Fifth grade was my first year in public school. Up until then, I was homeschooled alongside my sister by my mother, as is the typical way. Contrary to what a lot of people believed of kids like us at the time, we were pretty well socialized. In addition to growing up in the Catholic Church and partaking in the social events that come with it, my mother did a great job of connecting with other homeschool families, making sure playdates and field trips were a regular part of our socialization.
Still, there’s nothing quite like the next tier of childhood, when you leave the homogeneity of your early social circles of influence and head into middle school. That was where I first discovered the vastness and variety of choices at my fingertips. One of the most distinct, socially interesting memories I have, which makes me smile as I think of it, was when one of my close friends at the time shared that she didn’t like chocolate.
As a first-generation German-American with privileged access to some of the highest-quality, most delicious, wax-free chocolate Earth has to offer, I was staggered. Up to that point, I thought there were certain things all humans agreed to. The sky is blue. Grass is green. Chocolate is amazing.
While a few of the other girls in our little gaggle started doing what little girls do—pry, accuse her of lying, tell her she was weird—I was intrigued. I wanted to know what it was about chocolate that my new friend didn’t like. I started wondering what it was about chocolate that I liked. Could I even recall a time before I ever tasted it?
Graciously, after the barrage of prepubescent drama died down, my friend offered that she wasn’t a fan of the texture. When she explained that she didn’t like (what I know now is) the viscosity, and struggled to compare it to what the rest of us might find unappealing, I was even more curious. I had never considered the texture. So, in my brain, I started going through a list of the other foods we eat that have strange, potentially similar textures. Cheese came to mind as a feeble comparison. The creamy heaviness of cheese was actually pretty strange the more I thought about it. When I shared that thought, my friend nodded, agreeing that her experience of chocolate was similar to cheese. While the texture made sense for cheese, the flavor of chocolate with that texture didn’t appeal to her.
That was enough for me. I didn’t agree and suddenly stop liking chocolate. But I understood her point, and I was delighted to have had the tiniest of opportunities to jump into her brain for a few seconds. Especially because I learned something I didn’t know before. Get this: there are people, everyday, normal people—walking among us, checking their mail, going to work, doing their chores—who don’t like chocolate. Eating chocolate doesn’t create a universal experience.
It sounds like such an innocuous thing. Not liking chocolate. But for a 12-year-old who knew nothing but absolutes and inevitabilities, the premise that there’s no such thing as a truly universal experience was groundbreaking.
I don’t know what to attribute my curiosity to, or my aversion to immediately framing my friend as “other than,” but whatever the reason, I’m grateful for it. It’s one of the few characteristics of mine that I never waver on admiration of (my nose is another story). It’s why I ultimately changed from majoring in political science with a minor in journalism to psychology during my first summer of college.
More than just being curious, I find so much joy in encountering people who authentically build lifestyles and make choices I didn’t know were an option, or hadn’t previously considered. Heinous and horrible ones aside, of course. I was legitimately excited to learn that something that must be true was in fact not. That while there are absolutes when it comes to the necessity of human survival—eat, sleep, hydrate—there aren’t when it comes to how. I believe these are called “preferences.”
A simple conversation about chocolate, and someone else’s experience of it, excited me and allowed me to explore more of human reality. Beyond the limits of my own eyes, ears, nose, and tastebuds. To this day, that same desire and excitement comes when someone shares a detail about themselves or their life that falls outside of convention. I recently met a Reiki healer and hypnotherapist* in a virtual networking group that meets with clients on her boat. Why did no one tell me that I could be working out of an office ON. A. BOAT!?
As I’ve matured, the only difference I observe now is how, to some, inquiry and the expression of curiosity feel threatening. Where once my curiosity was viewed in earnest, now prying for more detail and understanding can feel like a preface for argument. Suspicions arise, presuming I’m collecting evidence to build a case against whatever stance is being shared. Or to steal an innovation and claim it as my own.
I get it. The internet has primed us for defensiveness. Even the brazen condemnation of middle-school girls can be assuaged in person far more effectively than comments from anonymous armchair warriors these days. And that’s saying something. I imagine, with the help of AI, the conversation would have consisted of research links diagnosing my friend with some sensory processing disorder that contributed to her distaste for cacao-based products, or at the very least cited the statistical improbability that she was telling the truth.
For shame.
Hostile approaches rarely lead anywhere desirable. Curiosity creates an infinite flow of more things to know. Accusation and defense careen us toward dead ends.
I enjoy thinking through parallel experiences to offer for comparison’s sake. As an effort to build a bridge or frame of reference that, in turn, strengthens connection and understanding. Many, alternatively, focus on “winning” arguments that are never actually happening, which shuts down any kind of potential for growth or additional opportunities of the like.
Turns out, chocolate was just a gateway drug in my pursuit of perspective.
A few years later, in high school during AP English, we had a semester on existentialism. I had finally found a life philosophy I could get behind. (Though now I understand absurdism is more closely aligned with my worldview.) Nothing. Really. Matters. While most of my classmates would drag themselves out of Mr. Boyd’s class filled with dread, I’d spring up from my desk thrilled with the notion that someday we’ll all be gone and none of the persnickety little things—like whether we like chocolate or not—are going to matter.
In a cold and unfeeling universe, where we all come to the same gruesome end, I felt liberated. Not because I had permission to be heartless and ridiculous, but for the invitation to be open and to nurture my curiosity. To comprehend, not merely obtain, information. To enjoy the side quests and rabbit holes of discovery. To have my perspective irreparably altered by attaining knowledge, experience, and insight. Even at the risk of it challenging the parameters of my beliefs.
There’s an unending and infinite amount to know. Which to me suggests a rather warm and comforting universe. Or so I choose. A universe in which a pale blue dot floats. On which someone can raise llamas at awe-inspiring altitudes, or around which a person can repair an orbiting telescope. Where a person can love taking juicy bites out of raw onions, or gag when they think of chocolate. A reality where everything’s made up, and the points don’t matter. In fact, we make up games just to argue. We tell stories that never happened. We watch movies and news stories about people we don’t know, from places we’ve never been. We vote for people we’ve never met. We wear jerseys for cities we don’t live in, whose players never stepped foot in that state until they were drafted to said team.
I could go on and on and on about all the silly choices each one of us makes on a daily basis. I say that with the reverence of a Mandalorian affirming, “This is the way.” As if there could possibly be a single way. The fact that anyone has the temerity to speak in absolutes at this stage in human history is more staggering to me now than the idea that chocolate isn’t universally loved.
So why do we do it? When we have enough recorded history and access to different cultures than our own, sometimes in the same neighborhood we reside in, why do we try to shut down people who have different opinions? Especially when the outcomes of them exercising their opinion have no objective effect on our lives.
My unresearched and unstudied thought is that it’s the same thing it always is. Fear. Fear of change we didn’t solicit. Fear of facing the reality that our choices might not be “right.” Fear of the unknown, because if we didn’t know [insert idea, thought, fact] was true, then what else don’t we know? Fear that someone having a different idea than us means they’re better than us somehow.
There are ideals and actions that are dangerous, and fear is a practical perspective to have. But there are other choices and opinions that, in the grand scheme of things, don’t pose the threats that we allow sensationalist headlines or groupthink to convince us of.
I suppose I could have jumped on the bandwagon and started pointing and laughing at my friend. I could have felt uncomfortable, or feared that her dislike of chocolate could prove that I was flawed or immoral for liking it, and that it would lead to total social ostracism. Instead, my instinctual reaction was curiosity, delight, and humor.
Some of the best comedians will talk about how their greatest jokes follow a formula of building an expectation and then going in a completely different direction. It’s like a free fall of emotions. Intellectually, you’re setting yourself up for a certain outcome. You’re bought into the narrative. Only the narrative was never heading where you expected it to. That’s life.
That’s the delight I take in seeing the absurdity of it all. The realization that our little pockets of experience, our brains that are wired to collect patterns and pick up on trends, are so beautifully flawed. That life can still surprise us. That just when we think we’ve weighed all the options and made all the choices we can make, we’ve barely even scratched the surface.
How wonderful that we live in a world where people who don’t like chocolate are willing to tell us why. In doing so, they offer us an opportunity to reach beyond the limitations of our perception and borrow a little bit of theirs. If only for a brief conversation that stays with us for 20 years and hopefully beyond.
*Check out my conversation with Rae of Positive Life Rituals here.
Hey! If you’re new to my corner of the stacks, I’m Britt Hall—a life alignment coach and escapist photographer. Across my ventures, I invite people to explore the meaning and purpose they get to bring their own lives through pause, curiosity, and authenticity.
With Pattern + Purpose™, I help clients who struggle to follow through on their goals, manage their time, and break unsupportive people-pleasing tendencies. Through Britt Skye Photography, I offer macro and botanical photography with drop-shipped print options, and instantly downloadable smartphone wallpapers.
I started North of Noise to stay close to my original passion—writing. It’s where I respectfully share my thoughts and perspective on life, with an open invitation for you to do the same—without fear of judgment, and with a deep-seated desire to understand, even when we don’t agree.
You can support or connect with me through my two businesses by following the links below!
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www.brittskyephotography.com
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This is EXCELLENT!!! I love the story you shared and the bridges you created from it. Always a pleasure to read one of your essays!!