Stand Tall Before You Speak of Freedom

Yesterday, the sun was blazing. After my swim, I sat on a lounger by the pool, still damp. The skylight cast flickering shadows across the water. I took a sip of black coffee—no sugar. I’ve grown used to this kind of healing bitterness, much like life itself, which is full of pain and responsibility—and you can’t pretend you don’t know that.

Not long ago, I was stuck in the swamp of everyday life—not a storm, but that damp, sticky kind of struggle. In those days, I kept looking outward for a fix: a person who understood me, a stroke of luck to pull me through.

During that time, I avoided calling my mom. She would always, unintentionally, remind me—“If only you hadn’t chosen that path…” Maybe things wouldn’t be like this now? I shook my head, as if to toss out both the ridiculous thought and the pool water in my mind. You can’t outsource your redemption to others—or to the past. Unless you pull yourself out, no one truly will.

This might sound harsh, like swallowing a cold stone, but it’s true: stop blaming your circumstances, stop waiting for a miracle.

Refusing to face the world with a victim mindset was the one principle I held onto.

Jordan Peterson’s quote—“The winning lobster never slouches. It stands tall, head held high.”—pulled me through countless low moments. His words aren’t gentle; they’re more like those of a worn-out yet fierce father, yanking you off the floor and telling you to stand—even if your knees are scraped raw.

He has many striking truths. Like: “Make friends with those who genuinely want the best for you,” rather than trying to rescue the fallen. Or: “Discipline your little monster—don’t let your child do things that make you dislike them.” And one I’ve revisited countless times: “You must tell the truth—or at least, don’t lie.”

They’re not complicated—just bitter medicine after a long illness. It’s not that you don’t understand, but that you’ve understood too much, and still failed to act.

What I love most is his view on perfectionism. He says perfectionism is actually fear in disguise—an escape from reality. We often avoid starting anything out of fear of failure or criticism. His advice: don’t wait to be your best. Just begin.

Writing that, I suddenly thought of my unpacked winter clothes, the yellowing sticky notes, the dust that needs emptying from the vacuum, the unwashed cups—those aren’t signs of laziness, but of something deeper: self-avoidance.

Peterson doesn’t just confront the behavior—he exposes the uneasy motives behind it.

And then there’s this one: “Don’t steal the problems of the visitor. Assume the person you’re listening to knows something you don’t.” It sounds calm, but it’s actually a radical humility—a conscious opening to another’s reality. In an age of increasing distance between people, listening has become a rare and healing force.

Every one of Peterson’s lessons circles back to one core idea: you must take responsibility for yourself. And responsibility isn’t just about making money or reasoning with others—it’s owning your soul, your thoughts, your emotional state, and the consequences of your actions. You can’t let fear, laziness, jealousy, or rage govern you.

While a carefree, do-as-you-please life sounds appealing, freedom doesn’t mean the absence of rules. True freedom is knowing how to live, not just being dragged along by life. Pain and hardship are inevitable—but the way out isn’t pleasure. It’s growth.

It wasn’t as hard to begin as I imagined. I started by taking responsibility for my room. Tidying up was surprisingly calming—cleaning the mess quieted the restlessness inside. I began paying attention to every word I spoke, to my posture, my eating habits, my sleep, my emotions.

These might seem like tiny things, but they’re among the few real boundaries we can control. True strength begins with mastering them.

They give your life its backbone, the spine you need to face the world. You have to stand tall first—only then can you speak of freedom, or compassion.

Every successful person, I believe, has faced collapse, confusion, self-deceit, and moments of giving up.

You don’t need to become your ideal self overnight. You may still be in pain, still unsure. But you can start by standing up—just for a moment. Even a slight lift of the spine.

And that alone means—you’re no longer standing still.