The Kindergarten Effect
What we measure ourselves against
I remember being in kindergarten, sitting next to a girl who, in my five-year-old mind, was a good artist. Her lines were neat. Her colors stayed inside the borders. Mine—not so much.
It wasn’t that I was bad; I just began noticing differences. Because we sat side by side, I could see her work up close. I remember thinking, as much as a five-year-old can, Hmm… I need to get better so I can beat her in my artistic presentation.
Funny, the things that stay with us.
Despite all the changes we’ve lived through since that kindergarten classroom—technology, culture, global leadership—the deeply human instinct to measure ourselves against others never really goes away.
I’ve been traveling these past two weeks. One of my intentions was to meet up with friends. Some I’ve known for years, others I’d only known virtually. Because of the pandemic and geography, we hadn’t yet met in person.
In every single conversation, the effects of technological change came up.
One friend, an adjunct professor, told me her students were more engaged with what was on their phones than what she was teaching. Another friend, whose kids are around the same age as mine—mid to late twenties—shared that her son with a computer engineering degree can’t find an entry-level job. Those jobs are disappearing, replaced by AI.
So how does a young person begin today, when the path they were told to follow no longer exists?
Another friend and I talked about tuning in to higher frequencies, about rising above the chatter, the distractions, the endless hum of minutiae. Our conversation echoed Thoreau’s reflections from Walden Pond and the philosophers who shaped his thinking. The theme of seeking stillness in the noise is ancient.
I’ve had similar conversations with my kids about what’s happening now—how they see the world, what they imagine is possible.
I also spoke recently to a room full of educated, capable, experienced humans about navigating the new landscape of work. It reminded me of the timber industry’s collapse: jobs that were once generational simply vanished. We’re seeing the same thing now as AI replaces human tasks.
To be fair, many of those tasks were repetitive or mundane. And all those enterprise AI ads—during NFL, MLB, and soon NBA games—promise the same thing: Our system will free your people from lower-level tasks so they can focus on higher-level work.
But let’s not mince words.
There will be casualties. There already are. The economy won’t absorb everyone who’s displaced. It’s an unfortunate yet natural consequence of change.
During the workshop, the room’s energy was high. People were talking, sharing, reflecting. One woman said, “I can get clear on what success looks like for me, but that doesn’t solve my immediate problem of putting food on the table.”
She’s not wrong.
The inner work of clarity is essential, but external pressures like bills and groceries are real and immediate.
My work now focuses on developing the skills we need to navigate a world that looks and feels different than it once did. I can’t predict where we’re going; I can only trace the patterns of the past.
It’s strange living through an era and knowing you’re in it, realizing in real time that you’re part of a turning. Neil Howe, author of The Fourth Turning Is Here, describes this as a crisis phase that could last another five or six years.
So the question becomes: What do we do with this time?
I saw that question in people’s eyes as I walked through the room.
I wish I had an answer. I wish I could make the pain go away. But the truth is, pain fuels us. It forces our hand. It’s what drives us forward when comfort would rather keep us still.
That’s been my experience. When my heart’s been broken, when life didn’t go as planned. I explore those moments in my latest book. Promises made, not kept. Plans that fell apart. The process of adjusting, and then readjusting, again and again.
It takes energy. It’s exhausting. And yet—humans are resilient.
We’ve weathered great storms before.
I believe we’ll weather this one, too.
Honestly, I’m not sure how to bring this one in for a landing. These are raw thoughts, still forming, still finding their shape. But they feel important.
Maybe that’s enough for now.
Author’s Note
I wrote this after two weeks on the road, listening to friends, colleagues, and strangers trying to make sense of where we are, and what’s next. It’s part of a larger thread I’m exploring about attention, agency, and what it means to stay human in an age of acceleration.
If this resonated, you might also like my book It’s Not You, It’s the Algorithm: How to Slow Your Scroll and Start Paying Attention to Your Life Again. Available everywhere books are sold.