply resonated with me because it speaks to thoughts and questions I’ve had since I was 14 years old.

At 14, I started noticing that something felt “off” about society. I struggled to believe in the idea of inherent goodness or that we have free will in shaping our lives. Instead, I was drawn to a different perspective: the belief that human beings evolved from the sea. Why? It started after I watched a YouTube video about evolution. That video challenged the religious values I’d grown up with, including the belief that a benevolent God created the world in seven days. This revelation shifted my worldview dramatically.

I began questioning everything. If humans have the power to control their lives, why is there so much suffering? Why don’t we naturally steer ourselves toward happiness and peace? Those questions became the foundation of a journey I’ve been on ever since.

Over the next 13 years, I searched for meaning, struggling with pain and inner conflict. Gradually, I found ways to make life a little easier, but the path wasn’t straightforward.

Two years ago, I discovered the writings of Jiddu Krishnamurti. His philosophy changed the way I think about the mind. Krishnamurti describes the mind as having two key components (though he explores these ideas in much greater depth in his works):

 – This includes past experiences, fears, and traumas.

 – Practical knowledge, such as math or how to drive a car.

Both types of memory shape our thoughts, which, in turn, create our consciousness. This insight clicked for me: the pain we experience often comes from emotional memories stored in our minds. These memories generate random, intrusive thoughts that define how we perceive ourselves and the world.

This realization tied into something I recently read in Sapolsky’s book. He argues that we are entirely determined by our past—a past over which we had no control. From birth, every experience sculpts us, shaping our thoughts, actions, and decisions. In other words, free will as we traditionally understand it doesn’t really exist.

Here’s a passage from the book that particularly struck me:

As a child, if your environment is violent, you may face poor frontocortical-dependent cognition, problems with impulse control, substance abuse, teen pregnancy, unsafe sex, and other risky behaviors, along with increased vulnerability to depression and anxiety disorders. Oh, and also poorer health and earlier death.



On the flip side, if as a child you felt loved and safe in your family, had good role models for sexuality, lived in a crime-free neighborhood, and enjoyed stable socioeconomic status, then you’re more likely to have what I call a high RLCE score (Ridiculously Lucky Childhood Experiences). These factors are predictive of all sorts of positive outcomes.

Thus, essentially every aspect of your childhood—good, bad, or somewhere in between—factors over which you had no control, sculpted the adult brain you have today.

This passage illuminated so much for me. As adults, our thoughts, emotions, and behaviors are conditioned by our childhood experiences. Whether those experiences were positive or negative, they shape the brain and self in profound ways.

This insight extends to how we view others. Imagine seeing someone homeless on the street. It’s easy to judge: 

Why are they in this situation? Don’t they have opportunities to improve their lives?

Judging someone based on the “last three minutes of their movie”—the outcome of their life—ignores the rest of the film. You don’t see the context: their childhood, traumas, lack of opportunities, or systemic barriers. To judge someone without understanding their entire story is both ignorant and lacking in empathy.

Similarly, when we take pride in our achievements, we must also acknowledge that much of what we’ve achieved comes from sheer luck. Did you have access to a good education? Supportive parents? Teachers who cared about you? These circumstances are largely beyond our control, yet they play a huge role in where we end up.

Realizing this can be humbling. It reminds us that we are not inherently “better” than the homeless person we see while sipping a cappuccino and complaining about the state of the world. Our successes are not entirely our own; they are a product of our circumstances and the random luck of life.

This is not just about individuals—it’s about the broader society we live in. Our society often crushes children with difficult childhoods, offering them little support. When they grow into struggling adults, we point fingers instead of understanding or helping.

At the very least, we owe it to ourselves and others to approach life with empathy. Not everyone is lucky. Even those who overcome adversity and build good lives still carry the scars of their past.

In my next blog post, I want to explore how, despite being determined by factors outside our control, we can use perception and attention to reshape our behaviors. Through mindfulness and awareness, we can begin to recondition our minds and find peace with who we are.

Determined: Reflections on Free Will, Society, and Empathy

The dim glow of my phone screen was the only light in my room last night. I had fallen into an endless cycle of scrolling through YouTube videos—mindless distractions to fill the emptiness gnawing at my thoughts. I told myself it could be worse. At least it wasn’t TikTok. Those videos, someone once told me, are savage. But the truth is, it didn’t matter what I was watching; I was just trying to escape the confusion swirling inside me.

When I finally managed to fall asleep, it was almost 3 a.m. And yet, despite sleeping for hours, when I woke up at 9 a.m., I felt exhausted. It’s strange how you can get more than ten hours of sleep and still feel drained. My body was awake, but my mind was heavy, weighed down by something I couldn’t quite name.

The only bright moment came when my girlfriend brought me breakfast. I don’t usually like food with too many sauces, but somehow, this was different. Maybe it was because she made it, and everything she makes is infused with love. Even so, my stomach wasn’t cooperating, and I couldn’t finish it all. I felt bad, but I knew she understood.

I picked up my phone again, scrolling mindlessly, avoiding my thoughts. After about thirty minutes, the exhaustion crept back in. It’s fascinating, in a way, how something purely mental can manifest as physical fatigue. I tossed my phone onto the bed and drifted off to sleep again. When I woke up, it was noon, and the same fog of confusion settled over me.

I tried to fight it, to push away the creeping thoughts that told me I wasn’t enough, that I was stuck. I knew these feelings weren’t new—they were shadows from my past, echoes of trauma and hardship. Maybe it was genetics. Maybe it was life. But the weight of it all was suffocating.

Desperate for distraction, I turned to YouTube again. I found myself watching videos of people in other countries, observing how they lived. Somehow, it made me feel better. I even stumbled upon a video of people eating snake soup. The idea was wild to me—could I ever eat something like that? Maybe. Maybe not. It didn’t really matter.

Then, I switched to another video: a day in the life of a Harvard student. As I watched, I couldn’t help but compare. Here was a young man, around 21, waking up in his room, grabbing breakfast, hitting the gym, studying, having lunch with friends, and still finding time to relax in the evening before hitting the books again. His life seemed so structured, so effortless.

And then there was me. At that age, I was waking up at 5 a.m. in a country that wasn’t mine, washing dishes in a restaurant to survive, sharing a room with a stranger, struggling to save enough money to even consider studying. My life had been tough for a long time. And yet, I still found myself comparing, as if it was fair to do so.

But was it fair? Could I really compare myself to someone who had been raised in a loving home, with supportive parents and financial stability? I didn’t have that. I started working at 14. I practically raised myself. My father left when I was five, and I met him again only when I was 14. My mother was always working, rarely home. The only person who looked out for me was my uncle, making sure I didn’t get lost in the crime that lurked around my neighborhood in Peru.

Comparing myself to others hurt. But I couldn’t stop. Deep down, I wished I had even a fraction of the opportunities they did. Not Harvard, necessarily. Just the simple chance to attend university without the constant weight of survival pressing down on me.

Life isn’t fair or fair. I don’t believe in fairness. You’re dealt a hand, and that’s it. You either make something out of it, or you don’t. And yet, even when you try, there are circumstances beyond your control that can turn your life into a disaster. That thought alone left me more confused than ever.

I shut my laptop. It was 3 p.m. already. I needed to do something—anything—to break the cycle. So, I got up and cleaned my room. It was a small thing, but it gave me a sense of control. At least here, in this moment, I had power over something. And that, in itself, was a start.

Action brings other actions, so I thought a shower was needed. The water was cold, but it didn’t matter. It had been at least two days, maybe more. Saving water wasn’t a bad idea, and besides, I had convinced myself that it was good for my skin.

As the water ran down my body, something shifted. A thought, a memory, a wave of frustration. It hit me all at once. I felt sick, tired—not just physically, but deep in my core.

It took me back to my last year of secondary school. I was never a good student, never cared enough to try. “Useless” was the word that echoed in my mind back then, the same word my ex-girlfriend used when she decided she didn’t want to be with someone who couldn’t even study. That stung—deeply. But what hurt more was the truth hidden in her words.

There were only two ways out: let her go and keep believing school was pointless, or prove to her—and to myself—that school wasn’t the problem. If I wanted, I could beat the system. I was sixteen, stubborn, and driven by the kind of pride only a teenager can have. So, I studied. Hard. Six months of pure focus, and I discovered something unexpected—I liked physics. Not only did I get good grades, but I excelled.

I still remember the best student in school approaching me during an exam, asking for help with a problem. Me—the kid who never cared—was now the one people turned to. It felt good. For the first time, I wasn’t just floating through school. I was good at everything, and when I finally graduated, I had momentum. But then… nothing.

Confusion. Indecision. Pressure. What now?

I turned off the shower and stood there, water dripping, mind racing.

Why did I let that drive slip away? Why did I stop using that power? And then it hit me: the confusion wasn’t real. It was a trap. A mental trick.

It wasn’t that I didn’t know what to do—it was that my brain resisted doing it. The reptilian part of my mind, the one designed for survival, didn’t want to waste energy. And since I lacked discipline, lacked the habits that could push me forward, my neocortex—the rational, thinking part of me—was too weak to fight back.

So, I did nothing. And in that nothingness, my mind started spinning in circles, feeding me doubts. Am I good enough? Am I wasting my time? Why can’t I just get up and do what needs to be done? The cycle repeated, over and over, a loop of overthinking disguised as deep reflection.

But it wasn’t reflection. It was just my reptilian brain keeping me trapped. It didn’t understand words or reasoning; it only knew survival. And survival meant conserving energy.

I exhaled, feeling both relieved and frustrated. If my reptilian brain resisted action, and my mind created illusions to justify it, then how could I break free? How do you fight a part of yourself that doesn’t listen to reason?

I don’t have the answer yet. Maybe the key is in meditation, in rewiring my neocortex through observation, through new habits. Maybe it’s something else entirely. But I’ll keep searching, keep writing about it.

Another day in my life—frustrating, confusing, but in some strange way, hopeful. Because if there’s no one to blame, then there’s nothing stopping me.

And maybe, just maybe, life will get easier. I think so.

Another Day in My Head

Right now, I feel unmotivated about everything in life, lost, and unable to find any sense of drive. It’s hard to admit, but my life has always been full of ups and downs. Sometimes, I feel like I’m on the right path, but these past weeks, exhaustion has taken over, leaving me without motivation.

It’s difficult to explain. I’m studying as little as possible, barely managing to push through. This week, I haven’t felt the happiness I once had. I know, for a fact, that life is tough—it always has been for me, ever since I can remember. But this time, it’s not sadness or depression. It’s more like a deep confusion. I feel like I have to put in an enormous amount of effort just to achieve anything, constantly worrying—not only about everything around me but also about my future.

There’s so much uncertainty, even though I understand where these thoughts come from. They are rooted in the past, a past that no longer exists, yet it still weighs on me. Despite all this confusion, I have an underlying feeling that everything will be okay. Somehow, life will become easier to navigate. But right now, I feel exhausted and drained.

I hope my thoughts will eventually transform into something calmer and more beneficial. Empty the mind, throw away the unnecessary weight, and embrace the void—maybe that is where peace lies.

This is how I feel now. But I know that feelings are not permanent. This will pass, and I will find a way to overcome this moment. Let’s see what life has in store for me. I may feel lost and a little sad, but never hopeless.

After all, what is a human without hope and faith? I wouldn’t wish the absence of those on anyone. As long as hope and faith exist, everything will be okay. Unless, of course, Krishnamurti was right—perhaps hope and faith are illusions that create dualism. If we observe our thoughts, maybe we’ll see that they are just constructs of the mind.

But I am not at that point in my life. For now, hope and faith are working fine for me. Let’s see if, in the future, Krishnamurti had a point or not.