Overthinking, Pandora’s Box, and the Mercy We Don’t Deserve

By someone who’s tired of dodging landmines in family group chats.

I posted a photo on Snapchat the other day—Bertrand Russell’s The History of Western Philosophy. I didn’t think much of it. Just one of those small, nerdy flexes you throw into the void. But then my aunt replied:

“I didn’t know there was such a thing, but I guess everything has some sort of philosophy.”

Okay, fair. Not everyone grew up reading Plato or spiraling into existential dread during sophomore year. I responded:

“Western civilization’s been overthinking everything for like 2,500 years. They had to write it down eventually. Even things like math and science have deep philosophical roots.”

Her response? “Some things are just overthought, and need to be left alone I think. Just my opinion.”

That’s when I felt it: that itch to argue. To start listing how “overthinking” gave us medicine, civil rights, space exploration, critical thinking, and the ability to ask whether the status quo even should be left alone.

But instead, I replied calmly:

“Sometimes overthinking is how we uncover the stuff hiding under the surface.”

She came back with:

“That could be really bad and in the long run not helpful. Kinda like Pandora’s box. But I understand some things need to be known.” I went full myth nerd:

“Yeah, opening Pandora’s box definitely unleashed chaos—but also hope was in there too. Can’t forget that part.”

Then came the turn I knew was coming:

“Yep, you are right on that. And mercy, which we don’t deserve.”

Ah. There it was. The theological twist. The Southern Baptist worldview shining through. Mercy as something we’re lucky to get, not something we’re entitled to. A cosmic handout, not a human right.

And that’s where I bit my tongue. Because yeah, I could’ve said that if mercy is real, it shouldn’t be conditional. Or that maybe people don’t deserve suffering either. Or maybe we do deserve mercy because we’re born into a broken system we didn’t ask for and spend our lives trying to make sense of it.

But I didn’t say any of that. I kept the peace. Not because I agreed, but because sometimes family isn’t where the fight lives.

Still, it stuck with me. The way generations talk past each other. The way questioning becomes “overthinking,” and curiosity becomes a threat to tradition. The way a simple book post turns into a theological minefield.

So here I am. Overthinking it, of course.

Just like the philosophers taught me to.

And maybe, just maybe, that’s where hope still lives.

Why I Choose to Believe in God and Still Support Abortion and Socialism

Some people think believing in God means aligning with the conservative status quo–opposing abortion, defending capitalism, and preaching personal responsibility while ignoring systemic injustice. I don’t. I believe in God, and I support abortion rights. I believe in socialism too. And no, I’m not confused.

This isn’t a contradiction. It’s a deliberate choice.

Faith isn’t a monolith

Religion in America has been hijacked by the right, turned into a weapon of control instead of a source of liberation. But faith isn’t theirs to own. History is full of radical, justice-driven believers–liberation theologians in Latin America, Black churches in the Civil Rights movement, even the early Christians who lived communally and rejected materialism.

My belief in God is rooted in those traditions. The God I believe in doesn’t demand blind obedience to the state or to billionaires. That God doesn’t shrink at questions or doubt. That God isn’t afraid of justice.

I didn’t inherent my faith fully formed–I wrestled with it. I still do. But I choose to believe because I refuse to accept that this world, in all its cruelty and absurdity, is the end of the story. I believe because somewhere inside me, hope refuses to die although it tries to every single fucking day.

I support abortion because I believe in compassion. Because forcing someone to carry a pregnancy they don’t want–especially in a world that is broken–is violence, not virtue. Because I believe in bodily autonomy. Because I’ve seen what happens when that autonomy is stripped away.

The God I believe in gave people free will. That includes the right to make choices about their own bodies. No government or church should have the power to override that. And if you think banning abortion is “pro-life,” but you’re silent about poverty, maternal mortality, and the children already suffering in this world, your morality is hollow.

You can’t claim to care about life and then ignore the lives of women, trans people, and anyone else whose bodies are up for debate.

Jesus wasn’t a capitalist.

Let’s be clear: If Jesus showed up today, a lot of Christians wouldn’t recognize him. He wasn’t a billionaire. He didn’t hang out with the rich and powerful. He called them out. He flipped tables in the temple and told a rich man to give everything away.

Sound like capitalism to you?

Socialism, at its core, is about taking care of each other. Feeding the hungry. Healing the sick. Building systems that value human lives over profits. I support socialism because I believe we have a responsibility to each other–especially to the most vulnerable.

It’s bizarre how many Christians defend billionaires, corporations, and hoarding wealth while ignoring every single thing Jesus actually said about money and power.

The real betrayal of faith isn’t in questioning doctrine, it’s in using God to justify cruelty. It’s in standing by while people suffer, clinging to a theology of control. I won’t do that. I believe in God. I am a Christian. And because of that, I support a world where people are free. Free to live, to choose, to thrive. I support abortion rights. I support socialism. And I believe God is big enough to hold both my faith and my fire for justice.

The Conspiracy Against the Human Race

I know I listed my top five favorite books and two books that changed my life, but there’s another one that deserves recognition: Thomas Ligotti’s The Conspiracy Against the Human Race. I’d been wanting this book for a while after seeing the first season of True Detective and after considering myself an anti-natalist. I was looking for any kind of anti-natalist literature and lo and behold, I found it.

This book is a philosophical gut punch that argues human consciousness is a cosmic mistake. Ligotti draws from horror, neuroscience, and pessimism and makes the case that existence is inherently horrific, the self is an illusion, and the kindest act would be to stop reproducing.

It’s a deep but deeply thought-provoking exploration of pessimism, anti-natalism, and the horror of consciousness. A few take aways from it are as follows:

Consciousness is a curse. Ligotti argues that self-awareness–what sets humans apart from animals–is not a gift but a burden. We’re aware of our mortality, our suffering, and the meaninglessness of existence. “Being alive is like being a sentient tumor.”

Life is inherently horrific. He draws from horror fiction and philosophy and suggests that horror is the most honest genre because it doesn’t shy away from the ugly truth: life is terrifying, random, and cruel.

Anti-Natalism is a logical response. He builds on David Bentar (another man I admire)’s arguments to suggest that the kindest thing we could do is stop reproducing. He believes, much like Benatar and I do, that bringing someone into existence is always a harm. As he says in the book, “Nonexistence never hurt anyone.”

The illusion of self and meaning. Ligotti sides with thinkers who believe the self is an illusion and that the narratives we tell ourselves: religion, humanism, even optimism are coping mechanisms, not truth.

The book offers no comfort. There’s no “and yet” at the end. There’s no redemption arc. Ligotti commits to the darkness. The value is in the clarity it offers–cutting through hope to stare directly at what existence may really be.

It’s a cold shower of a book. It won’t give you hope, but it might give you clarity, or at least solidarity in despair.