There's an "old" joke, How do you know if people perceive you as young or old? Just fall down. If people immediately rush over and ask, “Are you okay?”, you’re old. If they laugh first, you’re young. It may not be scientific, but it captures a fundamental truth— a person's reaction will reveal their assumptions.
The same holds true in conversation. If someone tells you they just bought a pick-up truck, once you get past the generic questions like make and model, the questions you ask say something about you:
Construction/farmer? What’s the engine size? V6 or V8?
Eco-conscious? Is it electric?
Family-oriented? How many seats?
Cost-conscious? New or used?
Trend-conscious? What color?
Patriotic? Domestic or import
DIYer? Trailer hitch?
In the market for one? Where did you buy it?
Bargain hunter? What did you pay?
Practical? What are you planning to use it for?
Best friend? Can I borrow it this weekend to pick up a sofa?
The questions we ask—whether of others or ourselves—reveal our goals, values, priorities, and even fears.
What about the questions that run through our own minds, that we, then, require ourselves, or timidly refuse, to answer?
The questions we ask—or avoid—reveal the shape of our hearts. They expose our ambitions, fears, and the quiet corners of our lives we’d rather not illuminate. Yet, if we truly want to grow, we must have the courage to ask the hard questions—and answer them honestly.
At the end of 12 Rules for Life, Jordan Peterson describes receiving a pen with an LED light, allowing him to write in darkness—his “pen of light.” Pleased with the gift, he asks himself, “What shall I write with my newfound pen of light?”
His answer? Meaningful, significant questions—ones that probe deeply into the human condition. But Peterson doesn’t leave us in the dark with difficult questions. Each of his 12 Rules serves as an answer, or at least a direction—a way forward. In his final Coda, he explicitly asks hard questions and creatively references his rules to address them.
I'd never heard of, or used, the word "coda" outside of music, so I found it interesting that he used it here -- similarly, as a finale. He designed the Coda as a mechanism to summarize, restate, and bring together many of the threads of the 12 Rules, demonstrating their practical application to the very real questions we grapple with.
Peterson refuses to separate philosophy from practical action. Abstract ideals must align with everyday behavior. His rules are not a framework for being—they are a framework for becoming. And becoming requires movement. Growth demands forward motion.
Hard questions challenge us in a way that comfortable questions never will. They strip away the self-deception we so easily embrace. The only way to grow—properly and directionally—is to ask and answer with brutal honesty. Anything less, and we risk stagnation, trapped in soothing half-truths that pacify but do not strengthen.
What questions are we willing to struggle with? Which ones do we instinctively shy away from?
Not all questions lead to truth—some simply confirm what we want to hear. Are we asking trivial, self-serving questions? Or are we asking profound, searching ones that drive us forward?
And what about our answers? Are they deeply honest, or just what we’ve been taught to say? Are they superficial? Half-truths? Lies?
When we take this process seriously, we find ourselves illuminated—lit from within by the spark of truth we once feared. Hard questions refine us. They burn away deception and give us the courage to ask even better questions.
I’ve been a “fan” of good questions for years. I recall a heated discussion at work about a software feature. After much back-and-forth, our CTO stepped back and asked a simple, clarifying question:
"What would the customer’s experience look like? Describe it."
Instantly, the conversation shifted. We now had a lens to judge all decisions. The question revealed what truly mattered.
I love the mindset of good questions, the clarity they bring, and the direction they provide. But having a framework for answering them is just as important. Life is full of difficult, impossible questions, but a framework—like Peterson’s 12 Rules—helps us answer them with purpose. His final paragraphs speak of the spark that hard questions create, the light they bring.
Perhaps 12 Rules for Life can be a pen of light—a tool to carve clarity from confusion, burn away deception, and move ever upward toward what is true.
What will you write with your newfound pen of light?
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