The bridge that builds itself.

But only if we build it together.

“What is most thought-provoking in our thought-provoking time is that we are still not thinking.” ~ Martin Heidegger, What is Called Thinking?

I caught myself mid-complaint the other day, telling someone that I simply cannot get my ideas across to people—not in a way that actually transforms their lives. But the moment those words escaped, something shifted inside me. I found myself asking: “What does it even mean to ‘get them across’?”

That phrase—getting ideas across—carries within it an entire metaphor that shapes how we think about communication and understanding. It suggests meaning as cargo to be conveyed or transported over a pre-existing bridge, from my mind to yours. The writer’s job, in this view, is to construct a sturdy span and ensure safe passage. The reader’s job is to receive what’s been delivered.

But notice what this metaphor assumes: that ideas exist as finished objects in one mind, ready for transport to another. That understanding is a matter of successful delivery rather than collaborative creation. That the bridge—the medium of communication—is neutral infrastructure rather than an active participant in shaping what gets built.

But what if this metaphor is fundamentally wrong?

What if meaning isn’t something that exists independently, waiting to be transported? What if understanding doesn’t happen through delivery but through creation—a collaborative act that requires both writer and reader (or speaker and listener) to step into uncertainty together?

I’m thinking of a different kind of bridge entirely. Imagine walking across a structure that builds itself with each step you take. Your foot reaches forward, seeking solid ground, but the bridge materializes only as you commit to the movement. There’s no stability if you stop. Like riding a bicycle, the very act of moving forward creates the conditions for becoming.

This is what meaning-making actually feels like when we’re honest about it. The bridge appears as your foot lands, but not always in the direction you expected. Sometimes the structure curves away from where you thought you were heading, creating that familiar vertigo of genuine thinking—the feeling that the ground is shifting beneath you even as you’re creating it.

You’re not choosing to stroll along various pre-built paths. There are no paths. There’s only the collaborative act of construction, step by uncertain step, where each footfall both discovers and creates what wasn’t there before.

This isn’t just about reading difficult articles or books. Every meaningful conversation you’ve had, every moment when someone’s words suddenly clicked in a way that changed how you see the world—that was collaborative bridge-building. The question is: are you willing to do this intentionally?

Here’s where it gets unsettling: this process feels a bit like a loss of identity and autonomy. We believe our thoughts are ours—inner currents that guide our lives. But if meaning emerges through collaboration, if understanding requires the reader’s active participation in construction, then our thoughts were never really “ours” to begin with. They only become thoughts through encounter with another mind.

The discomfort is real because the challenge is real. What we took to be solid ground—the sovereignty of individual consciousness—reveals itself as another construction project requiring collaboration.

This discomfort you might be feeling right now? That’s not something to push through or get over. That’s the signal that real thinking is beginning. The question is whether you’ll stay with it long enough to see what emerges.

I once spent weeks working my way through Martin Heidegger’s “What is Called Thinking?” Hours upon hours of slow, careful reading. Page by page, paragraph by paragraph, sometimes sentence by sentence. Was Heidegger simply a poor communicator who failed to build clear bridges to his ideas? Or was he doing something else entirely—inviting readers into a more demanding form of thinking that requires us to help construct the very ground we’re walking on?

The difficulty wasn’t a bug in the system. It was the point.

This changes everything about how we think about communication. The question isn’t “How can I make this clearer?” but “How can I create conditions for genuine encounter?” It’s not about eliminating uncertainty but about creating productive instability—spaces where meaning can emerge through the reader’s active participation. It requires presence, patience, and the courage to step forward when you can’t see where you’re going. It requires surrendering the illusion that our thoughts belong to us, that they are us.

In support of this exploration, I’ve adopted a more collaborative, bridge-building approach to my writing. From this point forward, my aim is to build this comprehensive bridge to understanding what makes a good life in an age of unknowing. I’ll be working through “The Three Truths Nobody Tells You”—these will serve as the raw material for our bridge-building—first by writing a few articles on each truth, and then by doing live Zoom calls to discuss them together.

I’ll be posting the “Three Truths” article on Monday, followed soon after by one on how we make truth. The Zoom conversations I’m hosting aren’t lectures—they’re spaces for this kind of collaborative construction. Bring your uncertainties. Bring your questions that don’t have clean answers.

I’m curious: what bridges are you building in your own life? Where are you stepping forward without solid ground? I’m not asking you to agree with me. I’m asking you to think alongside me. To build something neither of us could construct alone.

I hope you’ll join me on this bridge-building venture. After each article, I’ll reach out for your questions and to connect those interested in our live Zoom conversations. The bridge only appears when we’re both committed to crossing it—and willing to risk our balance to find solid ground together.

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Stay passionate!