HUMANITY’S DANGEROUS EXPONENTIAL BLIND SPOT

Fifty years ago, a highly respected American physicist warned: “The greatest shortcoming of the human race is our inability to understand the exponential function.” Today, his caution is more relevant than ever as technology advances, demands on resources mount, and changes that once took centuries or decades can happen in years. Sometimes months… or days. Yet humanity’s blindspot is ignoring the dangers of exponential increase or the power of compounding growth.

Professor Albert Bartlett taught physics at the University of Colorado and spent years explaining a simple mathematical principle that even impressively educated people frequently underestimate. He believed humanity’s failure to understand compounding function was leading us toward serious problems that could’ve been anticipated and possibly/probably prevented.

Today, we’re witnessing extraordinary advances in artificial intelligence, computing, medicine, and scientific discovery. Some of these developments are compounding at remarkable rates, bringing enormous opportunities along with equally significant challenges. The trouble is that we aren’t very good at recognizing where these changes may take us.

But Bartlett’s message wasn’t all doom and gloom, and neither is the future. Understanding exponential growth can help us recognize dangers, anticipate change, and take advantage of opportunities that previous generations could scarcely have imagined. And as we’ll discover, the mathematics concealed in humanity’s dangerous blind spot is surprisingly simple.

The World Is Changing Faster Than We Can Understand It

Think back to when the internet came through a telephone line and the modem sounded like it was trying to contact Mars. In a single working lifetime, we’ve moved from waiting for a webpage to load to carrying much of the world’s accumulated knowledge in our pockets. Now artificial intelligence can analyze information, generate explanations, and write computer code in seconds. That’s astonishing progress, but the real problem isn’t speed alone.

What gets us into trouble is treating tomorrow as a slightly larger version of today. When something grows by a fixed percentage, each increase builds on a bigger base. For a while, the difference hardly seems worth mentioning. Then it becomes impossible to ignore, and by the time the consequences become obvious, opportunities to deal with them may have passed.

This matters far beyond computers. Compound interest can quietly build a retirement fund or bury a household in debt. A contagious disease can spread faster than a healthcare system can respond. Growing demands for energy, water, and other resources can overwhelm infrastructure designed around yesterday’s expectations. Not everything grows exponentially, of course, and nothing physical can continue doing so indefinitely. But failing to recognize compounding growth can come at an enormous cost.

There’s an encouraging side to all this. Understanding exponential growth isn’t particularly difficult, and it doesn’t require an advanced mathematics degree. What it does require is learning to look beyond what’s happening today and recognize what might happen tomorrow. That’s the lesson one remarkably persistent physics professor spent much of his life trying to teach.

The Professor Who Tried to Warn the World

Albert Allen Bartlett wasn’t an alarmist who’d discovered a catchy line. He was a physicist with a Harvard doctorate who’d worked at Los Alamos during the Manhattan Project before joining the University of Colorado in 1950. He taught there for decades, became president of the American Association of Physics Teachers, and earned a reputation as a gifted teacher. But the work he’d become best known for had less to do with advanced physics than elementary arithmetic.

On September 19, 1969, Bartlett gave a lecture to university students called Arithmetic, Population and Energy. His concern was that politicians, business leaders, and ordinary citizens kept talking about steady growth as though it could carry on forever. Population was increasing, energy consumption was rising, and apparently sensible projections were ignoring what happens when one year’s growth gets added to the next. The numbers weren’t complicated. Their consequences were.

Bartlett took that lecture on the road and eventually delivered it 1,742 times, across 49 American states and seven other countries. Think about that. A respected scientist spent much of his life repeating essentially the same lesson because he believed people still weren’t getting it. He wasn’t arguing that every kind of progress was bad. He was warning that growing demands on finite resources couldn’t continue indefinitely at a fixed percentage rate, regardless of how comfortable the early numbers looked.

Bartlett died in 2013 at ninety, but the problem he identified didn’t retire with him. We’re now surrounded by growth figures, projections, and technological forecasts that are easy to repeat and much harder to understand. His lasting contribution wasn’t inventing the exponential function. It was insisting that we learn what it actually means before making decisions based on it. And the place to start is with the deceptively simple mathematics.

The Mathematics That Fools Almost Everyone

The mathematics behind exponential growth isn’t particularly difficult. Most of us understand that adding ten to a number makes it ten larger. That’s linear growth, where the same amount gets added each time. Exponential growth works differently because each increase is calculated on the new, larger total. The percentage stays the same, but the amount being added keeps growing. That’s where our intuition often lets us down.

Let’s say you start with 100 dollars and add five dollars every year. After thirty years, you’ll have 250 dollars. But if that original 100 dollars grows by five percent annually, with each year’s earnings added to the total, you’ll have approximately 432 dollars after thirty years. The difference comes from compounding, where growth earns further growth. It’s the same principle that makes compound interest so valuable to investors and so expensive to people carrying unpaid debt.

Bartlett frequently explained exponential growth using the Rule of 70, a simple mathematical shortcut for estimating doubling time. Divide 70 by the annual percentage growth rate and you’ll get approximately how many years it’ll take something to double. At seven percent growth, that’s about ten years. After twenty years, the original amount has roughly quadrupled, and after thirty it’s approaching eight times its starting value. Nothing magical has happened. The mathematics has simply been doing its work.

Here’s what makes this so deceptive. During the early stages, exponential growth can appear almost insignificant, especially when the starting amount is small. By the time the increases become impossible to ignore, the process may have been underway for years. Of course, nothing in the physical world can grow exponentially forever, but understanding how quickly things can change before reaching their limits is essential. Bartlett had a favourite illustration involving a chessboard and a few grains of wheat. It’s a story worth telling because the numbers become almost unbelievable.

What is the exponential function, and how does exponential growth work? The exponential function describes a quantity that changes by a constant multiplying factor over equal intervals. Unlike linear growth, which adds the same amount each time, exponential growth compounds on an increasingly larger base. For example, $100 growing at seven percent annually becomes approximately $197 after ten years. The Rule of 70 provides a simple way to estimate doubling time: divide 70 by the annual percentage growth rate.

The King, the Chessboard, and the Grain of Rice

Bartlett had a favourite story that illustrated exponential growth better than any mathematical formula. According to an ancient legend, a king was so pleased with the invention of chess that he offered its creator whatever reward he wanted. The inventor made what seemed like a ridiculously modest request. He wanted one grain of rice placed on the first square of a chessboard, two grains on the second, four on the third, eight on the fourth, and so on, doubling the amount on each successive square until all sixty-four were covered.

The king must’ve thought he’d struck a pretty good bargain. After all, how much could a few grains of rice possibly cost? But the inventor understood something the king didn’t. The first ten squares required only 1,023 grains in total. By the twentieth square, the total exceeded a million, and by the thirtieth, it had passed a billion. Things were getting expensive.

Now comes the astonishing part. By the sixty-fourth square, the king would’ve needed 9.2 quintillion grains for that square alone. The total for the entire chessboard would’ve been approximately 18.4 quintillion grains, or 18,446,744,073,709,551,615 to be precise. Depending on the size of the grains, that’s hundreds of billions of tonnes of rice. The royal treasury wasn’t going to cover that bill.

Bartlett used wheat rather than rice in his telling, but the lesson was identical. Each new square required one grain more than the combined total of every preceding square. Think about that. After sixty-three doublings, the final increase was greater than everything that had accumulated before it. That’s the extraordinary mathematical power of compounding, and it explains why apparently manageable growth can eventually produce overwhelming consequences.

The chessboard is only a legend, but the arithmetic is indisputable. The unsettling question is why something so straightforward remains so difficult for intelligent people to appreciate when the numbers involve real money, resources, populations, or technological change.

Why Our Brains Keep Getting the Future Wrong

The king’s mistake wasn’t that he couldn’t do arithmetic. He simply couldn’t imagine where all that doubling would lead, and he’s hardly alone. Most of us make judgments about the future based on what we’ve experienced in the past. If something’s been changing slowly, we tend to expect more of the same. That works reasonably well for many everyday situations, but it can get us into serious trouble when growth starts compounding.

Psychologists have studied this tendency for decades and given it a name: exponential-growth bias. Research consistently shows that people underestimate how quickly quantities increase when they’re growing by a fixed percentage. In a 2022 study involving 521 participants, researchers found that people were reasonably accurate at predicting straight-line growth but regularly underestimated exponential trends. Mathematical knowledge helped, although even understanding the principle doesn’t always prevent us from making the mistake.

There’s another problem. We’re often more confident in our predictions than the evidence warrants. During the COVID-19 pandemic, for example, many people had difficulty appreciating how quickly infections could multiply before hospitals became overwhelmed. Researchers found that helping people understand exponential growth changed their perception of the danger. What seemed manageable one week could become a public health emergency shortly afterward.

None of this means humans are incapable of understanding exponential change. It means our first impressions aren’t always reliable, particularly when we’re dealing with unfamiliar numbers and long-term projections. The sensible approach is to question our assumptions, examine the actual growth rates, and do the arithmetic rather than trust our instincts. That’s especially important when the consequences involve something more substantial than a king’s imaginary rice bill.

Why do humans have difficulty understanding exponential growth? Humans tend to judge the future by extending familiar patterns from the past, which makes the accelerating effects of compounding difficult to appreciate. Physicist Albert Bartlett warned that this misunderstanding leads societies to underestimate the consequences of population growth and increasing resource consumption. The classic chessboard illustration demonstrates the problem: doubling one grain on each successive square produces more grains on the sixty-fourth square than on all sixty-three preceding squares combined.

Exponential Growth Isn’t Just a Mathematical Curiosity

Bartlett wasn’t particularly concerned about chessboards or imaginary rice bills. He was worried about what happens when people fail to recognize exponential growth in the real world, where the consequences can affect their finances, health, resources, and future. Consider compound interest. Money invested at a reasonable rate of return can grow substantially over several decades because the earnings themselves generate further earnings. But the same principle works against anyone carrying unpaid credit card debt. Compounding doesn’t care whether you’re getting richer or poorer.

Infectious diseases provide another sobering example. During the early stages of an epidemic, when most people remain susceptible, infections can multiply exponentially as each infected person passes the disease to others. That’s why apparently small outbreaks can develop into major public health emergencies before authorities have time to respond. The good news is that infections don’t keep multiplying indefinitely. Immunity, changing behaviour, medical interventions, and other factors can slow or reverse the spread.

Population growth was Bartlett’s principal concern. The world’s population reached approximately one billion around 1800 and passed eight billion in 2022. But here’s an important distinction. Global population isn’t currently growing exponentially at a constant rate. Growth rates have been declining for decades, and United Nations projections suggest the population could peak at approximately 10.3 billion during the 2080s. That’s a reminder that growth rates change, and projections aren’t guarantees.

Nevertheless, Bartlett’s warning about finite resources remains relevant. Increasing populations and rising consumption can place enormous demands on energy, water, food production, and infrastructure. Technological improvements can expand supplies and increase efficiency, but they can’t abolish physical limits. The challenge is understanding how demand, resources, innovation, and time interact before shortages or other consequences become serious.

And there’s another side to this equation. The same mathematics that compounds financial burdens and resource demands can help produce extraordinary advances in science and technology. We’re now witnessing developments in artificial intelligence that would’ve seemed like science fiction a generation ago. That brings Bartlett’s half-century-old warning directly into the world we’re living in today.

Artificial Intelligence: Exponential Growth Meets the Twenty-First Century

If Albert Bartlett were alive today, he’d have a fascinating new subject for his lecture. When he first warned about exponential growth in 1969, computers filled rooms, the internet was in its infancy, and artificial intelligence was largely confined to research laboratories. Today, AI systems can write computer programs, analyze complex information, solve advanced mathematical problems, and assist scientists with discoveries that would’ve taken years using conventional methods. And the technology’s improving at a pace that’s difficult to comprehend.

Consider what Stanford University’s annual AI Index has documented. Its 2025 report found that the computing power used to train notable AI models had been doubling approximately every five months. Meanwhile, the cost of running a model capable of performing at a benchmark level comparable to GPT-3.5 fell more than 280-fold between November 2022 and October 2024. In other words, we’re developing increasingly powerful technology while making many of its capabilities dramatically cheaper and more accessible.

Stanford’s 2026 report paints an equally remarkable picture. Artificial intelligence reached 53 percent adoption within three years, according to the report’s global adoption measure, considerably faster than personal computers or the internet achieved comparable penetration. AI systems designed to operate computers independently improved their success rate on one established benchmark from approximately 12 percent to 66 percent in a single year. That’s substantial progress, although it also means those systems were still failing roughly one-third of the tested tasks.

But here’s where we need to apply some of Bartlett’s mathematical discipline. Not every improvement in artificial intelligence follows a consistent exponential curve, and nobody can confidently predict how long present rates of advancement will continue. Some capabilities are improving extraordinarily quickly, while others remain frustratingly unreliable. An AI system might solve an advanced mathematical problem yet struggle with something a reasonably competent human would find straightforward. Technological progress doesn’t always follow a smooth or predictable path.

What makes this development particularly significant is how improvements can reinforce one another. Better computing equipment enables more ambitious research, improved algorithms make existing hardware more productive, and cheaper AI services encourage wider adoption and further investment. The potential benefits for medicine, education, scientific research, and economic productivity are enormous, but so are the challenges of adapting to changes occurring faster than many institutions can respond.

Bartlett would’ve recognized both the mathematics and the warning signs. What we’re witnessing isn’t simply another technological invention. It’s a rapidly evolving collection of capabilities that could fundamentally change how humanity learns, works, discovers, and solves problems. But even the most sophisticated artificial intelligence depends on something decidedly old-fashioned: electricity, physical resources, and the infrastructure needed to keep it running.

Is artificial intelligence advancing exponentially, and what are the consequences? Some aspects of artificial intelligence have advanced at approximately exponential rates over particular periods, including the computing power used to train leading AI models. However, AI capability, affordability, and adoption don’t follow one universal exponential curve. Physical resources, electricity, computing infrastructure, and technological limitations constrain progress. Understanding these trends helps societies anticipate potential disruptions while recognizing opportunities for scientific discovery, improved healthcare, education, and greater human capability.

When Exponential Progress Meets Physical Reality

Artificial intelligence might seem almost magical when we’re sitting at a computer watching it perform tasks that would’ve been impossible a few years ago. But behind every AI interaction is an enormous physical infrastructure of computer chips, servers, data centres, electrical grids, and cooling systems. These machines consume electricity, generate heat, and require substantial resources to manufacture and operate. The digital world might appear limitless, but it still has to obey the laws of physics.

According to the International Energy Agency, the world’s data centres consumed approximately 485 terawatt-hours of electricity in 2025. That’s expected to nearly double to 950 terawatt-hours by 2030, representing roughly three percent of global electricity demand. These figures include conventional data centres as well as those dedicated to AI, but artificial intelligence is a major driver of the increase. And those numbers are projections, not guarantees.

Here’s where things get complicated. Software can improve almost overnight, but building power plants, manufacturing electrical transformers, and expanding transmission networks can take years. Data centres also need water or other cooling arrangements, suitable locations, and access to reliable power. In some regions, rapidly increasing demand could strain electrical grids, raise costs, and compete with other essential infrastructure requirements. You can’t solve every physical problem with a software update.

There’s another interesting twist. As computer chips and AI algorithms become more efficient, individual tasks often require less electricity. That’s encouraging, but cheaper technology can also encourage greater use, and increasingly sophisticated applications may consume substantially more energy. Improvements in efficiency don’t necessarily translate into lower overall consumption. It’s another example of why understanding the interaction between growth and resources matters.

Bartlett would’ve recognized this conflict immediately. Exponential progress in one area doesn’t mean everything supporting it can expand at the same rate. Physical limits, economic realities, and human decisions all influence how far and how quickly technology can advance. But those constraints don’t mean progress has to stop. In fact, artificial intelligence might help us overcome some of the very problems its rapid development is creating.

The Other Side of the Exponential Curve

After looking at the growing demands on energy and natural resources, it’d be easy to conclude that exponential growth is mostly bad news. It isn’t. The same mathematics that can turn a small problem into a major headache can also magnify the benefits of scientific discovery, education, and technological progress. One improvement creates opportunities for another, and before long we’re doing things that would’ve seemed impossible a generation ago.

Take medical research. Google’s DeepMind developed an artificial intelligence system called AlphaFold that’s helped scientists predict the structures of hundreds of millions of proteins. That’s information researchers can use to better understand diseases and investigate potential treatments. It doesn’t mean AI has suddenly cured everything, but it’s opened possibilities that would’ve required enormous amounts of conventional research.

Or consider weather forecasting. European researchers have developed AI systems that can outperform traditional forecasting methods on several important measures, including predicting storm tracks. Better forecasts can’t stop a hurricane, but they can give people more time to prepare. In education, AI can provide personalized explanations and learning assistance that would’ve been difficult or expensive to obtain just a few years ago.

And here’s where things become particularly interesting. Artificial intelligence isn’t simply another invention that makes existing tasks faster. It can help humans investigate problems, test ideas, develop knowledge, and improve the very methods we use to make further discoveries. That creates the possibility of progress building on progress, although it doesn’t guarantee that every advance will produce another.

Of course, none of this happens automatically. Technology can make mistakes, create dependencies, and produce unintended consequences. Human judgment, critical thinking, and responsible decisions remain essential. But understanding exponential growth gives us something more valuable than the ability to predict trouble. It gives us an opportunity to recognize possibilities, prepare for change, and deliberately influence the future we’re creating.

Understanding the Curve Before It Overtakes Us

Albert Bartlett spent decades trying to get one simple message across. Exponential growth isn’t difficult to calculate, but its consequences can be extraordinarily difficult to imagine. He wasn’t asking everyone to become a mathematician. He wanted us to recognize the pattern, question our assumptions, and understand what might happen before it’s too late to do something about it.

That’s particularly important today as artificial intelligence and other technologies change how we live, work, and understand the world. We can’t predict the future simply by extending a mathematical curve, but we can become better at recognizing emerging problems and extraordinary opportunities.

There’s every reason to be optimistic about what lies ahead, provided we approach change with knowledge, curiosity, and sound judgment. Bartlett’s warning wasn’t a declaration that humanity was doomed. It was a reminder that understanding reality gives us a better chance of shaping our future rather than being overtaken by it.

SEVENTY THOUGHTS FROM TURNING SEVENTY

I just turned seventy years old, and I’ve travelled a long way from a child’s subsistence existence in rural Manitoba to a comfortable senior’s lifestyle on Canada’s west coast. I grew from hand-cranked telephones to now commanding a sophisticated, personalized artificial intelligence system—something no one imagined back in the 50s and 60s, And during the journey I’ve observed and learned a few things. Things I’m expressing today as seventy thoughts from turning seventy.

My boyhood happened in a little Canadian village called Rennie on the Manitoba-Ontario boundary. It revolved around the fur industry, nature, the railroad, and the drag strip. Looking back, it wasn’t a bad place to be. Not a bad place at all.

I left Rennie at twenty-one. Since then, I’ve been a police officer investigating homicides, an ERT (SWAT) member in armed conflicts, a coroner dealing with human death, a housebuilder/designer, a land developer, a boat skipper, a security and safety officer, a toxicology technician, and a reasonably accomplished writer starting in my fifties and sixties. Actually… I have no idea what I’m going to be when I grow up.

Turning seventy is a time to reflect. A time for thinking back, ahead, and right here. What emerged are random thoughts. Not advice. Not wisdom. Not guidance. Not insight. Not counsel or perspective. Just seventy thoughts from turning seventy.

Beginnings and Becomings

  1. Humble Start. Rennie wasn’t the center of the universe, but it was home. I had no idea where life would take me, and that’s probably just as well. I might’ve talked myself out of half the adventures.
  2. The One-Room Schoolhouse. My first four grades shared one teacher and classroom. You learned to work on your own while the older kids got their lessons, and you couldn’t help overhearing theirs. Whether I learned patience is another question.
  3. Small-Town Values. In Rennie, neighbors helped neighbors, and everybody was expected to pull their weight. Those weren’t grand philosophical principles. They were just how people got along.
  4. Family Foundations. I didn’t notice what my family was teaching me. I was too busy being a kid, watching, listening, and occasionally getting into trouble. It’s taken me a few decades to appreciate how much of my education happened outside school.
  5. Curiosity. I’ve always wanted to know how things work and why people do what they do. It served me in policing and writing, and now it’s got me exploring advanced AI when I could be putting my feet up. Apparently, curiosity doesn’t retire.
  6. School in Nearby Whitemouth. Whitemouth school opened up a bigger world, although nobody would’ve mistaken it for a Manitoba metropolis like Winnipeg. I graduated in 1974 with friends, memories, and a limited idea of what came next. But things soon turned out to be interesting.
  7. The People Who Influenced Me. I’ve crossed paths with generous teachers, investigators, writers, and friends. Some showed me what to do. Some provided excellent demonstrations of what not to do. You can learn from almost anybody if you pay attention.
  8. Opportunities and Choices. Big changes sometimes began with seemingly minor decisions. I’ve worked hard, made wrong turns, and benefited from plain old luck. Anyone who claims to have planned everything might be overlooking the luck factor.
  9. Life Doesn’t Come With Instructions. Nobody gave me a manual for life, and I’m not sure I’d have read it if they had. I’ve made obvious mistakes, sometimes more than once. It’s an expensive way to learn, but it works.
  10. Becoming Is Never Finished. I’ve changed jobs and opinions enough to know I’m unfinished. New interests keep turning up when I least expect them. If being grown up means having everything figured out, I’ve still got some work ahead of me.

Work, Experience, and Purpose

  1. The Value of a Paycheck. My first paychecks bought independence, though they didn’t last long. Early jobs taught me to show up, do the work, and take some pride in it. Those lessons have paid better dividends than the wages.
  2. Lessons From the Railroad. Railroad work taught attention, quick thinking, and pulling my weight. Things didn’t always go according to plan, and complaining rarely fixed them. I can’t say every task was enjoyable. Neither was the weather.
  3. Becoming a Mountie. Joining the RCMP in 1978 changed my life. Depot training in Regina introduced discipline, teamwork, and the unpleasant discovery that I wasn’t quite as clever as I thought. Twenty years of policing provided lessons no classroom could offer.
  4. The Reality of Homicide Investigation. Homicide work showed me human kindness and cruelty at their extremes. There wasn’t the television glamour—mostly patient, detailed digging and uncooperative evidence. Finding answers for people who couldn’t speak for themselves mattered.
  5. Life Through a Coroner’s Eyes. As coroner, I investigated sudden, tragic, sometimes preventable deaths. It didn’t make me gloomy, but it cured me of assuming tomorrow was guaranteed. That perspective stays with you.
  6. Building Things and Running Businesses. Business and construction taught me that ideas need actual work. Budgets, deadlines, and things that don’t fit have a way of correcting optimism. Being your own boss also means the problems know where you live. And laying awake at three a.m. calculating how you’re going to make payroll beats an academic MBA.
  7. The People You Work With. I’ve worked with outstanding people and some who made me wonder how they got dressed. The best taught loyalty, humor, and keeping a cool head. Often, it’s the people I remember more than the work.
  8. Success, Failure, and Starting Over. Some ideas worked. Others cost money, time, and pride. Failure isn’t automatically a wonderful teacher, but it can be if you’ll listen. Sometimes the sensible choice is to quit digging a hole, climb out, and take another route.
  9. Becoming a Writer. After investigating others’ stories, writing my own proved harder. Since starting DyingWords in 2012, I’ve written 31 books and learned to rewrite passages I once thought were terrific. Some days the words flow. Other days they require dental extraction.
  10. Finding Purpose Beyond a Career. Leaving a career doesn’t mean leaving purpose. Books, DyingWords, Stoicism, and now AI have kept my intellectual days full. I’ve got more ideas than time to pursue them, which strikes me as a good problem to have.

People, Relationships, and Human Nature

  1. Marriage and Making It Last. Rita and I have been married forty-three years, long enough to know my irritating habits. We’ve raised a family, enjoyed plenty of good times, and weathered very few storms. I suspect reciprocal kindness has something to do with that.
  2. Family Comes First. I’ve sometimes given work too much attention. Family gatherings and shared memories mean more to me now than they did when I was younger. You don’t get those ordinary moments back once they’ve passed.
  3. Raising Children. Rita and I raised two kids while pretending we knew what we were doing. They taught us a few things along the way. Watching them become independent adults has been a joy, even if my advice doesn’t always get top billing.
  4. The Value of True Friendship. I’ve known plenty of people, but true friends are a smaller group. They’re reliable, funny, and easy to reconnect with. Friendship doesn’t need a crowd. It needs people genuinely glad to see each other.
  5. Trust Is Earned, Not Given. Police work taught me to mistrust unsupported stories. I pay more attention to what people do than what they say. Trust can take years to earn and only a moment to lose, and patching it up isn’t easy.
  6. People Are Complicated. I’ve seen decent people make awful decisions and dishonest people show surprising kindness. People seldom fit into tidy categories. Whenever I think I’ve got human nature figured out, someone comes along and reminds me otherwise.
  7. The Art of Listening. Homicide interviews taught me to shut up and listen. Ask a good question, then listen. As my old detective mentor said, “You’ve got one mouth and two ears for a reason.” I’ve tried applying that at home, although Rita might question how consistently I’ve mastered the technique.
  8. Kindness Doesn’t Cost Much. A helping hand or kind word can make a difference. You seldom know what another person is dealing with. Being decent doesn’t require much effort, which makes the lack of decency rather puzzling.
  9. Disagreements, Grudges, and Forgiveness. I’ve held onto arguments longer than they deserved, usually because pride got involved. Standing firm differs from nursing an irritation. Forgiveness doesn’t excuse what happened. It can simply free up your time.
  10. The People Who Really Matter. The best parts of my life involve people, not possessions. Family and friends have supplied laughter and company worth remembering. Accomplishments are satisfying, but they don’t sit around the table with you.

Truth, Reality, and Judgment

  1. Reality Doesn’t Negotiate. Reality doesn’t give a fat rat’s ass what I believe or how badly I want something to be true. I’ve argued with facts, and they weren’t impressed. Sooner or later, what’s real has a way of settling the discussion.
  2. First Impressions Can Fool You. A scene or person can deceive on first glance. I’ve misread people and jumped to conclusions myself. Now I try to look a little longer before deciding, although occasionally I still get caught.
  3. Facts, Opinions, and Assumptions. There’s what I know, what I think I know, and what I’d really like to believe. Those aren’t the same things. Policing taught the distinction—loud opinions aren’t evidence.
  4. Follow the Evidence. It’s easy to favor evidence supporting your theory. Homicide investigation taught me how dangerous that can be. If the evidence points elsewhere, you’d better have the sense to follow it, even when starting over hurts.
  5. The Truth Isn’t Always Comfortable. An inconvenient truth stings when it exposes a mistake. Pretending otherwise might feel better for a while. In my experience, an uncomfortable truth is still easier to live with than a comfortable lie.
  6. Knowing What You Don’t Know. I’m increasingly comfortable saying, ‘I don’t know.’ Some people have answers even without knowledge. There’s no shame in ignorance if you’re willing to follow it with, ‘I’d sure like to find out.’
  7. Intelligence Isn’t Wisdom. I’ve met highly educated fools as well as uncredentialed folks with excellent insight. Knowing lots of things isn’t the same as knowing what to do. Wisdom seems to require an understanding of people, circumstances, and consequences. As they say, knowledge is knowing a tomato is a fruit. Wisdom is not putting tomatoes in a fruit salad.
  8. Changing Your Mind Isn’t a Weakness. I once thought changing my mind showed weakness. Now I see it differently. New evidence ought to change an old conclusion when the conclusion was wrong. Defending a mistake just to save face seems like a poor bargain.
  9. Decisions Have Consequences. Some decisions deserved more thought than I gave them. Good intentions don’t guarantee good results, and small choices sometimes travel a long way. You can’t predict everything, but you can take responsibility for what you decide.
  10. Good Judgment Comes From Experience. Good judgment supposedly comes from experience, often bad judgment. I can’t argue with that. I’ve made some fine calls and spectacular blunders, and I like to think the blunders at least earned their tuition.

Character, Stoicism, and Living Well

  1. Character Is What You Do. Some people preach integrity until it becomes inconvenient. Character shows up in conduct, especially when nobody’s watching. I haven’t always met my own standards either but admitting that beats pretending I haven’t got faults.
  2. Discovering Stoicism Later in Life. In my late sixties, ancient Stoics explained lessons I’d learned the hard way. Stoicism’s emphasis on judgment, restraint, and accepting reality made sense. I wish I’d found it sooner, but here we are.
  3. Knowing What You Can Control. Stoicism reminds me I can’t control others or tomorrow. I can work on my choices and responses, though. It’s a simple distinction that’s saved me aggravation, whenever I actually remember to practice it. Ta eph hemen. Ta ouk eph hemen. (Google that saying.)
  4. Courage Isn’t the Absence of Fear. I’ve been scared when circumstances justified it. Courage meant recognizing the danger and doing what needed doing anyway. Sometimes it also means admitting you’re wrong when pride is begging you to keep quiet.
  5. Treating People Fairly. Everybody deserves a fair shake, regardless of background or wealth. In police work, hearing someone’s story mattered before reaching conclusions. Respect doesn’t require agreement, and decency doesn’t mean approving of everything somebody does.
  6. The Value of Self-Discipline. Work, exercise, and routine aren’t always exciting. Doing them anyway has served me better than waiting for inspiration. I don’t always feel like starting, but once I’ve done the work I’m generally glad I did.
  7. Keeping Your Emotions in Check. Anger happens. Letting it decide can be expensive. Police work taught me to keep a cool head, and Stoicism helped explain the habit. A moment’s pause between stimulus and response has saved me a few apologies.
  8. Knowing When Enough Is Enough. There’s always another goal or purchase. Chase them all and the finish line keeps moving. I’m more content these days, and I’ve discovered that knowing what’s enough can be more useful than getting more.
  9. Gratitude, Simplicity, and Contentment. Health, family, friends, quiet mornings, and coffee count for plenty. I don’t need much more to make a day worthwhile, although something interesting to think about helps. Simplicity is the ultimate sophistocation.
  10. Becoming a Better Human Being. I don’t expect to become wise and faultless. Learning from mistakes, treating people decently, and trying to exercise better judgment seem like useful daily work. There’s still plenty of room for improvement on my end.

Time, Aging, and Mortality

  1. Where Did All the Years Go? Seventy years sounds long until you look back. Childhood seemed endless when I was waiting to turn sixteen and get my driver’s license. The decades since haven’t shown quite the same patience.
  2. Age Is More Than a Number. My body disputes that age is just a number. The mind still proposes projects without consulting the knees. I’ve accepted a few limitations, but I don’t intend to let the calendar make every decision.
  3. Taking Care of the Machinery. I’ve only one body, so I eat, sleep, and move sensibly. Rucking means walking with a weighted backpack, an activity that sometimes makes me question my own judgment. Still, the machinery seems worth maintaining.
  4. Eat. Move. Rest. Think. Do. This formula of five is the closet thing to a good life prescription as I’ve found. Eat—I try to follow the Mediterranean diet. Move—I ruck n’ rope. Rest—7 to 8 hours unbroken. Think—Cognitive workouts. Do—Having a purpose.
  5. Don’t Put Life on Hold. It’s easy to wait until work settles down. There’s always another reason to wait. Planning ahead matters but spending your whole life getting ready to live would be a pretty disappointing outcome.
  6. The Things That Matter Less With Age. I seldom worry about impressing people or winning pointless arguments—especially politics. Time with people I care about and work I enjoy interests me more. It’s taken a while, but I’m getting better at sorting the two. Also at saying “No” to things that don’t matter.
  7. Time Is the One Thing You Can’t Replace. Money and possessions can be replaced. Yesterday doesn’t offer refunds. I’m more particular now about what deserves my hours, and I’d rather spend them on people and things that matter than on somebody else’s nonsense.
  8. Learning to Let Go. Plans change, people leave, opportunities disappear. I’ve wasted time wishing I could rewrite things that were already done. Letting go isn’t always giving up; sometimes it’s making room for the life still in front of you.
  9. Growing Older Without Growing Old. I’m keeping curious while letting my body vote. There’s no reason to stop learning or trying new things at seventy. I just allow a little more recovery time than I once did.
  10. Making Peace With Mortality. I know the final outcome, but I’m not eager to meet the Grim Reaper. I’ve had a good run and hope there’s plenty left. The best preparation I can think of is to enjoy living while I’m here.

Curiosity, Progress, and What Comes Next

  1. Curiosity Keeps Life Interesting. New questions and rabbit holes keep appearing. Investigations, books, philosophy, and technology have all taken their turns. I can’t imagine being bored when there’s still so much I haven’t figured out.
  2. You’re Never Too Old to Learn. Stoicism and AI made me a beginner again in my late sixties. It’s humbling, sometimes frustrating, and often tremendous fun. Learning may take a little longer now, but I haven’t noticed any shortage of things worth learning.
  3. The Writing Isn’t Finished. Since 2012, I’ve enjoyed turning ideas into DyingWords articles. I’ve got more stories and opinions in me, whether anybody asks for them or not. The keyboard isn’t getting retired just yet.
  4. Discovering Artificial Intelligence. ChatGPT began as my research assistant in 2023. That led to bigger questions about human thinking, machine learning, and what the two might accomplish together. I never expected a bot-tool to send me off on an entirely new adventure.
  5. The Past Has Plenty to Teach Us. Stoics, Ben Franklin, and computer pioneers remind me that ideas have histories. I’ve become more interested in tracing those roots. You might know where you are, but you don’t know where you’re going unless you know where you’ve been.
  6. Learning From Younger Generations. Birthdays don’t confer a monopoly on ideas. Younger people see technology and changing customs differently, and I’ve learned by watching and listening. That’s more rewarding than speaking on why everything was supposedly better in the old days.
  7. Keeping an Open Mind. Evidence has changed some of my strong opinions. That doesn’t mean believing every new claim that comes along. It means holding my convictions firmly enough to examine them and loosely enough to correct them. It also means not judging youths with green or pink hair.
  8. Finding Something Worthwhile to Build. I’ve always liked building with tools or words. Now I’m working on a project that I hope might help other people. It’s called Twenty-Second Century Enlightenment—22ENL for short—and it trains humans to build, command, and govern their personalized artificial intelligence system. It’s a human development and self-improvement program that may succeed or it may not, but getting up with something worthwhile to tackle suits me fine.
  9. Planning for a Future I Can’t Predict. Life’s surprised me too often to script the next decade. I’ll still make plans and pursue what matters, while leaving room for surprises. If someone had described my seventieth year to me at twenty, I’d have laughed.
  10. I’m Still Looking Forward. Seventy isn’t a finish line, and I’m not interested in waiting around for Doctor Death. I’ve experienced good fortune and learned some lessons I’d rather not repeat. I don’t know how many roads remain, but I intend to enjoy the drive.

THE ARRIVAL FALLACY AND THE ASYMPTOTIC CURVE

“I’ll be happy when….” the mortgage is paid. the book is published. the promotion comes. retirement begins. there’s enough money, enough recognition, enough freedom. the mountain is finally summitted. There’s nothing wrong with those goals. The problem begins when a goal becomes a promise that life will finally feel complete once we “arrive”.

It rarely works that way. Achievement brings satisfaction, but satisfaction fades. The promotion becomes the job. The dream home becomes the house. Retirement becomes ordinary life. The mind adjusts, the horizon moves, and another summit appears. This is the Arrival Fallacy—the belief that reaching some future milestone will finally deliver lasting fulfillment.

There may be a better way to understand what’s happening. In mathematics, an asymptotic curve keeps moving toward a line without ever quite reaching it. Human development works much the same way. We can become wiser, healthier, more capable, more skilled, and more fulfilled without ever arriving at some final state called complete.

That changes the question. Instead of asking, “When will I finally get there?”, perhaps the better question is, “Am I still moving in the right direction?”

What the Arrival Fallacy Is

The Arrival Fallacy is the belief that some future achievement will finally settle us. Once the degree is earned, the business succeeds, the mortgage is gone, the book is published, the kids are launched, or retirement begins, life will somehow click into place. We’ll feel complete. The pressure will lift. We’ll finally be where we were supposed to be.

That’s the fallacy. It isn’t that the goals are foolish or that achievement doesn’t matter. Most worthwhile lives are built around goals, effort, and progress. Goals give us direction. They force decisions. They help us measure whether we’re moving forward or simply drifting. The mistake is asking a goal to do more than it can.

Achievement can change circumstances. It can open doors, create security, build confidence, and produce a well-earned sense of satisfaction. But it can’t permanently resolve the human condition. There’s always another problem, another challenge, another uncertainty, another horizon. Life doesn’t stop being life because one objective has been reached.

The important distinction is between achievement and completion. Achievement is real. Completion is often imagined. We can finish a project, pay off a debt, reach a professional milestone, or master a difficult skill. What we can’t reliably do is arrive at some permanent state where nothing more needs attention and nothing further needs to be learned.

The Arrival Fallacy begins when we confuse those two things.

Why the Mind Keeps Falling For It

The Arrival Fallacy survives because the human mind is very good at imagining a better future and not nearly as good at predicting how that future will actually feel. We picture the promotion, the retirement party, the finished house, the published book, or the number in the bank account and imagine the satisfaction that’ll come with it. What we don’t picture nearly as clearly is ourselves six months later, standing in essentially the same mind, with most of the same habits, worries, expectations, and unfinished business.

Psychologists call part of this hedonic adaptation. Something changes, it feels important for a while, and then the mind adjusts. What was once exceptional becomes normal. The pay raise becomes the salary. The new car becomes transportation. The dream house becomes a place where the furnace breaks and the gutters need cleaning. Even achievements that once seemed almost unreachable can become surprisingly ordinary once they’ve been lived with for a while.

There’s another trick at work. The future is clean because it hasn’t happened yet. We can imagine the good parts without experiencing the complications that’ll come with them. Retirement looks like freedom until it also brings questions about purpose, routine, identity, and what to do with Tuesday morning. Success looks uncomplicated from a distance because the next set of problems is still hidden behind it.

So the mind keeps moving the marker. Maybe happiness wasn’t there. Maybe it’s at the next milestone. And because the next destination is still safely in the future, the promise remains convincing. That’s how the Arrival Fallacy keeps renewing itself.

What is the Arrival Fallacy? The Arrival Fallacy is the mistaken belief that reaching a future milestone—such as wealth, retirement, publication, promotion, recognition, or some other major goal—will produce lasting fulfillment or a permanent sense of completion. Goals can improve circumstances and provide direction, but the satisfaction they bring usually fades as people adapt. The fallacy begins when achievement is expected to solve the deeper problem of how to live well.

The Hidden Cost of Living for Arrival

The real danger in the Arrival Fallacy isn’t disappointment. It’s postponement. A person starts treating the present as something to get through on the way to a better future. Work is endured until retirement. Health is neglected until there’s more time. Relationships are put on hold until the pressure eases. Enjoyment gets deferred because there’s always one more target to hit first.

That can work for a while, especially when the goal is important. Sacrifice is often necessary. Discipline usually requires saying no to something now for something better later. But there’s a difference between postponing a pleasure and postponing a life. The trouble starts when the present becomes permanently provisional—when today is always preparation for tomorrow and tomorrow keeps moving farther away.

The cost can be hard to see because ambition is usually praised. The person may be productive, responsible, successful, and still miss what’s happening around them. Years can disappear into deadlines, projects, promotions, mortgages, and plans. The irony is brutal: someone can spend decades building the conditions for a good life and discover they’ve been too busy building it to actually live much of it.

That doesn’t mean abandoning long-term goals. It means refusing to make them the price of admission to the present. A future milestone can improve life, but it shouldn’t be allowed to hold today hostage. The deeper mistake isn’t wanting to arrive. It’s assuming life begins when we do.

Enter the Asymptotic Curve

This is where the asymptotic curve becomes useful. In mathematics, an asymptote is a line a curve keeps approaching without ever quite reaching. The distance gets smaller and smaller, progress continues, but there’s no final point where the curve simply stops and declares the job done.

Human development often looks the same. A person can become wiser without ever becoming perfectly wise. They can become healthier without reaching some permanent state of perfect health. They can become more skilled, more disciplined, more capable, and more clear-minded while still discovering how much remains to be learned. Progress is real, but completion keeps receding.

That may sound discouraging at first, but it’s actually the opposite. If there’s no final state where everything is settled, then there’s also no need to wait for one before life can be meaningful. The value is in the movement itself—in learning, adapting, improving judgment, building competence, and getting better at meeting reality as it comes.

The asymptotic curve gives us a better picture than the finish line. A finish line suggests that once it’s crossed, the race is over. The curve suggests continued development without the fantasy of final completion. It doesn’t say achievement is pointless. It says achievement is part of a larger trajectory.

That changes how a person sees progress. The goal isn’t to become finished. It’s to keep closing the distance.

Why the Curve is a Better Model of Life

The asymptotic curve is a better model of life because real development rarely moves in a straight line toward a clean finish or a single, specific summit. A person learns, improves, slips, adjusts, recovers, and keeps going. Progress happens, but it’s uneven. Some gains come quickly. Others take years. What matters isn’t whether every step is smooth. It’s whether the general direction is sound.

The arrival model tells us there’s a point where the work is over. The curve says otherwise. The more someone learns, the more they usually see what they don’t know. The more capable they become, the more subtle the next challenge looks. Mastery doesn’t close the world down. It opens more of it up.

That’s true in almost everything worth doing. Fitness has to be maintained. Judgment has to be exercised. Relationships need attention. Skills decay if they aren’t used. Knowledge gets outdated. Character isn’t something a person earns once and stores on a shelf. Life keeps moving, and anything alive has to keep adapting with it.

The curve also makes room for aging. A person may not be getting faster, stronger, or more energetic forever, but they can still deepen judgment, perspective, patience, skill, and understanding. The form of progress changes, but the possibility of progress doesn’t disappear.

That’s why the asymptotic model feels closer to reality. It doesn’t promise perfection. It doesn’t demand completion. It asks for continued movement in the right direction.

Goals Still Matter

None of this means goals don’t matter. They do. Without goals, effort can turn into drift. A clear objective gives direction, creates priorities, and forces choices. It helps a person decide what deserves attention and what can be ignored. Goals also give us something concrete to measure against, which matters because progress is hard to judge when there’s no reference point.

The problem isn’t having a destination. It’s expecting the destination to do emotional work it was never designed to do. A goal can help someone build a business, finish a degree, write a book, improve their health, or save enough money to retire. What it can’t guarantee is permanent satisfaction once the target is reached. That’s where ambition quietly turns into expectation, and expectation starts writing promises reality never made.

Used properly, goals are coordinates. They tell us where to aim without pretending the destination is the end of development. Reaching one objective often reveals the next problem, the next possibility, or the next level of competence. That isn’t failure. That’s how progress works.

A good goal should answer a practical question. Where am I trying to go? It shouldn’t be burdened with answering a much bigger one. When will I finally be complete?

Goals still matter. They just need to stay in their lane.

What is an asymptotic curve? An asymptotic curve is a mathematical curve that moves progressively closer to a line or limit without necessarily reaching it. As a metaphor for human development, it describes how a person can keep improving in wisdom, health, skill, judgment, or capability without ever reaching a final state of perfection or completion. Progress remains real even though there may be no absolute finish line.

From Destination to Trajectory

Once the finish line or summit stops being the point, another idea takes its place: trajectory. Instead of judging life by whether some final destination has been reached, it makes more sense to ask whether the overall direction is good. Is the person learning? Is their judgment improving? Are they becoming healthier, more capable, more useful, more resilient? Are they moving closer to reality or farther away from it?

Trajectory changes the way progress is measured. A setback doesn’t automatically mean failure, just as a milestone doesn’t mean the work is finished. Someone can lose ground for a while and still be travelling in the right general direction. They can also achieve something impressive while quietly moving in the wrong one. A promotion that destroys health, a bigger income that costs every meaningful relationship, or professional success built on permanent exhaustion may look like progress from the outside while the underlying trajectory says otherwise.

Thinking in terms of trajectory also makes room for course corrections. Reality changes. People change. Priorities change. A goal that made sense ten years ago may no longer deserve the same place in a life today. There’s no shame in adjusting direction when better information appears. In fact, refusing to change course simply because a destination was once chosen can become its own kind of trap.

The better question isn’t whether we’ve arrived. It’s whether we’re still becoming better equipped to meet what comes next.

The Role of Aging

Aging puts pressure on the Arrival Fallacy because, sooner or later, the future stops looking endless. There are fewer decades left to keep saying, I’ll get to that later. Retirement may have arrived. The career may be winding down. The children are grown. Some of the goals that once seemed distant are either behind us or no longer matter as much as they once did.

That can be unsettling, but it can also be clarifying. Aging strips away some of the illusion that life will eventually become settled and complete. It won’t. Health still needs attention. Relationships still need tending. Curiosity still matters. Judgment still matters. There’s still more to learn, more to understand, and more to contribute.

The asymptotic curve fits aging far better than the old finish-line model. A person may not keep getting faster, stronger, or more energetic forever, but development doesn’t have to stop. Experience can deepen judgment. Perspective can improve. Patience can grow. A lifetime of mistakes, successes, losses, and corrections can become useful if they’re actually examined.

The mistake is assuming that aging means arrival. It doesn’t. It simply changes the terrain. The direction can still be forward even when the pace changes and the objectives do too.

That may be one of the better gifts of getting older—realizing there was never a finish line in the first place. No summit to find.

A Stoic Connection

The Stoics would have understood the problem with arrival. Their philosophy wasn’t built around reaching some final state where life became easy, certain, or complete. It was built around practice. Judgment had to be exercised. Character had to be tested. Attention had to be brought back, again and again, to what was actually within a person’s control.

That fits the asymptotic curve remarkably well. A Stoic didn’t become wise once and stay wise forever. Wisdom had to be renewed through choices, habits, restraint, and response to circumstance. The work kept returning because life kept presenting new conditions. There was always another irritation, another loss, another temptation, another test of judgment.

The important point is that the Stoics didn’t treat this as failure. They treated it as the nature of the work. Progress mattered, but perfection wasn’t the expectation. What counted was whether the person was becoming better at seeing clearly, choosing well, and meeting reality without pretending it should be something else.

That’s also why Stoicism resists the Arrival Fallacy. It doesn’t tell us to wait for the perfect future. It keeps bringing attention back to the present moment and the quality of the response being made now.

The practice isn’t about arriving. It’s about becoming better at the practice.

The Larger Principle

The larger principle is simple enough. Life works better when we stop demanding that a future event make us complete. The Arrival Fallacy says fulfillment is waiting somewhere ahead. The asymptotic curve says there may be no final point where the work, learning, adaptation, and development are finished.

That doesn’t make life smaller. It makes it more realistic. Progress still matters. Achievement still matters. So do ambition, discipline, and long-term plans. But they sit inside a larger process instead of pretending to end it. A milestone becomes something to reach, learn from, and move beyond rather than a place where everything is finally supposed to make sense.

There’s some freedom in that. A person doesn’t have to keep postponing satisfaction until the next promotion, the next cheque, the next project, or the next stage of life. They can still pursue those things without asking them to carry the full emotional weight of happiness, identity, and meaning.

The better model is continued development. Learn, adjust, improve, maintain, and keep going. Some seasons will bring growth. Others will be about holding ground, recovering, or changing direction. What matters is staying engaged with reality instead of waiting for a mythical point where reality no longer asks anything of us.

There may be no finish line. No summit. That doesn’t mean there’s no point. It means the point was never the finish line or the summit.

How do the Arrival Fallacy and the asymptotic curve intersect? The Arrival Fallacy assumes fulfillment lies at a future destination, while the asymptotic curve suggests human development is an ongoing process with no final point of completion. Put together, they offer a better model of life: goals still matter, but they should be treated as points along a continuing trajectory rather than as final destinations. The emphasis shifts from arriving to becoming progressively more capable of meeting reality well.

There May Be No Summit

There’s no problem with wanting the mortgage paid, the book published, the promotion earned, or retirement secured. Those things can matter a great deal. They can improve life, reduce stress, create opportunity, and mark the result of years of disciplined effort. What they can’t do is suspend the rest of life once they arrive.

That’s where the Arrival Fallacy finally gives way to the asymptotic curve. One model says fulfillment sits at a destination. The other says development keeps moving. One asks us to wait for completion. The other asks us to pay attention to direction, progress, and the quality of the life being lived along the way.

There’s something liberating in that. A person can still aim high, work hard, build, save, learn, publish, retire, and keep going. The milestone doesn’t have to become a verdict on whether life has succeeded. It can simply be what it really is: a point on the curve.

That may be the better way to think about a life. Not as a race toward some final state of completion, but as a continuing journey of becoming more capable of meeting reality well.

Don’t postpone living until arrival. Use destinations to guide direction, but it’s not the summit you’re after. It’s the purpose, enjoyment, and enjoyment of the climb.

Dyingwords.net is a node of Centaur Intelligence Systems and Twenty-Second Century Enlightenment – 22ENL.
centaursystems.ai
The Valley, Anguilla