In the struggle to preserve self-worth, pride often becomes both shield and prison—deflecting painful truths that threaten one’s constructed identity. Aside from a Perpetrator’s externalizations, one’s main defense on this score is an armor of self-righteousness so thick and so impenetrable that it often makes one inaccessible to reason. In arguments that may arise, a harmful actor may seem to be unconcerned about the truth of any statement one interprets as a hostile attack, but automatically responds with counterattacks—like a porcupine when it is touched. One simply cannot afford to consider even remotely anything that might engender a doubt in one’s rightness. The impulse to dominate others often masks deeper insecurities, manifesting as a vindictive refusal to share rights or respect with others. Many people engaging in harmful behavior excel at manipulating individuals who have no interest in them at all, relying on power—not connection—to maintain control. When people who feel rejected gain access to legal, medical, or financial systems and misuse them for revenge, the recipient of the behavior faces an especially dangerous and unjust situation. A subtle form of this manipulation occurs when individuals are cut off from their true peers and instead placed among those who posture superiority to keep them feeling small and dependent, and it keeps the problematic individual in control because the environment itself becomes part of the manipulation. If it were not for the cogent necessity of a manipulator protecting oneself against the onslaughts of one’s own self-hate, even with all one’s vindictiveness, one could be more reasonable in what one demands of others.

Seen from this viewpoint, the person exhibiting controlling behavior claims that others should behave in such a way as not to arouse in one any guilt feelings or any self-doubts. If one can convince oneself that one is entitled to exploit or frustrate them without their complaining, criticizing, or resenting it, then one can keep from becoming aware of one’s tendencies to exploit or frustrate. If the aggressor is entitled to have the affected individual not expect tenderness, gratitude, or consideration, then their disappointment is their hard luck and does not reflect on one’s not giving them a fair deal. Any doubt the perpetrator might allow to emerge about one’s failings in human relations, about others having reason to resent one’s attitudes, would be like a hole in a dike, through which the flood of self-condemnation would break and sweep away one’s whole artificial self-assurance. When we recognize the role of pride and self-hate in this type, we not only have a more accurate understanding of the forces operating within the person engaging in harmful behavior, but may also change our whole outlook on that individual. As long as we primarily focus on how the harmful actor operates in one’s human relations, we can describe that individual as arrogant, callous, egocentric, sadistic—or by any other epithet indicating hostile aggression which may occur to us. And any of them would be accurate. However, when we realize how deeply the aggressor is caught within the machinery of one’s pride system, when we realize the efforts one must make not to be crushed by one’s self-hate, we see the problematic individual as a harassed human being struggling for survival. And this picture is also accurate.

Of these two different aspects, seen from two different perspectives, is one more essential, more important than the other? It is a question difficult to answer, and perhaps unanswerable, but it is in one’s inner struggle that analysis can reach one at a time when one is averse to examining one’s difficulties in regard to others, and when these difficulties are so infinitely precarious that one rather anxiously avoids touching them. However, there is also an objective reason for tackling the intrapsychic factors first in therapy. We have seen that they may contribute, in many ways, to one’s outstanding trend, the arrogant vindictiveness. We cannot, in fact, understand the height of one’s arrogance without considering one’s pride and its vulnerability—or the intensity of one’s vindictiveness without seeing one’s need for protecting oneself against one’s self-hate, et cetera. However, to take a further step: these are not only reinforcing factors; they are the ones which make one’s hostile-aggressive trends compulsive. And this is the decisive reason that it is and must be ineffective and indeed futile to tackle the hostility directly. The patient cannot possibly evolve any interest in seeking it, and still less in examining it, as long as the factors which render it compulsive persist (in simple terms: as long as one cannot do anything about it anyhow). One’s need for a vindictive triumph, for instance, certainly is a hostile-aggressive trend. However, what makes it compulsive is the need to vindicate oneself in one’s own eyes. This desire originally is not even neurotic.

The problematic individual starts so low on the ladder of human values that one cannot simply must justify one’s experience, prove one’s values. However, then, the need to restore one’s pride and protect oneself from lurking self-contempt makes this desire imperative. Similarly, one’s need to be right and the resulting arrogant claims, while militant and aggressive, become compulsive through the necessity to prevent any self-doubt and self-blame from emerging. And, finally, the bulk of one’s faultfinding, one’s punitive and condemnatory attitudes toward others—or, at any rate, what renders these attitudes compulsive—stem from the dire need to externalize one’s self-hate. Moreover, if the forces usually counteracting it are malfunctioning, as we pointed out at the beginning, a rank growth of vindictiveness can occur. And again, the intrapsychic factors constitute the main reason for these checks not operating. The choking off of tender feelings, starting in childhood and described as the hardening process, is necessitated by the actions and attitudes of other people and is meant to protect one against others. The need to make oneself insensitive to suffering is greatly reinforced by the vulnerability of one’s pride and climaxed by one’s pride in invulnerability. One’s wish for human warmth and affection (both giving and receiving it), originally thwarted by the environment and then sacrificed to the need for triumph, is finally frozen by the verdict of one’s self-hate, branding one as unlovable. Thus, in turning against others, one has nothing precious to lose. One unconsciously adopts the maxim of the Roman emperor: oderint dum metuant. In other words: “It is out of the question that they should love me; they hate me anyhow, so they should at least be afraid of me.” Moreover, healthy self-interest, which otherwise would check vindictive impulses, is kept at a minimum through this utter disregard for one’s personal welfare. And even the fear of others, though operating to some extent, is held down by one’s pride in invulnerability and immunity.

In this context of missing checks, one factor deserves special mention. If any, the person with the problematic behavior has very little sympathy for others. This absence of sympathy has many causes, lying in one’s hostility toward others and in one’s lack of sympathy for oneself. However, what perhaps contributes most to one’s callousness toward others is one’s envy of them. It is a bitter envy—not for this or that particular asset, but pervasive—and stems from one’s feeling excluded from life in general. And it is true that, with one’s entanglements, one actually is excluded from all that makes life worth living—from joy, happiness, love, creativity, and growth. If tempted to think along too neat lines, we would say here: had not one turned one’s back on life? Is one not proud of one’s ascetic not-wanting and not-needing anything? Does one not keep on warding off optimistic feelings of all sorts? So, why should one envy others? However, the fact is, one does. Naturally, without analysis, the person creating the hostile environment has such an arrogance that would not permit the individual to admit it, in plain effect, that, of course, everybody is better off than the perpetrator. Or one may realize that one is infuriated at somebody for no other reason than that the latter is always cheerful or intensely interested in something. The individual responsible for the behavior indirectly explains. The controlling person feels that such a person wants to humiliate one viciously by flaunting their happiness in one’s face. Experiencing things this way not only gives rise to such vindictive impulses as wanting to kill joy but also produces a curious kind of callousness by stifling one’s sympathy for others’ suffering.

Thus far, the perpetrator’s envy reminds us of a dog locked in a manner attitude. It hurts his pride that anybody could have something which, whether he wants it or not, is out of his reach. However, this explanation does not go deep enough. In analysis, it gradually appears that the grapes of life, though one has declared them sour, are still desirable. We must not forget that one’s turning against life was not a voluntary move, and that the surrogate for which one exchanged living is a poor one. In other words, the perpetrator’s zest for living is stifled but not extinguished. In the beginning of analysis, this is only a hopeful belief, but it proves justified in many more instances than is usually assumed. Upon its validity hinges the auspices for therapy. If there were not something in the individual with the problematic behavior that does want to live more fully, how could we help the individual? This realization is also relevant for the analyst’s attitude toward such a patient. Most people respond to this type either by being intimidated into submissiveness or by rejecting the person with the problematic behavior altogether. Neither attitude will do for the analyst. Naturally, when accepting the individual as a patient, the analyst wants to him the controlling individual. However, if the analyst is intimidated, they will not dare to tackle one’s problems effectively. If the analyst inwardly rejects the perpetrator, one cannot be productive in one’s analytic work. The analyst will, however, have the necessary sympathetic and respectful understanding when one realizes that this patient, too, despite one’s protestations to the contrary, is a suffering and struggling human being.

Among the indispensable co-ordinates of identity is that of the life cycle, for we assume that not until adolescence does the individual develop the prerequisites in physiological growth, mental maturation, and social responsibility to experience and pass through crisis as the psychosocial aspect of adolescing. Nor could this stage be passed without identity. We may, in fact, speak of the identity crisis as the psychosocial aspect of adolescing. Nor could this stage be passed without identity having found a form which will decisively determine later life. For man, in order to remain psychologically alive, he constantly resolves these conflicts just as his body unceasingly combats the encroachment of physical deterioration. A healthy personality actively masters its environment, shows a certain unity of personality, and is able to perceive the world and oneself correctly—it is clear that all of these criteria are relative to the child’s cognitive and social development. In fact, we may say that childhood is defined by its initial absence and by its gradual development in complex steps of increasing differentiation. How, then, does a vital personality grow or, as it were, accrue from the successive stages of the increasing capacity to adapt to life’s necessities—with some vital enthusiasm to spare? Whenever we try to understand growth, it is well to remember the epigenetic principle which is derived from the growth of organisms in utero. This principle states that anything that grows has a ground plan, and that out of this ground plan the parts arise, each part having its time of special ascendancy, until all parts have arisen to form a functioning whole.

This, obviously, is true for fetal development, where each part of the organism has its critical time of ascendance or danger of defect. At birth, the baby leaves the chemical exchange of the womb for the social exchange system of its society, where one’s gradually increasing capacities meet the opportunities and limitations of one’s culture. How the maturing organism continues to unfold, not by developing new organs but by means of a prescribed sequence of locomotor, sensory, and social capacities, is described in the child-development literature. As pointed out, psychoanalysis has given us an understanding of the more idiosyncratic experiences, and especially the inner conflicts, which constitute the manner in which an individual becomes a distinct personality. However, here, too, it is important to realize that in the sequence of one’s most personal experiences the healthy child, given a reasonable amount of proper guidance, can be trusted to obey inner laws of development, laws which create a succession of potentialities for significant interaction with those persons who tend and respond to one and those institutions which are ready for one. While such interaction varies from culture to culture, it must remain with “the proper rate and the proper sequence” which governs all epigenesis. Personality, therefore, can be said to develop according to steps predetermined in the human organism’s readiness to be driven toward, to be aware of, and to interact with a widening radius of significant individuals and institutions.

For the most fundamental prerequisite of mental vitality, a sense of basic trust is a pervasive attitude toward oneself and the world derived from the experiences of the first year of life. By “trust,” I mean an essential trustfulness of others as well as a fundamental sense of one’s own trustworthiness. In describing a development of a series of alternative basic attitudes, including identity, we take recourse to the term “a sense of.” It must be immediately obvious, however, that such “senses” as a sense of health or vitality, or a sense of the lack of either, pervade the surface and the depth, including what we experience as consciousness or what remains barely conscious or is altogether unconscious. As a conscious experience, trust is accessible to introspection. However, it is also a way of behaving, observable by others; and it is, finally, an inner state verifiable only by testing and psychoanalytic interpretation. All three of these dimensions are to be inferred when we loosely speak of “sense of.” As usual in psychoanalysis, we learn first of the “basic” nature of trust from adult psychopathology. In adults, a radical impairment of basic trust and a prevalence of basic mistrust are expressed in a particular form of severe estrangement which characterizes individuals who withdraw into themselves when at odds with themselves and with others. Such withdrawal is most strikingly displayed by individuals who regress into psychotic states in which they sometimes close up, refusing food and comfort and becoming oblivious to companionship. What is most radically missing in them can be seen from the fact that, as we attempt to assist them with psychotherapy, we must try to “reach” them with the specific intent of convincing them that they can trust us to trust them and that they can trust themselves.

Familiarity with such radical regressions as well as with the deepest and most infantile propensities in our not-so-sick patients has taught us to regard basic trust as the cornerstone of a vital personality. Children express their wishes in visual images; but what do they say about them, the final display through the final common pathway, is determined by auditory images, or voices in the head, the result of a mental dialogue. This dialogue between parent, adult, and child is not “unconscious,” but preconscious, which means that it can easily be brought into consciousness. Then it is found that it consists of sides taken from real life, things which once were actually said out loud. The therapeutic rule is a simple derivative of this. Since the final common pathway of the patient’s behavior is determined by voices in one’s head, this can be changed by getting another voice into one’s head, that of the therapist. If this is done under hypnosis, it may not be effective, since that is an artificial situation. However, if it is done in a waking state, it may work better because the original voices were implanted in the patient’s head also in the waking state. Exceptions occur when a witch or ogre parent shouts the child into a state of panic, which is essentially a traumatic fugue. As the therapist gets more and more information from different patients as to what the voices in their heads are saying, and becomes more and more experienced in relating this to their behavior as expressed through final common pathways, one develops a very acute ability and judgment in this regard. One begins to hear the voices in a patient’s head very quickly and accurately, usually before the patient can clearly hear them.

If the therapist asks a loaded or sensitive question, which the patient takes a little time to answer, the therapist can observe a twitch here, a contraction there, and a shift of expression, so that the therapist can follow the “skull dialogue” almost as though one were listening to a tape recording. Once the therapist understands what is going on, their next task is to give the patient permission to listen, and to teach the patient how to hear the voices which are still there in their pristine force from childhood. Here, the therapist may have to overcome several kinds of resistance. The patient may be forbidden to listen by Parental directives, such as: “If you hear voices, you’re crazy.” Or the patient’s inner child may be afraid of what one will hear. Or the patient’s adult self may prefer not to listen to the people governing one’s behavior in order to maintain one’s illusion of autonomy. Many “actionistic” therapists become very skilled at bringing these voices to life by special techniques, where the patient finds oneself carrying on the dialogue out loud, so that both the individual and the audience can plainly see that what he says has been in his head all along. Gestalt therapists often use “the empty chair,” where the patient moves from one chair to the other, playing two parts of oneself. Psychodramatists supply trained assistants who play one role while the patient themselves plays another. Watching or reading about such sessions, it soon becomes clear that the sides for each role come from different ego states or different aspects of the same ego state, and consist of dialogue which has been running in the patient’s head since one’s early years.

However, almost everybody mutters to oneself at some time or another, so every patient has a good start toward unearthing one’s mental dialogue without such special techniques. As a general rule, phrases in the second person (“You should have,” et cetera) come from the Parent, while those in the first person (“I must,” “Why did I?” et cetera) come from the Adult or Child. With some sort of encouragement, the patient soon becomes aware of one’s most important script directives as spoken in one’s head, and can report them to the therapist. The therapist must then give the patient the option of choosing between them, discarding the nonadaptive, useless, harmful, or misleading ones, and keeping the adaptive or useful ones. Even better, one may enable the patient to get a friendly divorce from one’s parents and make a fresh start altogether (although often the friendly divorce will be preceded by an angry phase, as most divorces are at the beginning, even if they eventually end up friendly). This means one must give the patient permission to disobey the Parental directives, not win rebellion, but rather in autonomy, so that one will be free to do things one’s own way and not have to follow one’s script. An easier way to handle this is to give the patient medication such as meprobamate, phenothiazines, or amitriptyline, all of which mute the Parental voices. This relieves the Child’s anxiety or depression and thus “makes the patient feel better.” However, there are disadvantages. First, these drugs tend to dumb down the whole personality, including the voice of the Adult. Some physicians, for example, advise the patient not to drive a car while one is takeing them.

Second, the medications make psychotherapy more difficult precisely because the Parent’s voices cannot be heard clearly, and so the script directives may be masked or de-emphasized. And third, therapeutic permission given under such conditions may be freely exercised, since the Parental prohibitions are temporarily out of commission, but if and when the medication is discontinued, the Parent usually comes back in full force, and may even take revenge on the Child for the liberties one took while the Parent was decommissioned. Growth, according to the present metaphor, entails a return to the place one had left, in order to make it suitable for living, and moreover, living as a person of enlarged perspective. A growth cycle is completed when persons affirm their larger experience of self and world and modify their concept of self, their public self, and their self-ideal in the light of enlarged awareness. They now know they are more, and can be more, different, than they hitherto believed possible. This alteration and enlargement of one’s sense of self is desirable and conducive to a healthy personality. The process of integrating the larger consciousness of self and world is helped immeasurably by re-engagement in life projects and personal relationships. Indeed, it is the demands, challenges, and rewards of work, play, and personal relationships that provide the incentive to grow, and the rewards of such growth. Without such ways of being engaged in the world, I believe efforts to let go and to open oneself to new experiences have destructive and regressive consequences. Chronic users of psychedelic drugs, like fanatics at yoga or meditation, confuse means with ends; they spend their time “in their experience,” but out of action.

The return is often difficult because the people with whom one has been engaged may not have changed; further, they may resent the changes that the growing person has introduced into their world. They may impose considerable pressure upon the individual to revert to the way one was prior to the episode of growing. To yield to such pressure is disastrous, for it makes a non-event out of the persons’ growth. At about the seventh year, says Aristotle, man can differentiate between good and bad. Conscience, ego, and cognition, we would say, are by then sufficiently developed to make it probable that a child, given half a chance, will be able and eager to concentrate on tasks transcending play. One will watch and join others in the techniques of one’s society, and develop an eagerness for completing tasks fitted for one’s own age in some craftsmanlike way. All this, and not less, is implied when we say that a child has reached the “stage of industry.” At the age of seven, there was a boy who was sent to a school which would teach him Latin—then the principal tool of the technology of literacy. Obviously, only parents with higher aspirations for their children would send them to such a school. However, halfway-qualified teachers were employed at schools like this only when they could get no other work—while they were still young, or when they were no longer employable. In either case, they were apt to express their impatience with life in their treatment of the children, which was very similar to the treatment that some people give their donkeys. The teachers rarely relied, and therefore, could not rely on conscience, ego, or cognition; instead, they used the old and universal method of Pauken, “drumming” facts and habits into the growing minds by relentless mechanical repetition. They also drummed the children themselves mit Ruten in die Aefftern, on the behind, other body parts being exempt.

According to the professor, an occasional “lusty caning” did not harm the student any more than it did any other children: but the professors and his school must present him as entirely intact and unweakened by any ordinary or special childhood event, so that the divine event, the catastrophe, which later concluded his academic education so unexpectedly, appears as divine interference. The priest and the psychiatrist, however, believed that this was an impressionable age for a child, and school years can make a child fearful for life. In retrospect, the student found that the gains in learning were in no way commensurate with the “inner torture.” At the most, he felt such teaching prepared a man to be a priest of low caliber, a Pfaff; otherwise, he was not taught enough to “either cackle or lay an egg.” It is certain that the disciplinary climate of home and school, and the religious climate in community and church, were lumped together in his mind as decidedly more oppressive than inspiring; and that, to him, this seemed a damned and unnecessary shame. He blamed his atmosphere for his strict and rigid doctrines, his intensity of monastic “scrupulosity,” his obsessional preoccupation with the question of how on earth one may do enough to please the various agencies of judgment—teacher, father, superior, and most of all, one’s conscience. School children, he reported, were caned on the behind; it is probable that home discipline was concentrated on the same body area. To those who believe in corporal punishment, this seems to take the sting out of the matter, and even to make it rather funny.

We grant the buttocks can take a lot of pressure, and lend themselves to bawdy jokes; but we cannot ignore the fact, brought out by the researchers of psychoanalysis, that the anal zone, which is guarded and fortified by the buttocks, can, under selective and intense treatment of special kinds, become the seat of sensitive and sensual, defiant and stubborn, associations. The devil, according to the student, expresses his scorn by exposing his rear parts; man can beat him to it by employing anal weapons, and by telling him where his kiss is welcome. Language provides the fundamental superimposition of logic on the objectivated social world. The edifice of legitimations is built upon language and uses language as its principal instrumentality. The “logic” thus attributed to the institutional order is part of the socially available stock of knowledge and taken for granted as such. Since the well-socialized individual “knows” that his social world is a consistent whole, he will be constrained to explain both its functioning and malfunctioning in terms of this “knowledge.” It is very easy, as a result, for the observer of any society to assume that its institutions do indeed function and integrate as they are “supposed to.” De facto, then, institutions are integrated. However, their integration is not a functional imperative for the social processes that produce them; it is rather brought about in a derivative fashion. Individuals perform discrete institutionalized actions within the context of their biography. This biography is a reflected-upon whole in which the discrete actions are thought of not as isolated events, but as related parts in a subjectively meaningful universe whose meanings are not specific to the individual, but socially articulated and shared. Only by way of this detour of socially shared universes of meaning do we arrive at the need for institutional integration.

This has far-reaching implications for any analysis of social phenomena. If the integration of an institutional order can be understood only in terms of the “knowledge” that its members have of it, it follows that the analysis of such “knowledge” will be essential for an analysis of the institutional order in question. It is important to stress that this does not exclusively or even primarily involve a preoccupation with complex theoretical systems serving as legitimations for the institutional order. Theories also have to be taken into account, of course. However, theoretical knowledge is only a small and by no means the most important part of what passes for knowledge in a society. Theoretically sophisticated legitimations appear at particular moments of an institutional history. The primary knowledge about the institutional order is knowledge on the pretheoretical level. It is the sum total of “whatever everybody knows” about a social world, an assemblage of maxims, morals, proverbial nuggets of wisdom, values and beliefs, myths, and so forth, the theoretical integration of which requires considerable intellectual fortitude in itself, as the long line of heroic integrators from Homer to the latest sociological system-builders testifies. On the pretheoretical level, however, every institution has a body of transmitted recipe knowledge, that is, knowledge that supplies the institutionally appropriate rules of conduct. Such knowledge constitutes the motivating dynamics of institutionalized conduct. It defines the institutionalized areas of conduct and designates all situations falling within them. It defines and constructs the roles to be played in the context of the institutions in question. Ipso facto, it controls and predicts all such conduct.

Since this knowledge is socially objectivated as knowledge, that is, as a body of generally valid truths about reality, any radical deviance from the institutional order appears as a departure from reality. Such deviance may be designated as moral depravity, mental disease, or just plain ignorance. While these fine distinctions will have obvious consequences for the treatment of the deviant, they all share an inferior cognitive status within the particular social world. In this way, the particular social world becomes the world tout court. What is taken for granted as knowledge in the society comes to be coextensive with the knowledge, or at any rate provides the framework within which anything not yet known will come to be known in the future. This is the knowledge that is learned in the course of socialization, and that mediates the internalization within individual consciousness of the objectivated structures of the social world. Knowledge, in this sense, is at the heart of the fundamental dialectic of society. It “programs” the channels in which externalization produces an objective world. It objectifies this world through language and the cognitive apparatus based on language, that is, it orders it into objects to be apprehended as reality. It is internalized again as an objectively valid truth in the course of socialization. Knowledge about society is thus a realization in the double sense of the word, in the sense of ongoingly producing this reality.

For example, in the course of the division of labor, a body of knowledge is developed that refers to the particular activities involved. In its linguistic basis, this knowledge is already indispensable to the institutional “programming” of these economic activities. There will be, say, a vocabulary designating the various modes of hunting, the weapons to be employed, the animals that serve as prey, and so on. If one is to hunt correctly, there will be a collection of recipes that must be learned. This knowledge serves as a channeling, controlling force in itself, an indispensable ingredient of the institutionalization of this area of conduct. As the institution of hunting is crystallized and persists in time, the same body of knowledge serves as an objective (and, incidentally, empirically verifiable) description of it. A whole segment of the social world is objectified by this knowledge. There will be an objective “science” of hunting, corresponding to the objective reality of the hunting economy. The point need not be belabored that here “empirical verification” and “science” are not understood in the sense of modern scientific canons, but rather in the sense of knowledge that may be borne out in experience and that can subsequently become systematically organized as a body of knowledge. Again, the same body of knowledge is transmitted to the next generation. It is learned as objective truth in the course of socialization, and this is internalized as subjective reality. This reality, in turn, has the power to shape the individual. It will produce a specific reality.

The reality will produce a specific type of person, namely the hunter, whose identity and biography as a hunter have meaning only in a universe constituted by the aforementioned body of knowledge as a whole (say, in a hunters’ society) or in part (say, in our own society, in which hunters come together in a subuniverse of their own). In other words, no part of the institutionalization of hunting can exist without the particular knowledge that has been socially produced and objectivated with reference to this activity. To hunt and to be a hunter implies existence in a social world defined and controlled by this body of knowledge. Mutatis mutandis, the same applies to any area of institutionalized conduct. There is a certain measure of safety in the deliberate cultivation of rational thought based on observed fact as a guide to action. This is the way that science has travelled with the discoveries of, and profits by, natural law. This is the way that industry and commerce have traveled, with solid results for all to see. Its value, when applied to methods of achievement, is a proven one. The sciences are useful to man and need not be cursed for the evil results of their abuse by man. He needs rather to learn how to make a better, more prudent, and wiser use of them. The spirit of science—which happens to be the spirit of this age—has rationalized us, and we are naturally impatient of all misguided persons who appear irrational. Even if we later recognize that certain educational methods were harsh or misguided, they shaped us during a time when we did not have alternatives. Our success gives us the space to reflect on them critically, but those experiences still formed part of the path that brought us here.