When Lindy West’s latest memoir “Adult Braces” came out, I was one of thousands of fans who couldn’t dive in fast enough. I’ve long loved her work for not only its humor and wit, but for the way she writes searing social commentary that manages to both take no prisoners and still maintain hope — no small feat! I especially admire her willingness to be vulnerable with her readers, the way she finds and protects truth, and how her curious mind engages challenges with both good faith and intellectual rigor. And this book delivered all of that and then some. 

After reading, I was excited to dig into what I expected to be a rich and complicated dialogue about all the many topics the book grapples with: the arc of a marriage story and each individual’s trajectory of growth within it; the dark revelations of how the TV show based on her life managed to actually erase her from production; the tensions of living in a politicized body and how she wrestles with her physical needs alongside her public responsibilities. 

“I was excited to dig into what I expected to be a rich and complicated dialogue about all the many topics the book grapples with…But online, no one was talking about these things.”

But online, no one was talking about these things. All anyone seemed to be interested in was speculating on the details of her polyamourous marriage — which wasn’t even a revelation, let alone the point, of the memoir.

I was mildly floored by this. For anyone scrolling Substack, they might think the book was nothing but a weak defense of how West’s husband duped her into opening up their traditional marriage to another partner. They might think the book was merely an invitation for us to weigh in with our own feelings about a stranger’s marriage and what we could assume about the three figures in their relationship — based almost exclusively on what they look like, and how they responded to this very media storm about them. 

The few lines from the book used to support all the gossip were weaponized against West in ways that were frankly dumbfounding. I kept reading, confused. Had we all… read the same book?

A memoir is, after all, a crafted art form. It is, in other words, an entire book. The sentences revealing some of the more difficult and exposing details of the author’s life aren’t meant to be cherry picked and blasted without context, they’re meant to be read in an intentional sequence, complicated by all the other parts of the writer’s lived experience — as it’s presented in the work. That is the point of a literary memoir: to drop into another person’s full range of experiences, with all the messy, thorny, uncomfortable parts coexisting with the beautiful, hopeful, and socially acceptable ones.

“It’s like people either didn’t read this book, or they’ve forgotten how to read a book,” my friend said to me. A memoir isn’t a tweet, after all. But on the internet, almost everything is reduced to one.

What truly disturbed me wasn’t just the conversation itself, however. It was that, after reading so many of them, I started to feel less clear on my own takeaways. If everyone else seemed to agree, if I was the outlier, than that meant that I was the one in the wrong. Right?

Hot takes in an echo chamber

The internet is many things, but primarily it is fast. Why dig out a dictionary when you can ask Siri? Why read a whole book when you can listen to a podcast about it? Open any site and find yourelf just clicks away from whatever is currently getting the hot take treatment; immerse yourself for long enough and you can start to believe you experienced the whole thing firsthand, when in reality you were only reading about it.

“The internet is many things, but primarily it is fast.”

Or, more accurately — reading other people’s opinions about it.

The internet is often our primary resource for news, only the information rarely reaches us in a traditional reporting style (by which I mean: objective, thoroughly researched, and based in facts). Articles and videos of current events often filter through social media channels before we even see an actual news alert. Many of us are getting our news smash cut with reaction gifs and video stiches, or summarized by media personalities and AI agents.

If we get our news this way, wrapped up in the personalities of public opinion, it begs the question: Is it really news at all?

In a single, endless swipe we can learn about one event from a dozen people — an investigative journalist, a politician, an influencer, a meme site, a cultural critic, our second cousin, and the boy who threw up on stage in our elementary school talent show. The facts of the event itself are already altered, tinted with however the speaker is feeling about them and how they are positioning their presentation. We aren’t consuming clear reporting, but a heavily editorialized version that has already influenced what we think about it — whether we realize this or not.

Depending on what we click on, who we follow, and even how long we “linger” over content, our algorithm narrows. With a bottomless source of content, it might seem like we’re getting a fount of information rich with independent speech and diverse thought, where multiple perspectives and individual ideas are exchanged freely — but the algorithm ensures that this is an illusion. In other words: The internet might appear to be an agora, but really it is only a simulacrum of one. 

“The internet might appear to be an agora, but really it is only a simulacrum of one.”

We are experiencing what communications theory calls an echo chamber, which is exactly what it sounds like: a closed channel, forum, or space where our own beliefs are repeated back to us. Recurrent exposure to what we are guaranteed to agree with has a profound effect on our ability to relate to anything outside of this bubble. The constant reinforcement of our own beliefs, assumptions, and ideas facilitates a sense of cultural tribalism among us — strengthening the confirmation bias that creates finding common ground with any “outsiders” increasingly difficult. After all, if we all tend to believe that we are ultimately Good™️, then anyone who believes differently from us must be Bad™️ — right?

As we become more entrenched in our beliefs, we become less likely to understand oppositional or distinct ideas — if the algorithm allows us to encounter them at all. With all of this happening via a media landscape full of hot takes and 30-second videos, we end up becoming a society that is not only increasingly polarized, but with an attention span honed by TikTok. And maybe that’s why it sometimes seems like the opinions and commentary flooding our feeds about a single topic can often feel less like so many individual perspectives, and more like variations on a theme.

“As we become more entrenched in our beliefs, we become less likely to understand oppositional or distinct ideas — if the algorithm allows us to encounter them at all.”

So these were the conditions in which the online discussions about Lindy West’s book were taking place. I felt like I was reading a transcript of a game of Telephone, one where everyone managed to hang on to a high level sentiment, with only a few minor words lost to translation.

The few alternate takes popping up in the comments were treated with all the thoughtfulness we’ve come to expect on the internet from strangers disagreeing with one another — which is to say = no thoughtfulness at all, really. Long, wordy comments volleyed back and forth all ultimately amounted to what children sound like when they don’t yet have the language or executive function to express themselves beyond a passionate “Nuh-UH!”

And yet. The power of repeated exposure has long since proven itself in changing individual opinion, as we know from the mere exposure theory in marketing. Which is why, even as I was reading the petulant comment sections in articles I didn’t agree with, I found myself becoming less certain why I didn’t.

Is repetition really a good enough argument? Is it an argument at all?

I know we are better than this. I know we are not only capable of tackling difficult topics together, but that the diversity of our beliefs, experiences, and perspectives are essential to creating a truly healthy and thriving society. So how do we do this? How can we invite more nuance and difference in the chat, when the entire digital world seems to be run by code that is, quite literally, designed to be binary?

“How can we invite more nuance and difference in the chat, when the entire digital world seems to be run by code that is, quite literally, designed to be binary?”

I won’t claim to have all the answers, but I feel confident that whichever way is the one that gets us out of here will require a skillset we won’t hone in the comments section. The good news is that I think the power is within us already, and all we have to do is brush up on our critical thinking skills to activate it.

What is critical thinking?

Maybe this seems like a given, but if tribalism and confirmation bias can change our understanding of facts and truth, it seems important to establish a common definition for “critical thinking” — a topic that might sound familiar to some of us but doesn’t in fact have a single definition. 

“It seems appropriate that a term meant to indicate a rigorous thinking process would undergo exactly that — though that still leaves us without a clear, common definition.”

Though contested across fields, “the competing definitions can be understood as differing conceptions of the same basic concept: careful thinking directed to a goal,” as stated in the Stanford Encyclopedia of Philosophy. “Conceptions differ with respect to the scope of such thinking, the type of goal, the criteria and norms for thinking carefully, and the thinking components on which they focus.”

Honestly, it seems appropriate that a term meant to indicate a rigorous thinking process would undergo exactly that — though that still leaves us without a clear, common definition here.

Let’s start with what is not critical thinking, on which the various philosophers, scientists, educators, and writers seem to agree:

  • Jumping instantly to conclusions
  • On-going suspension of judgment despite clear and factual evidence
  • Reasoning that derives from an unquestioned doctrine of political or religious dogma
  • Relying on the routine use of an algorithm to answer questions

For the sake of our discussion, I’m going to say that if critical thinking is the practice of processing information with a clear goal, then I’d like to suggest that the goal is to think for yourself.

Whether it’s for the purposes of solving a problem, answering a question, or simply understanding what’s going on, the goal for thinking critically is ultimately to identify what you think.

“If critical thinking is the practice of processing information with a clear goal, then I’d like to suggest that the goal is to think for yourself.”

Sounds relatively straightforward, right? Until we remember the echo chamber, the algorithm, and the years of conditioning our attention spans into something resembling the bpm of a hummingbird.

The process of how to think critically is also not so cut and dry. The multivariability of everything from cognitive development to learning abilities, lived experience to emotional intelligence, and even simply the ways in which information is both encountered and presented make our goal to think for ourselves much more of a challenge than it seems.

So, now what?

If we can agree that our shared understanding of “critical thinking” here is the goal to think for ourselves amidst a deluge of compromised and persuasive information, and that the method by which we do this might need to change to fit the context of each instance, then I ask that you allow me to answer the question using the process I personally rely on, which is rooted in Visual Thinking Strategies and the communication practice of Interpretation.

In other words: I don’t have THE answer, but I have AN answer. But maybe it will help guide you to your own process.

Looking first, looking again, then looking even more

Nearly every morning, I start the day on my yoga mat. But before I move my body, I pull a few tarot cards.

I rarely ask a question or do a specific spread — my tarot practice isn’t about divining the future or seeking counsel from the universe. Instead, I look at the cards, and use my visual interpretation skills from a former life as an arts museum educator as a way to check in on myself. Because although the images on the cards might be the same from day to day, how I relate to them changes.

Visual interpretation is a slow, careful process that asks us to continually come back to the thing we’re looking at by answering one question, over and over again: What do you see?

“Visual interpretation is a slow, careful process that asks us to continually come back to the thing we’re looking at by answering one question, over and over again: What do you see?“

It seems simple, but our minds have been trained to move so quickly through visual language that we often jump to an interpretation before we’ve properly even looked at it. And if we don’t catch ourselves, we can end up drawing conclusions from only fragments of information.

Three Empress tarot cards from different decks are displayed on a wooden surface, each featuring unique artistic interpretations of the Empress archetype.
The Empress card from three different decks. Each of these images hold unique symbols that require their own attention and thought.

Say we pull the Empress card — an archetypal image of a woman, she is often depicted with a soft, rounded belly, sometimes holding a baby. When asked “What do you see?” we might be tempted to say “A mother,” but this is actually jumping ahead — that’s our minds translating the visual cues before we have properly looked at the image itself.

In an education setting, that conversation might sound like this:

“What do you see on this card?”

“A mother, holding a baby on her lap.”

“What in this image makes you say this is a mother?”

“Well, she’s holding a baby, and she’s looking at it with an expression that seems soft and familiar.”

“What do you see in her expression that seems soft?”

…and on and on.

The role of the interpreter is to constantly draw the viewer’s attention back to the source — all of the early questions are directives to look back to the image for evidence.

“The role of the interpreter is to constantly draw the viewer’s attention back to the source — all of the early questions are directives to look back to the image for evidence.”

Everything the viewer sees (or thinks they are seeing), should be tied back to what’s visible in the object. And the only way to do that is to keep looking, over and over again, and for much longer than you expected to look.

This is a practice that not only facilitates deeper engagement with the object, but also helps raise self-awareness around our own biases, associations, and thinking habits. When asked to find evidence to support our statement about the object, we’re sometimes confronted with the way we might be supplementing our interpretation without even realize it — especially when, looking for proof of our original idea, what we find instead is something else entirely.

Familiarity with a subject is one of the primary ways we can compromise our ability to see something clearly for what it is.

If, for example, you have a tarot practice yourself, you might have already had an image in your mind of the Empress, along with all the associations and interpretations you have been developing on your own. But depending on the deck, the Empress might be represented in a number of ways, with visuals that offer distinct information. Would it be right to assign every Empress depiction identical interpretations if the imagery offers major distinctions?

“Would it be right to assign every Empress depiction identical interpretations if the imagery offers major distinctions?”

I don’t know if there is an empirical (ha!) answer. But I do know that not taking the time to really engage with such a question would defeat the purpose of having a tarot practice in the first place.

Said another way: When I was a student in a still life drawing class, I had an art teacher who clapped loudly every few minutes, reminding us to look up at the still life, not down at our paper. “I want to see your drawing of this coffee cup,” he would say, pointing at one of the objects. “Not what you think you know about what a coffee cup looks like.”

Our memories, experience, knowledge, and familiarity with the things we encounter in the world are sometimes crucial keys to accessing the truth; and sometimes, they might inhibit our ability to see something right in front of us.

“We have to have a little skepticism of our own beliefs — or at least, a willingness to update them with new information.”

Learning to recognize the difference, and to know when to set aside what we think we know is something that takes practice. Not only do we have to train ourselves to slow down the input process of new data, but we have to have a little skepticism of our own beliefs — or at least, a willingness to update them with new information.

Because the familiarity trap isn’t just what we fall into when encountering something we personally know already; it’s also what happens when the same reaction about a memoir and the person who wrote it sweeps the internet, every headline repeating its own version of the same message. Without the habit of looking again, we might mistake other people’s hot takes as the original source, rather than the book itself.

Strengthening our observational skills is at the core of critical thinking. We have to be willing to keep looking at something, over and over again, until we’re confident that whatever we’re seeing is actually there. We need to verify this for ourselves, never outsourcing to strangers on the internet — human or otherwise.

And maybe I’m burying the lede here, but developing our critical thinking skills is not just a tedious thought experiment. Critical thinking skills are essential for breaking us out of this polarized society where the noisy, demanding factions of our tribes obscure an essential, humanizing truth: We are infinitely more alike than we are distinct from one another.

“We are infinitely more alike than we are distinct from one another.”

But we are also complicated and messy, and the best way to create a community of care that benefits us all is to be able to hold both truths at once: We are all unique and wildly distinct from one another, and also we are, at our core, basically the same.

The universal theme

As a visual interpreter in a public art museum, I sometimes had the challenge of convincing a group that an art object was relevant to them, personally — even if it seemed extremely unlikely on first glance.

“I sometimes had the challenge of convincing a group that an art object was relevant to them, personally — even if it seemed extremely unlikely on first glance.”

I once gave a tour to a group of retired women, for example, where we encountered the large scale 2003 photograph “Branded Head” by Hank Willis Thomas. “Oh, we can skip this one,” one of the women said, “None of us are much into sports.”

The image shows a cropped close up of a Black man’s shaved head, branded with a raised scar in the shape of the iconic Nike logo. The women in front of me were already starting to wander away, but I’d noticed that every one of them was wearing an iconic symbol on their own person — Tory Burch flats, Chanel handbags, a Cartier love bracelet — and I knew I could make this piece feel personal to them. But I was patient, and started slow.

What in the photo makes you think it’s about sports?

Isn’t that a sports symbol? That one on his head?

It’s the Nike brand, another woman said. And they make all kinds of stuff.

What else do you see in the image?

Nothing. Just a head.

Just the back of some guy’s head.

What in the photo makes you think this is a man’s head?

They paused. Well, I guess I don’t know.

There isn’t much else in it to look at.

What does it say to you that the image is so large but contains such limited information?

It makes it hard to ignore. And all you can really focus on is this horrible scar.

It’s a brand, too, like the Nike brand, and like a cattle brand.

How do you think this piece is using the connections between the two definitions of ‘brand,’ here?

We ended up spending nearly an hour in front of this image. We talked about enslavement, about sports, about the power of labels — whether they are the kind we choose to wear or the kind we are obligated or forced to wear — and what they communicate about us to the world. By the end of the tour, they were all looking at their own handbags and clothing a little differently, all because of a work of art they didn’t think was relevant to them.

“No matter how different and distinct the many specifics of our lives are, there are powerful forces inside us — a desire for love, for connection, for acceptance — that we all share.”

This connection is called “the universal theme,” and it’s a crucial element to visual interpretation — and for building communities. Because no matter how different and distinct the many specifics of our lives are, there are powerful forces inside us — a desire for love, for connection, for acceptance — that we all share. These access points help us to not only relate to one another, but to care about and ultimately support one another.

Otherwise we’re just as likely to turn away from the things that seem too hard, too different, or too “other” from us, just because it’s easier.

What gets neglected, every time we choose the easier route? I wonder if it’s not just the “outsider,” but also the parts of ourselves that aren’t easy, too.

Use it or lose it

When looking at art, most people want to know one thing: What does it mean? Then, they want to determine whether they like it or not.

I think this is what most of us want from a lot of the information we encounter:  What does this mean, exactly? And how do I feel about it?

It’s all too easy to outsource our cognitive load onto search engines and AI agents, to influencers with large social media platforms, or simply the general tide of public opinion. And it’s easy by design. It takes more energy, more focus, and more tolerance for friction to practice anything else — to hone critical thinking in a place where a smoother, more comfortable option to simply accept presents itself at every turn.

“It’s all too easy to outsource our cognitive load onto search engines and AI agents… And it’s easy by design.”

Spotting difference is easier, in art and in each other. It’s easier to see flaws, or recall the article that already judged something “bad,” and for that to be reason enough to pass it by without giving it a second glance. It’s not too different from us, so it’s probably bad, or at the very least, irrelevant.

Thinking for ourselves requires that second glance, however. Often many more glances than that.

But imagine a world where we’re allowed to take our time, to wonder and ask questions, and to keep exploring until we’ve not only discovered a secret passageway, but also the password that unlocks the door ourselves. Anyone with enough curiosity could find it, but most people are just hurrying by, never even noticing it’s there. What would we find there, behind such a door?

Whatever it is, I’m certain the only way to find out, is to go through it ourselves.

Stephanie H. Fallon is a Contributing Editor at The Good Trade. She is a writer originally from Houston, Texas and holds an MFA from the Jackson Center of Creative Writing at Hollins University. She lives with her family in the Blue Ridge Mountains of Virginia, and she is the author of Finishing Lines, where she writes about her fear of finishing, living a creative life, and (medical) motherhood. Since 2022, she has been reviewing sustainable home and lifestyle brands, fact-checking sustainability claims, and bringing her sharp editorial skills to every product review. Say hi on Instagram or on her website.