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So who do you want to be behind the wheel?

Part 2: Entering the Highway

Getting on the highway and realizing exactly how you learned to drive.

Chapter 3: The Routes You've Been Taught

Remember when you were just learning to drive? And I'm not talking about the technical aspects—how to turn the steering wheel, press the pedals, or check the mirrors. I'm talking about something else. About unwritten rules. About instincts. About those intuitive reactions you have when someone cuts you off or when you see an open parking space.

Where did all this come from?

How knowledge is spread

Take a pencil for example.

You know you can write with it, but where did you learn it from? Perhaps a teacher or your parents told you. But this particular piece of knowledge went "viral" thousands of years ago. And someone taught the teacher. And before that, someone else. If you rewind back hundreds, if not thousands, of years, this "knowledge virus" about the pencil is still alive, still spreading, transmitting the same basic idea: this tool leaves a mark on paper.

Now we literally know what it means to go viral.

(I understand that many would prefer to erase 2020 from their memories, but we have experienced first-hand what it means to have something literally go viral.)

If you've had COVID-19, imagine how many people before you carried the same strain of the virus. If you trace the chain, somewhere at the beginning there was the original source, "patient zero," and then the virus went viral and through a chain of people reached you. Technically, this virus passed through many people, and you ended up, say, a carrier in the seventy-third generation.

Knowledge works the same way. It's passed down from person to person, from generation to generation; everyone passes it on, and more often than not, no one stops to consider where it originally came from.

This is essentially how we learn everything in the world.

Inherited Travel Habits

You learned to drive at a driving school, where you were taught the official rules (and perhaps spiced up with the instructor's personal whims). You learned from your parents, absorbing their example every time you sat in the backseat and watched them. You learned from your culture, which explained that certain behaviors on the road carry certain meanings. You learned from movies that showed you what "cool" driving looks like, what "aggression" manifests itself in, and what "success" on the highway looks like.

None of this is neutral. It's all programming.

Aggressive lane changes? You learned it. Perhaps from watching your mom or dad weave through traffic to "make up time." Perhaps from movies where the hero always seems to be speeding like a rocket. Or perhaps from the driving culture of your city, where the slightest hesitation will get you mercilessly honked at.

Fighting for prestigious parking spots? You've learned that too. Get there first. Get closer to the entrance. Get the "best" spot. Objectively, there's nothing better about it—it's just a hierarchy someone invented and everyone agreed to uphold.

Road hierarchy? Trucks must keep to the right lane. Sports cars are allowed to speed. Minivans are boring. Luxury cars deserve respect. Electric cars are for eco-activists (or tech pioneers, depending on which virus you've caught).

All of this was taught. All of this was passed on. All of this was accepted without question.

Someone told you that you have the right to feel superior.

Neil deGrasse Tyson, an astrophysicist, science communicator, and someone I deeply admire for his openness to ideas, wrote something about competition in his book , Starry Messenger , that perfectly applies to our topic:

The Olympic Games owe their existence to the search for those among us who are faster, higher, and stronger. Standardized exams, game shows, beauty contests, talent auditions, and the Forbes 400 list all pit people against each other in a hierarchical order. Society offers hundreds, if not thousands, of ways to prove yourself better than others .

And then he said something that should make us all think:

"You only feel superior because someone told you it's okay to feel that way." 2

Read this again.

You didn't wake up one day with an innate sense that you're better than the slow driver trudging along in the left lane when they should be in the right. Someone taught you that slow drivers in the left lane are "wrong," even if they're driving the speed limit, and therefore you (the fast, "correct" driver) are superior.

You weren't born knowing that overtaking more cars meant "winning." Someone taught you that being ahead is success.

Rivalry was downloaded into you. Like software. Like a virus.

The Attention Economy in My Hometown

Let me give you a personal example from the place where I was born.

I grew up in Monterrey, Mexico, and there's a deep-rooted cultural virus there. We call ourselves gamblers and hard workers, and we boast about it proudly—but perhaps we're simply masking a need for attention and recognition to feel superior to others.

It works like this: if someone has something that grabs attention, you need something bigger, cooler (and usually more expensive) to pull – or steal – the attention.

Did your friend buy a car that everyone is looking at? You'll start looking for a pickup truck that will turn even more heads.

Is your neighbor throwing a party that everyone is talking about? You need to throw one that will set the new standard.

This applies to everything. Weddings. Quinceañeras . Job titles. House sizes. Sports teams.

And here's the irony: your joy becomes relative – it depends on how much you made others feel inferior to you.

It's not enough to just be happy with your car—you need to know it attracts more attention than a friend's. It's not enough to throw a wonderful party—you need people to say it was better than the last one, so its owner feels "outdone."

And this applies not only to things and events. Everything goes much deeper, to the personal level:

– When are you getting married? – When are you going to have children? – Your cousin already has two, what are you waiting for? – Your brother just got promoted, how are you doing at work?

This constant comparison doesn't stem from any objective frame of reference. It's the same cultural virus that permeates families, convincing everyone that their worth is measured by achieving shared milestones—and achieving them more effectively than everyone else.

There is even a thought experiment that illustrates this perfectly:

– Would you rather have a $300,000 house where everyone else has $200,000 houses, or a $500,000 house where everyone else has a million-dollar house?

Rationally, a house costing half a million is objectively better. It's bigger, better quality, and more expensive.

But most people choose a house for 300,000. Because in that area, they win. They're at the top. Affluence doesn't matter unless you have relative superiority. They have the best house on the street—all the attention is theirs.

In the millionaires' neighborhood, they're at the bottom. They have the "worst" house. Even though by any objective standard it's a mansion, no one pays them any attention.

This preference—to be relatively superior, rather than objectively better—is acquired. It's a cultural virus. And it makes people deeply unhappy.

Not everyone behaves this way, and it's not just about Monterrey. But this is what I know from my experience growing up there.

Status signals we've been taught to value

Have you ever noticed how some people buy expensive coffee only in trendy places, although they could make it at home for much cheaper (but without the coveted cup)?

It's not about the coffee. It's about walking into the office with that particular cup. To be seen by others as someone who can afford "decent" coffee from the place everyone's talking about. It's a status signal.

It's the same with branded clothing, where the logo is huge and visible from afar. You're not buying quality (a regular T-shirt is no less functional) – you're buying a signal. You're saying, "I can afford this brand, which means I'm superior to those who can't."

You can always tell when someone has suddenly become rich: they suddenly start decking themselves out in huge logos and branded prints from head to toe. They need to show the crowd that they can afford it. These people are like walking totems of luxury brands.

No one is born with a fear of logos. It's something acquired. It's a virus that someone spread, and you caught it.

In high school, I was hanging out with a couple of friends in my hometown. It was late afternoon, and we'd been skateboarding all day (there was no internet back then, so we were hanging out on the street—crazy times, right?). We were sitting in a friend's garage, and the car was parked next door.

I don't remember all the details, but the conversation boiled down to us taking one look at it and deciding it was just a regular, standard-shaped car. Gray. Boring. We were like, "Pfft, just a regular sedan."

But then one of the friends went to throw away his cigarette butt, saw that it was a BMW, and suddenly shouted: “Wow, look at this car! Holy shit!”

The brand made him think that way. Not the car itself. Not anything objectively different about its appearance or functionality. Just the logo. Just the knowledge that this thing "should" be impressive.

This is the virus in action. We didn't care about the car until we found out it was expensive. And then we started caring—simply because we were "supposed" to react that way.

When you catch yourself thinking that you care

Cultural programming is effective because it works in the background. You don't notice the installation process. You simply sense the reaction and accept it as your own.

But you can learn to catch such moments.

You're standing at a traffic light, and a luxury car pulls up next to you. Something triggers in your brain—an automatic judgment of the driver, perhaps a flash of envy or a feeling of superiority, depending on what you're driving. This reaction wasn't yours. It was programmed into you.

You see someone's vacation photos on social media. Before you can think, you're comparing their trip to yours—especially if you've been there a long time ago—feeling like you're "falling behind," and mentally planning your next, even more impressive vacation to post about. This comparison reflex wasn't yours. It was imposed from the outside.

The program manifests itself in the split second that passes between "saw" and "felt." It is in this pause that implanted beliefs live.

It's impossible to completely erase cultural programming. It's too deep-seated. Too automated. Too heavily reinforced by everything around us.

But you can learn to recognize it. And recognition changes everything.

When you catch yourself judging someone's car, house, clothes, or job, you can stop and ask, "Where did I get the idea that this is important?" Try to find the roots of your own beliefs.

When you feel the urge to one-up someone else's story with your own, notice this: Do I really want to share this, or am I just trying to assert my position in the hierarchy?

When you start comparing your life to the “front” window display of someone else’s life, you pull yourself up: “Who taught me to measure my value this way?”

You won't always make a different choice. Sometimes you'll recognize the program, but you'll still follow its instructions—because it's easier, or because everyone else is doing it, or because you're too tired to resist.

But recognition switches off autopilot. It creates a moment of choice where before there was only an automatic reaction. And this moment is precisely where freedom begins.

You can retrain

There is some good news: once you have taught these ideas, you can unlearn them.

You don't have to follow the driving habits you inherited. You don't have to race just because everyone else is competing. You don't have to feel superior just because your culture says it's okay.

You can see the program for what it is – an idea that was imposed on you without your consent – and decide whether you want to keep it.

Some cultural programming is useful. Traffic regulations exist for a reason. Social norms of basic politeness allow society to function.

But aggressive lane changes? Status parking? The feeling of superiority from the way you drive or the fact that you have a sunroof?

It's all optional. And it makes you unhappy.

So how do you actually start retraining?

Start with awareness. You just practiced this in the previous section. Notice when the program starts. Don't judge it. Don't try to fight it immediately. Just see it. – Ah, there goes that automatic status comparison again.

Then question it. When you find a program at work, ask yourself: "What if I didn't care?" You don't have to vow to "never care again"—just experiment. What if that person's car didn't matter? What if you didn't need that enviable vacation? What if you just… left it as is? The world won't end. Usually, nothing at all happens.

Then try doing something different once. Without making it a new rule. Without promising to change forever. Just this once. Someone tells you something they're proud of. Instead of jumping into a story about your success, just say, "That's great." And that's it. No need to wax lyrical about praise like, "You made my day," or make the conversation about yourself. Just acknowledge the fact. See what happens. Usually? They'll just keep talking. They won't even notice you didn't compete. The hierarchy you thought you needed to affirm wasn't actually needed.

Listen to your feelings. When you don't engage in comparisons you normally would; when you don't buy a status item you would have bought earlier; when you don't judge someone you normally would—pay attention to how you feel. Sometimes it's relief. Sometimes it's freedom. Sometimes it's discomfort, because the program is still there, insisting it's important. All these feelings are information.

That's what retraining is all about. Not erasing code. Not replacing it with another. But understanding that it's code and deciding whether you want to run it.

You can decide not to participate in competitions you never signed up for. You can decide to stop measuring your happiness by the lives of others. You can choose your own path without worrying about whether you're "ahead" or "behind" someone else.

There is no exam that will evaluate whether you have fallen behind the “right” people and whether you are correctly following the cultural script.

But there is a choice: continue using software that someone else installed, or start writing your own code.

1. Neil deGrasse Tyson, Starry Messenger: Cosmic Perspectives on Civilization (Henry Holt and Company, 2022), 149.

2. Neil deGrasse Tyson, Starry Messenger , 150.

Chapter 4: The Speed Trap

Before, knowing what others thought of us required real feedback. Now we get instant metrics: likes, views, reposts. We've become dependent on the scoreboard in a race we never even agreed to participate in.

Why do we compete? Who told us we have to be the fastest car on the highway? When did documenting life become more important than life itself?

The evolution of the concert

There's a perfect example of how this shift has happened, and it can be seen in how the atmosphere at concerts has changed over the past 40 years:

• 1980s: People came to concerts with their hands raised, lighters flickering in the darkness. They lived the music. They were IN the moment. The goal was to feel the sound, to merge with the energy of the crowd, to connect with the performer.

• 1990s: Cameras appeared. People started taking pictures of musicians. Most of the time, cameras were forbidden from being brought into concerts. But if you managed to, pictures were taken to remember that night later. To look back and say: “I saw that live.” Personal experience was still primary. Documentation was secondary.

• 2000s: Cell phones got cameras. People now recorded entire songs—grainy video, terrible sound, shaky pictures they'd likely never watch again. But while recording, they were still mostly looking at the stage. The phone was just an addition to the experience.

• 2010s: Smartphones got better. People started taking selfies IN FRONT of the band. Noticed the change? The band became a backdrop. A concert stopped being an event for the music – it became a way to prove that YOU were there. Documentation became equal to the experience itself.

• 2020s: What about now? Now people film themselves throughout the concert. The camera is pointed at them, and the band is a blur somewhere behind the phone. The performers are unimportant – we are the main characters in our own show called “me at the concert.” People don’t look at the stage. They look at the screen, which films them against the backdrop of the show.

History is us now. The group doesn't matter.

A concert is no longer a destination. It's simply a backdrop for your content. For your stories. For your proof that you're living an interesting life that should impress others.

Everyone is performing, no one is watching.

A few years ago, a video went viral. The saddest thing is that it happens year after year. It's New Year's Eve in Paris. Thousands of people gathered at the Arc de Triomphe to celebrate midnight.

The camera pans across the crowd. Everyone, without exception, has their phone raised, recording. Absolutely everyone.

They don't watch. They record.

No one is experiencing the moment they traveled thousands of miles for. Everyone is watching through a 6-inch screen, trying to capture it for those who aren't there.

But if everyone is recording and no one is watching, what's the point of being there?

Who are they filming this for? For those who didn't come? But why would those people watch shaky phone footage of something they didn't see themselves?

The answer is simple: they record it to prove they were there. To prove their lives are interesting. To gather evidence that they're winning this race.

Go to any gym right now. See what's going on there.

Some people set up their phones to record their workouts. Not to check their form. Not to track their progress. But to post them. To show everyone: they're working out. That they're goal-oriented. That they're better than those who aren't in the gym right now.

And here's where the most revealing part begins: they kick people out of the frame. They get annoyed if someone walks past their lens. They change their approach because someone "ruined" their video.

And then—and this is even worse—they post the video, shaming the person who dared interrupt their recording. How dare they use a public space while someone else is filming? They shame strangers online for the crime of… “existing in a shared space.” (Kudos to Joey Swall, bodybuilder and fitness influencer, for creating the “Mind Your Own Business” movement to stop this kind of behavior.)

The training itself becomes secondary to its documentation.

They're not here to get stronger. They're here to be seen getting stronger. They're not competing against their past performance—they're competing for attention, for approval, for proof that they're ahead of everyone else.

Where is the reality show here?

Social media has changed the way we perceive ourselves. It has made us feel like each of us is the main character in our own movie, one that everyone else is obligated to watch.

We don't just live. We perform a role in our lives. We curate our lives. We edit them for an audience that might not really care.

We act as if we're playing a game we didn't sign up for—like reality TV contestants, constantly mindful of the camera, constantly adjusting our behavior to the audience, constantly measuring our worth by ratings.

But here's the inconvenient truth: no one is watching you as closely as you think.

Your followers don't study your posts. They skim them. They watch them half-heartedly while standing in line for coffee. They consume your content the same way you consume theirs—quickly, mindlessly, forgetting about it before they even move on to the next post.

Psychologists call this the "spotlight effect." You feel like you're on stage, like everyone is noticing your appearance, your mistakes, your life choices. The truth is, everyone is too preoccupied with themselves to care about you. They're not spectators watching your film—they're the stars of their own movies, barely aware of your existence, except as background scenery.

You're competing for the attention of people who aren't actually watching the race.

Swipe to refresh

So why can't we stop? Why do we keep checking notifications? Why is it so hard to just put our phones down?

Because the system is designed to keep you hooked.

Social media aren't just apps; they're slot machines in your pocket. And they exploit the same psychological mechanism that makes gambling addictive: intermittent reinforcement.

Here's how it works: you post something. You don't know how it'll go down. Maybe there will be 10 likes. Maybe 100. Maybe 1,000. This uncertainty creates anticipation. And anticipation triggers a dopamine rush.

Every time you check your phone, you're pulling the lever of a slot machine. Sometimes you win (notifications! likes! comments!). Sometimes you don't. But the possibility that THIS time will bring you a big win keeps you checking your phone again and again.

The dopamine hit comes not from the likes themselves, but from the anticipation of getting them. That's why you keep refreshing your feed. That's why you check your phone five minutes after posting. That's why you feel anxious when a post doesn't get as much attention as you expected.

You're not weak. You're addicted not because you lack willpower. You're up against a multi-billion dollar industry that has designed these platforms specifically to be as addictive as possible. They employ neuroscientists and behavioral psychologists whose sole job is to figure out how to keep you scrolling endlessly.

A red notification icon? Designed to create a sense of urgency. Infinite scrolling? To remove breakpoints. A "seen" indicator? To create social pressure to respond immediately. An algorithm that shows you content that annoys you? Designed to keep your attention, even if it makes you miserable.

Every feature is optimized for one thing: to keep you on the platform as long as possible to sell more ads. The algorithm controls what you see, what you feel, and what you do next.

And it works because dopamine doesn't care about your well-being. Dopamine cares about reward prediction. Your brain doesn't differentiate between real and imagined rewards—dopamine is released regardless. And these platforms know exactly how to hack this system.

That's why you can spend two hours scrolling through your feed and still feel worse than when you started. That's why you can know in your head that social media is making you anxious, but you still can't stop checking it. That's why deleting an app feels like withdrawal.

You're not losing self-control. You're fighting a system designed specifically to suppress that self-control.

In pursuit of ghosts' approval

So why do we do this? Why do we continue to feed the machine, even knowing it was created to exploit us?

Because deep down, we're looking for confirmation that we're cooler than others. That we're more interesting. That we're winning the race.

Every post is a comparison. Every story is proof. Every like is a vote confirming that, yes, you're ahead, you're doing better, you're worthy of attention.

A concert isn't about the music, it's about proving you have access to events that others don't. A video from the audience isn't about fitness, it's about proving your discipline compared to those stuck at home. Vacation photos aren't about relaxation, it's about proving your life is more vibrant than those scrolling through your feed.