We perform a natural response to the environment, as a way of adaptation. When I was a kid, I was generally a “good” boy. I didn’t like picking on others, and I didn’t like being picked on. I didn’t enjoy teasing anyone, nor tricking anyone for my own benefit.

“You’re so good, you’re stupid,” a friend once told me.

My friend wanted to help me “wake up.” To make me see that the world wasn’t the way I thought it was. That trusting so much was foolish.

That definition of me had a huge impact. I felt deeply stupid, honestly. My translation of “stupid” was naivety—gullible, “someone the world will take advantage of if he doesn’t grow up.” I don’t know why I never questioned it. I immediately assumed my friend was right and that I needed to mature: perform better, for a better adaptation to this world.

The hardest part was that no matter how much I tried, I couldn’t perform in any other way than the way others called “good” or “stupid.” My conclusion was that I was condemned to being weak, and I’d just have to manage so it wouldn’t show too much, and so I wouldn’t get fooled too often. I also didn’t want to “act good,” because I wasn’t acting. I was simply trying to be myself. Yet I truly longed for a world where people could be vulnerable and where vulnerability was respected—a world where relationships were affectively trustworthy and safe.

For many years my performance in life implied hosting a weight of insecurity and confusion. The burden of holding this “stupid” definition of me inside, of doubting my longings and my illusion that a more trustworthy world could exist.

So, in my attempt to be smart, I became split inside. I created a new inner voice. And in these inner conversations I used this brand-new voice to tell my confused parts: “You should be sharper, sell yourself more, don’t be so good, be tougher, look out for yourself…” That voice echoed the words of my friend, but this time it was my own voice. Nevertheless, no matter how much I paid attention to this voice, the feelings of being innocent and too small were always there, hidden deep down. If you were normal, you wouldn’t feel this way, said the voice.

Once, tired of my vulnerable self, I tried to engage with a radical change—decided ruthlessly to become a super-empowered, successful version of me. Positive thinking, changing my beliefs—this was supposed to be my gateway to the winners’ world, that higher world where nobody steps on you because you’re the one on top.

But unfortunately, it didn’t work at all—the plane didn’t even take off. I felt overtly ridiculous. And beyond that, I realized instantly that I didn’t want that for myself. For me, there was something false, something contrived, in that misunderstood “release the giant within” attitude.

If I was honest—and I was—I became very aware that I don’t believe in happiness built on strength, tightness, shouting, and pushing.

But maybe my friend was right in one thing… If being “good” meant pleasing others and omitting my own needs, then that wasn’t fair either.

My idea of happiness became the pursuit of something calmer and more connected—something oriented toward doing small, nourishing things for the world. Not in-dependent, nor co-dependent… but inter-dependent.

In the past I thought that not being able to be that **man who goes for everything—shameless, independent, fearless—**was a problem for my survival and my self-esteem. I read countless books on “unleashing the leader within,” on breaking through the barriers of shame, on selling yourself well. But every attempt to build that empowered Self fell flat.

It’s taken me many years to discover there was nothing broken in me. Being slow suits me. Being calm allows me to look past prejudices. Being this kind of “good” doesn’t mean I’m superior or angelic. My translation of “good” is: curious, careful, respectful, loving, conciliatory.

I know I’m a “good person.” Now I can say it without shame, without it meaning arrogance. I’m a “good person” because it’s my choice, and my ethics.

And it has always been my longing: to live in a world where innocence is valued above cunning, competitiveness, greed, or being number one.

Sometimes I worry about how much we mock innocence and naivety.

I must say, I eventually found ways to make use of that innocence. Of course, I learned to handle innocence without being naïve. To flip it around.

Innocence had its upside: people trusted me. Nobody believed I would hurt them—and rightly so. I felt well regarded. And sometimes that only deepened my confusion: Who am I really? Am I good, or am I bad?

My innocence is actually curiosity—the acceptance of uncertainty, of not knowing, and being okay with it, because nobody really knows anything. When I discovered that **innocence was curiosity—about myself, about others, about life—**I finally began to feel at home in myself, and in the world.

Innocence, curiosity… looking at things as if we didn’t know, being present in the face of uncertainty, as if we were seeing things for the first time, is a beautiful way of looking at oneself, at others, and at the world with fewer prejudices.

I find it hard to believe that anything truly new can be created without an innocent, curious gaze. Because to create something new, you need curiosity. And curiosity is innocent in its essence.

“So good, you’re stupid” is a phrase that has lost its power inside. Today, it’s an empty shell. There was a time it carried weight—but it was a weight empty of compassion, empty of love for myself and for this valuable element of life: innocence.