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This piece is from the CU Independent’s opinion section. Any opinions or views do not represent the CU Independent.
Children have this phrase mastered, and for parents, it can feel like the moment their kids learn to form syllables, they wield those words as weapons of contradiction.
“Why can’t I eat ice cream for dinner? Why can’t I stay up all night? Why can’t I bite my brother?”
This contradiction, this constant questioning, stems from something beautiful: Children see the world with fresh eyes, an unbiased perspective and an insatiable desire to explore and uncover the foundations of the world around them.
Yet before we realize it, this phrase, “Why not?” slips from our vocabulary, worn down by the weight of the answers it receives. Eventually, we begin to answer our questions with a single word: “Because.”
“Because” is actually quite a depressing word when it stands alone, without the string of reasoning that should follow. “Because” isn’t just a word—it’s a statement. A statement that says, I don’t care enough to think deeply about this. Or I won’t challenge the construct I’ve come to accept, simply because that’s how things are. Because that’s how they’ve always been.
And in that sameness, that familiarity, we find safety, but we also lose the confidence to question. If people of the past had shared this mindset, the earth would still be flat and birds would still be the only occupants of the sky. It was those who dared to question the world around them, who were brave enough to challenge the answers in search of understanding, and perhaps something greater.
The absence of “Why not” in our culture doesn’t just stifle questioning and creativity; it breeds narrow-mindedness and self-imposed limitations. People accept whatever information they are fed and whatever they are told, instead of taking the time to ask themselves how they truly feel about a topic or experience. In fact, it’s not just about taking the time. It’s about caring enough to engage with how you feel.
You could write off the absence of questioning in general as laziness or as limited cognitive endurance brought on by shortened attention spans. However, you could also see it as a desire to dissociate from our current reality. Doomscrolling has become one of the most common forms of daily dissociation. Unfortunately, we live in a generation where not caring is easier than caring. Online conversations are easier to maintain, and emotional distance often feels like a necessity for personal protection.
I’m sure most people have heard the saying, “It’s not that deep.” I despise this phrase. Not only because it has been used to dismiss a philosophical idea I shared, leaving me feeling unseen, but also because it invalidates the depth of the human experience itself. It is that deep. We die a little every day, moving one step closer to not existing. So do you really want to pretend it’s not that deep? Do you really want to waste the seconds and breaths you’ll never get back by insisting, “It’s not that deep?”
You might really think it’s not that deep. To me, that’s kind of sad. Then again, maybe that’s just because I am in love with the depth of people and things. I think when you take the time to think about this depth, life feels more satiable. I will forever embark on the exploration of my existential existence.
So, back to “Why not?” Why do I think this phrase is one of the most crucial curators of identity? Whether I find myself limited by society or by others who deem my dreams absurdly beyond the realm of possibility, why should they be the ones to decide what my realm of possibility is?
I started running about a year ago, and in that short time, I’ve managed to become decently good at it. One day, I said, “I’m going to be an Olympian.” Others replied, “Well, yes, you’re good, but maybe not an Olympian.” To which I responded, “Why not?” I’m not even sure if I want to be an Olympian, but what I am sure of is this: I would rather fail while trying to define my own potential than let that limit be set by others. I’d rather spend my whole life in a state of perpetual questioning than settle for shallow answers.
Contact CU Independent Writer Sophia Neckin at sophia.neckin@colorado.edu
