I’ve been asked that question a million times.
In boardrooms. In brainstorms. In the long shadowed corridors of my own overthinking.
But this time, it was different.
It didn’t come from a boss or a critic.
It came from a lifelong friend—a man I’d long filed away under “bumbling but harmless.” We were mid-conversation, two drinks deep into the ritual whiskey venting about the absurdity of modern life. Me, railing. Him, listening.
And then he drops it on me.
Like a straight jab I never saw coming:
“What evidence do you have?”
Not about a crime.
Not about some external situation demanding proof.
No. This was an internal trial.
He was calling me out—not on what I’d done, but on what I believed.
I had just muttered something like:
“I’ve got to just keep this thing going for now… It’s not like I can just run out and find a better situation.”
And then boom.
“What evidence do you have?”
That I couldn’t find better.
That it wouldn’t work out.
That staying small, safe, stuck—was the only rational choice?
I’ve spent most of my adult life worshipping deduction.
Observe. Collect. Analyze.
Follow the logic. Ignore the noise. Find the culprit. Solve the case.
But this wasn’t that kind of evidence.
This wasn’t blood spatter and alibis.
This was about the beliefs I’d built entire habits around.
The quiet, unspoken stories I repeated to myself so often I forgot to question them.
And for the first time in years, someone asked me to prove them.
I couldn’t.
I admitted it, reluctantly.
He didn’t gloat. Didn’t press. Just let me sit with it—let the silence metabolize truth.
This was a man who once tried to convince me of the spiritual benefits of talking to trees.
And in one sentence, he course-corrected my entire trajectory—with whiskey to spare.
A few minutes later, he hit me again—not with critique, but with poetry. Two quotes. The first?
“If you don’t like your life… go and change it.”
Turns out he’d lifted it from Vacation by The Dirty Heads—a track he’d been blasting on repeat in his car. But the one that finished the job? The quote that left me in a heap of humility and possibility?
“A step backward is still a step in the right direction if you’re going down the wrong path.”
DAMN!
It gutted me—in the best way.
Because I realized then how hard I’d been clinging to momentum… status… identity built on top of coping.
And maybe that’s the con.
We tell ourselves we’re being consistent, loyal, brave…
When really, we’re just afraid to admit we zigged when we should’ve zagged.
So I took two more whiskeys.
And I decided I’d rather backtrack to become the man I want to be
than double down on the one I became in survival mode.
“We are more like ourselves every day.”
That one came later. I think it was Scott Galloway who said it. But it landed just the same.
A reminder that change isn’t an act—it’s a return. A re-alignment. A reintroduction to who you were always meant to be.
That night, “What evidence do you have?”
became my new mantra.
Not just for judging what’s true.
But for questioning what’s true enough to keep living by.
And maybe that’s where you come in.
Next time you catch yourself spiraling—ranting about the job, the relationship, the role, the rut—pause for a second. Ask yourself the question my tree-talking friend asked me:
What evidence do you have?
What evidence do you have that it’s as hopeless as it feels? That you’re trapped? That the story you’re telling yourself is the only version of the truth?
Because sometimes the facts don’t need to change—just the frame.
And maybe, just maybe, that single question will nudge you—not into action, not immediately—but back into alignment. Back into curiosity. Back into the truth that’s worth living by.
Now if you’ll excuse me… there’s a tree outside that looks like it could use a good listener.
This reflection is part of The Deductionists—a league of sharp minds unraveling the peculiar and the personal. Because if we don’t question it, who will?
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