The morning mist still clung to the canals as I crossed the Ponte delle Guglie, making my way toward Cannaregio. Venice awakens differently than Rome—my adopted city—with a quieter reverence, as if the stones themselves remember centuries of whispered prayers and muffled conversations. I had come to the Ghetto Nuovo, that small island of memory where humanity first institutionalized separation, where in 1516 the Venetian Republic decreed that all Jews must live within designated boundaries, locked in at night, their movements controlled by day.

As a sociologist of religion who has spent years studying the intersections of faith, culture, and social structure, I recognized in these narrow streets something profound about human nature: our capacity to create both physical and metaphysical boundaries. The Venetian ghetto—from which we derive our modern word—was revolutionary in its systematic approach to segregation. Here was born the first formalized model of urban exclusion that would spread across Europe like a viral architectural concept, appearing in Rome, Prague, Frankfurt, and countless other cities where Jewish communities would be confined until the mid-19th century.

Yet what struck me most forcefully was not the historical weight of these stones, but their contemporary lightness. The gates are gone. The walls have crumbled or been absorbed into the city’s organic growth. Jewish residents are free to live anywhere in Venice—or anywhere in the world. The ghetto as a physical institution has been relegated to history books and tourist brochures.

But have we truly dismantled the ghetto? Or have we simply learned to build more sophisticated versions, invisible to the eye but no less real in their effects?

The architecture of mental separation

Walking through the narrow calli that connect the Ghetto Nuovo to the Ghetto Vecchio, I was confronted by a troubling realization: while we have torn down the physical walls that once confined Jewish communities, we have perhaps become more adept at constructing mental ghettos—invisible barriers that separate communities just as effectively as any medieval decree.

These new ghettos are not built of brick and mortar but of prejudice and assumption, of media narratives and social algorithms that create echo chambers more insidious than any walled enclave. In our contemporary cities—whether Rome, Paris, London, or New York—we witness the emergence of what I call “glass wall communities”: groups that can see each other, that exist in proximity yet rarely engage in meaningful dialogue.

Consider how we live today. Immigrants cluster in certain neighborhoods not by legal mandate but by economic necessity and social comfort. Religious minorities often self-segregate, creating informal ghettos of familiarity. Even our digital lives reflect this pattern—we follow, befriend, and engage with those who confirm our existing beliefs, creating virtual ghettos of the mind that can be more restrictive than any physical boundary.

The challenge is more complex than the original Venetian model because these modern ghettos wear the mask of choice. We tell ourselves that segregation is voluntary, that birds of a feather naturally flock together. But this narrative obscures the structural forces—economic inequality, educational disparities, cultural xenophobia—that make such “choices” inevitable for many.

Lessons from European ghettos

The history of Jewish ghettos across Europe offers sobering insights into how physical separation becomes internalized. In Rome’s ghetto, established in 1555, generations lived within papal-imposed boundaries that created not just physical isolation but psychological adaptation to marginalization. The Frankfurt Judengasse, the Prague Josefov—each represented a different experiment in controlled coexistence, where dominant societies sought to benefit from Jewish commercial skills while maintaining social and religious distance.

What fascinates me as a scholar is how these communities developed remarkable resilience and internal solidarity precisely because of their forced separation. Synagogues, schools, mutual aid societies, and cultural institutions flourished within confined spaces, creating rich micro-societies that preserved and innovated Jewish life even under oppressive conditions.

But this historical pattern raises uncomfortable questions about our contemporary moment. Are we creating conditions where different communities develop in parallel rather than in dialogue? When Muslims, Christians, Jews, and secular populations live in separate social spheres—attending different schools, consuming different media, socializing within homogeneous networks—do we risk reproducing the isolation that physical ghettos once imposed?

Venice as a model of possibility

Yet standing again in the campo of the former ghetto, observing the steady stream of visitors—Jewish and non-Jewish, local and international—I was reminded of Venice’s unique capacity for transformation. The city that invented the ghetto has also, perhaps, pointed toward its transcendence.

Today, the Ghetto Nuovo and Ghetto Vecchio host five active synagogues representing different Jewish traditions—Ashkenazi, Sephardic, Italian, Levantine, and German. The Museo Ebraico tells the story not just of Jewish Venice but of the complex relationships between communities across centuries. Kosher restaurants and bakeries serve both observant Jews and curious visitors. The workshops of contemporary Jewish artists open their doors to dialogue about identity, memory, and creativity.

This transformation speaks to something essential about Venice itself—a city that has always been, by geographical and commercial necessity, a place of encounter. Built on trade routes between East and West, between Christian Europe and the Islamic world, Venice learned early that diversity could be economically profitable even when socially challenging.

Toward dialogue and understanding

As an activist for interfaith dialogue, I see in Venice’s former ghetto a powerful metaphor for our contemporary challenge. The physical walls are gone, but the work of building bridges across the mental barriers that divide us has only just begun. The experience of integration—or experience of community building in a diverse society—requires more than the absence of legal segregation; it demands the presence of intentional encounter.

What would our cities look like if we designed them for dialogue rather than division? If our schools, our neighborhoods, our public spaces were conceived as laboratories for cross-cultural understanding rather than comfort zones for homogeneous groups?

The Venice ghetto suggests that such transformation is possible. A place born from exclusion can become a space of inclusion. Walls built to separate can be transformed into bridges that connect. But this requires conscious effort—the kind of patient, persistent work that turns strangers into neighbors, neighbors into friends, and friends into collaborators in building more just and inclusive communities.

Conclusion: The ongoing journey

As I prepared to leave the ghetto that morning, crossing back over the bridge toward the broader city, I carried with me a sense of both hope and urgency. Venice, this impossible city built on water and sustained by centuries of calculated risk-taking, reminds us that human communities are not fixed entities but ongoing projects, constantly under construction.

The ghetto walls may have fallen, but the work they represented—the work of learning to live together across differences—continues in every generation. Whether in Rome, where I make my home among the seven hills and countless communities, or in Venice, where water and stone create spaces for both separation and connection, we face the same fundamental choice: Will we build walls or bridges? Will we create ghettos of the mind or communities of the heart?

The answer lies not in grand gestures but in daily acts of encounter—in the decision to cross the bridge, to enter an unfamiliar neighborhood, to listen to a story different from our own. In these small acts of courage, we honor both the memory of those who were confined by walls and the possibility of those who will be freed by our choices.

Venice teaches us that even the most entrenched systems of separation can be transformed. The question is whether we have the wisdom and will to continue that transformation in our own time and place.

Achieving a constant state of happiness first requires a profound understanding of oneself and an acute awareness of one’s reality. Recognizing that there must be a purpose behind human creation, I realized that lasting happiness and inner peace could only be attained by discovering this purpose and aligning my life accordingly. I understood that every new situation presented an opportunity to progress toward life’s deeper beauties. This transformation in perspective allowed me to derive personal satisfaction irrespective of external circumstances or conditions.

Over time, it became evident that life does not always unfold according to one’s wishes. Nevertheless, I came to accept that if the events shaping my path were part of a divinely orchestrated destiny, then they inherently held meaning and purpose. In a life plan uniquely designed for me, it would be impossible for a situation to arise that did not ultimately serve my benefit or growth. Thus, I began to view each experience as a carefully crafted treasure trove of lessons. Embracing the viewpoint that a believer, whether tested by hardship or blessed with prosperity, is always in a position of gain, I perceived every situation as a form of divine grace. Consequently, my foremost responsibility was to internalize this reality and actively incorporate it into my daily life.

However, the true meaning of life and my own place within it became fully clear during a profound period of captivity. The circumstances that led to my imprisonment were deeply political, rooted in the systematic repression carried out by the Erdogan administration in Turkey, under which mass arrests and detentions targeted individuals not for violence or crime, but simply for dissent. Despite the suffering, captivity became the place where I discovered the genuine beauty and deeper purpose of life. This experience exposed my human weaknesses and made real the truth of the saying, “pain matures the soul.” By consciously giving meaning to what I lived through, I reached a powerful realization: none of my experiences were wasted. Each one was a meaningful chapter in a greater story written for my growth.

Significantly, I understood that the suffering and pain I had perceived were often a product of my own distorted interpretations and judgments. Life itself, in its essence, resembled a beautiful book; yet when its beauty went unrecognized, it became akin to a story abandoned after its first page—empty, meaningless, and devoid of value. This recognition illuminated the importance of perceiving life as it truly is, rather than as it appears through the lens of emotional distortions. In this context, the insight of Bediuzzaman Said Nursi, a renowned Islamic scholar—”Those who see beautifully think beautifully, and those who think beautifully find joy in life”—emerged as a timeless guiding principle, highlighting the transformative power of perception.

People are asleep

My imprisonment became a means of awakening, an embodiment of the profound truth expressed by Prophet Muhammad (peace be upon him) in his saying, “People are asleep; they wake up when they die.” Within the solitude of confinement, I was afforded the rare opportunity to confront realities previously obscured by the distractions of daily life. I came face to face with what it truly meant to be human and acknowledged the deep dissonance between the truths I professed to know and the life I was actually living.

During this period of isolation, the words of Rumi resonated deeply within me: “Just as the thirsty yearns for water, the water also seeks lips to quench its own thirst.” In a similar vein, I came to believe that God had granted me this trial as an opportunity for my soul to quench its thirst for authentic meaning. All that remained for me to do was to offer boundless gratitude and praise to God for this unexpected blessing.

God-centered existence

The spiritual psychology expressed by Prophet Muhammad and some Islamic thinkers such as Nursi, and Rumi finds deep and striking parallels within Christianity and Judaism, revealing a shared understanding of suffering as a path to awakening and inner purification. In Christian theology, hardship is not viewed as meaningless pain but as a divine instrument through which the soul is refined and drawn closer to God, as reflected in St. Paul’s teaching that suffering produces perseverance, character, and hope. Similarly, Jesus’ life and suffering stand as the ultimate symbol of redemption, where pain becomes a gateway to spiritual rebirth.

Judaism likewise teaches that trials are a form of divine testing meant to purify the heart and strengthen faith, as expressed in Proverbs, which compares the human soul to silver refined by fire. This closely mirrors the Islamic belief that adversity matures the soul and unveils deeper truths hidden beneath the surface of comfort. In all three traditions, suffering is not a sign of abandonment by God, but rather an intimate form of divine engagement—an invitation to transcend the ego, correct one’s perception of reality, and awaken to a more meaningful, God-centered existence.

Crucible for awakening

Moreover, captivity revealed the extent of my spiritual thirst—for life, for belief, and for the values I claimed to cherish. Perhaps most startling was the realization that I had been completely unaware of this yearning. I had been consumed by worldly ambitions and fleeting pursuits, oblivious to how much of my life had slipped away. Prison, paradoxically, became the crucible for my spiritual awakening—a space where I recognized my inner desolation and began to take meaningful steps toward satisfying the deeper needs of my soul.

Upon recognizing the reality of my situation, profound regret washed over me. I mourned the years wasted in superficial pursuits; the time lost in the illusion of faith rather than its sincere practice. I wept for the lost opportunities to truly live by the teachings of the book of God, understanding belatedly that had I engaged with it with genuine reflection and earnestness, my life would have unfolded with far greater beauty and purpose. The realization that I had neglected such a profound gift for so long was devastating, yet also deeply transformative.

This confrontation with my own shortcomings revealed the fragility of my faith. The oft-repeated phrase “hanging by a thread” took on visceral meaning, deeply shaking my very foundations. I discerned how precarious my belief had become—despite having memorized the six pillars of faith in childhood, I had failed to internalize and live by them. I found myself grappling with profound questions: What does it truly mean to believe in God, in the Holy Books, in the Angels, in the Prophets, in the Day of Judgment, and in Divine Destiny? It became apparent that merely professing faith was insufficient; true belief necessitated active embodiment and practice.

This painful but necessary realization unveiled a critical gap between the beliefs I claimed to hold and the life I actually lived. In neglecting to live by my stated values, I had, instead, come to shape my beliefs around my experiences—believing as I lived, rather than living as I believed. Consequently, I had drifted far from the Scripture and the Prophetic path, relying instead on my own flawed interpretations. The life I had constructed was one of chaos and spiritual emptiness, starkly contrasting with the divine tranquility I had so long sought.

Through the struggles of imprisonment, I came to a profound understanding of divine testing. I realized that God tests His servants through hardship, not to break them, but to guide them back to Him. My life in prison was one such divine test, an opportunity for reflection and repentance. It was through this trial that I was blessed with an awakening—a renewed commitment to the values I once only claimed to uphold. For this extraordinary mercy, I offered unending thanks to God, fully aware that, had this trial not occurred, my life may have continued on a trajectory of unconsciousness and ultimate loss.

Having arrived at this realization, I turned to God with earnest supplication, seeking forgiveness, mercy, and the continued blessing of His guidance. I understood, with clarity and conviction, that enduring happiness and true peace, aligned with my faith, could only be attained through God’s favor and my unwavering commitment to live by the principles He revealed. In this, I found myself echoing the insight of Muhyiddin Ibn Arabi: that the real journey is not outward, but a return from myself to myself, discovering that every search, every struggle, and every moment of distance was, in truth, a path leading back to my own heart and to the presence of God. Thus, what seemed an external quest resolved into an inner awakening, realizing that the One I sought was never absent, and that my true task is to purify the self, recognize His nearness, and walk, with humility and love, in the light of His guidance.

Today’s person is unusually weary, uneasy, anxious about tomorrow, and doubled over with the panic that unexpected surprises may erupt at any moment. Surely, there is the enormous influence of certain pessimism-mongers and some media outlets spewing pitch-black ideas day after day—if those can even be called ideas—as instruments of gloom and hopelessness. Perhaps they are the actual cause of this pitch-dark picture; for whenever they open their mouths, they only mutter anger, spite, hatred, and rage. While they mutter, it is as if the cellars of their subconscious have burst open and everything inside spills everywhere, pumping new omens of misfortune into the people’s spirit each day. Without ever changing their attitude, without distinguishing right from wrong, without considering what this costs the people, the same things are repeated daily with a fixed logic of resentment and ambition. Moreover, by portraying some segments of society as if they were potential criminals in the eyes of others, an atmosphere of conflict is persistently engineered between them; even worse, everything is pushed into dead ends so that the state appears helpless, thus opening the door for certain anti-democratic formations and extending an invitation to them.

In such an unstable climate, it is not only emotional individuals—whose reason and judgment often buckle under the weight of their feelings or brute force—but even people with a measure of common sense who occasionally fail to abide by reason, logic, or sound judgment. Whether due to the tension saturating the public atmosphere or the influence and power some hold, troubles and unrest can swell further—or be made to appear as though they have swelled. At times, the longing of helpless masses for a new world contributes to this, intensifying the sense of turmoil. As a result, nearly every segment of society is driven to search for alternatives. It should not be difficult to imagine what crowds mired in such chaos might do—or be made to do.

The warm atmosphere of Ramadan

Fortunately, in a time when intertwined crises are being experienced on all sides, we once more find ourselves in the warm atmosphere of Ramadan. While everyone stumbles their way through dusty, smoky paths, we feel as though we are enveloped in a paradisiacal clime, and by becoming thoroughly spiritual, we sense our souls reaching a “cool and peaceful” safety deep within.

Indeed, in these days—when some people darken time and space in the most merciless way and turn everything into a kind of hell—if we can raise our heads and look with the eye of faith, we will feel that divine mercy, which never abandons us, flows into our hearts once more through the enchanting proclamation of the crescent in the sky, the magical expression of mosques and minarets, and through the mysterious tongue of the luminous messages they display. In this way, our spirits are lifted into the spacious climate of spirituality, and we respond to our fortune with smiles. In fact, such a gentle leaning of the heart toward eternity begins as soon as the three blessed months (Rajab, Shaban, and Ramadan) appear on the horizon; each day and each night until Ramadan emerges carries a preparatory tone, and when the time comes, they assume a quality that pours light and serenity into people’s hearts. Ramadan is the final link in this three-month journey with Khidr, the clearest horizon of closeness to God, and the most open vantage point from which the conscience beholds the beyond. Ramadan is a month of favors and compliments, when all the beauties of existence pour more clearly into the hearts of believers, and when the refinement, finesse, and luminosity in their spirits find full expression. Indeed, its lively and vibrant state is like an echo of the heavenly realm’s attention toward us.

Paradise on the other side of Ramadan

People with believing hearts who witness Ramadan often find themselves in such a love and excitement, as if responding to celestial voices rising pitch by pitch in the depths of the heavens. They enjoy the best of melodies of spiritual delights, each according to the depth of their faith, knowledge of God, and love. During the self-expression of the believers’ hearts—the most natural instruments of Ramadan’s tune—their heartfelt sounds and otherworldly delights, which embrace their entire being with a different overtone every moment, assume such qualities—particularly during the night hours—that every soul fortunate enough to achieve complete concentration cannot help but murmur: “Is Paradise on the other side of Ramadan?” They almost sense it as a haven of reunion with the Almighty.

Especially during the pre-dawn meal, the calls to prayer and praises for God give their own hue to this general atmosphere. They allow hearts to sip otherworldly states in those deep minutes, revealing many surprises and wonders—though everyone may not be able to perceive this depth.

While the proclamations of God’s greatness, of faith, and of praise overflow from the minarets into our homes; children scurrying here and there in the bustle of the pre-dawn meal, young men and women whose bearing reflects a youth spent in sincerity, discipline, and devotion, and elders whose faces and eyes bear the dignity of belief like monuments of awe—all of them, resembling different instruments of a single choir, each unique yet sharing a common rhythm and tone of excitement—all of them, with their sincere state in which the eye of the heart is turned toward the realm beyond mundane phenomena, appear so deep, so full of meaning, and so heartfelt that their general manner brings to mind people racing to behold the Divine Beauty on the slopes of Paradise.

Seamless pieces of light

There is no other span of time in the world so enchanting, colorful, and profound as the days of Ramadan. With each arrival, it comes in a new manner and with new richness. It comes, and within its wholeness, it divides into its own segments of varying colors. Its pre-dawns are always mantled in an indigo tulle from the depths of the heavens… its morning calls to prayer and the prayers observed become suffused with a unique enchantment not found at other times… its days, like mysterious corridors of intertwined hopes and expectations, draw those who fast into a feeling of reunion… Through the delights of the palate, the moments of breaking the fast always ring a bell of the final reunion deep within… The tarawih prayers let our souls feel the festive anticipation of meeting with the Friend… and Ramadan, with its seamless pieces of light and color, constantly whispers distinct things into our feelings.

In complete unity, it pours onto the slopes of our hearts with the dazzling colors of the beyond, always making us sense wonders that lie beyond time and space; and often we feel as though we are walking through a magical realm outside this world. So much so that throughout every hour of the day and everywhere we walk, we feel a shower of divine blessings descending upon our spirits; and like bees that dive into flowers and strive to drink their essence—savoring a new delight each time—we experience the fullness of a fresh inspiration and abundance at every moment, sharing a different delight each time.

Thus, those characteristic breezes of Ramadan never entirely cease at any hour; they continue unbroken… and within hearts that have assumed the hue of Ramadan, alongside the eternal honoring and special divine compliments, countless images begin to materialize—about so many things: from the shared excitement felt in our homes, streets, mosques, schools, and barracks, to the scenes that deepen in our imaginations and become legend-like; from the feelings shaped by our faith and convictions to the careful interpretations of our reason. These images come into view and envelop our souls. They stir our emotions and desires to a new pleasure at every moment and pour into our hearts as a distinct delight.

Time filled with successive heavenly feasts

Hearts that have assumed the hue of Ramadan sometimes directly experience these bestowed meanings, and sometimes they sense them in the emotions or faces of others… And sometimes—because of an inner dullness—some neither hear nor savor those blessed hours and minutes, which long to converse with them, to recite poetry to them, and to pour melodies into them. And thus, a span of time filled with successive heavenly feasts keeps flowing by like a river, yet cannot find the chance to express itself even to the degree of a single drop.

Since it is the human mind that understands Ramadan, the human conscience that senses it, and the human heart that tastes it, just as we need eyes, ears, reason, and judgment to perceive and evaluate the existence, we likewise need—crucially need—reason, consciousness, the activation of the heart, and keeping it vigilant in order to sense and savor Ramadan.

Note that most times, we enter and exit the brightest days and live through the most colorful hours repeatedly, yet do not even notice them. And sometimes, thanks to having good concentration—we taste moments that are not outwardly so bright or colorful with such delight that we feel as though we are in the gardens of Paradise, drinking from its fountains.

Above all, for these spiritual beauties to reach our hearts and become a source of delight, our inner perspective and orientation must be well attuned. If this can be done, Ramadan suddenly transforms and pervades us so deeply that we feel our world of emotions continuously blooming, and we find ourselves in an atmosphere overflowing with meanings and feelings.

Everything around us suddenly gains a tongue, and like an orator, each of them delivers unheard sermons into our souls and utters words never spoken before: the pre-dawn times and deeds, calls to prayer and the worship, minarets and the luminous messages hung between them, streets and their lamps, sounds of the Qur’an rising everywhere, the melodious recitations of memorizers, the breaths of the imam and faces of the congregation, the cries of children and the composure of the elderly… what truths they whisper into our spirits! Thus, they lay out such feasts for our spirits through their declarations without letters or words.

With feelings and meanings of utter surprise, almost every Ramadan pours upon our hearts—whose desires are as vast as universes and whose aspirations are as expansive as eternity. Like earth quickened with rain, it revives our spirits, promises a fresh resurrection to our feelings after their moments of death, makes our consciences more responsive, and it flows into us by turning into delight. It flows with such force that it makes us forget all our grief and sorrow, and we see it as though it were woven from poetry, emotion, and intertwined dreams. We feel liberated from the apprehension of seeking another source for deepening, and we share the delight of freedom our souls attain by worshipping the Almighty. We echo the words of Rumi, “I have become a servant, I have become a servant; I have found true freedom within captivity to God,” and we let out cries of joy.

Ramadan arrives almost every time so full of brightness that even those irretrievably enslaved to their carnal soul, whose inner worlds are layered with darkness, most definitely still sense something within its atmosphere. They begin to voice unexpected feelings, sensing that their inner world has entered new states. Even though some with heedless hearts continue to doze, carefree souls keep living unrestrained, deadened consciences collapse under the contempt born of familiarity, Ramadan will still flow quietly into our inner world with its tones of light, color, and sound. It will unlock even the rustiest of locks with its calls to prayer, pre-dawn meals, fast-breaking dinners, and its tarawih prayers; it will certainly speak to even to the hardest of hearts. Indeed it will, for Ramadan carries the power and luminosity to convey such truths, and the human soul possesses the nature and capacity to receive them and give them voice.

There are different types of captivity based on why, how, and where it happens. Captivities due to political discrimination, racial and ethnic persecution, religious differences… captivities behind prison bars and those behind raised bridges and gates… captivities imposed by our carnal soul and addictions…. Pick one (or all) for yourself – all available in the marketplace of human history, past and present. What really strikes most in this matter is when a victim of yesterday turns into an oppressor tomorrow. This transformation has a blurring effect on the rule of law, virtue, and humane values, blocking our vision to see truth; what was unlawful before can get a green light when perpetrated by the victim of the past. Eventually, the practice becomes a habit, normalizing tragedy, reducing human life to numbers. This issue of The Fountain covers different types of captivity each pointing to a certain human weakness and showing pathways to freedom.

Cenap Aydin, a long-time Rome resident, Muslim scholar, and interfaith leader, writes about Ghetto Nuovo in Venice, Italy, “where humanity first institutionalized separation” and which was “the first formalized model of urban exclusion.” Aydin’s main purpose is not to delve into the historical details of this communal captivity: we can get rid of the walls in time; but what about the mental ghettos we build to separate communities? Indeed, such ghettos are harder to break through than bricks-and-mortar walls. “Reflections on Venice’s Ghetto” is a sour delight to reflect on – perhaps with some travel plans to Venice.

Yusuf Deniz shares a personal experience of captivity. He was one of the thousands of academics and writers purged and jailed under Erdogan’s rule in Turkey. In his short memoir “A Journey of Self-Discovery: From Darkness to Light,” he explains how his prison time exposed his human weaknesses and, despite the suffering, helped him discover “the genuine beauty and deeper purpose of life.” Deniz’s piece lights a candle of hope in the hearts of many who have been victimized through such a political imprisonment – or any other form of captivity for that matter.

The captivity imposed by our carnal soul (nafs al-ammara) is the most universal type of entrapment hardly anyone can escape from. Dr. Yilmaz writes about electronic cigarettes which seem to be all over the place today. First developed “as a smoking cessation tool and a safer alternative,” e-cigarettes are now questioned, Dr. Yilmaz explains, as to whether they have achieved their intended goals or pose unforeseen risks.

The holy month of Ramadan is an opportunity to free our body, mind, and spirit from such captivities. This is explained in the Lead Article on Ramadan and in Jong Joshua Shin’s contribution on fasting: “Feeding the Body and the Spirit.”

Picture a college student named Sam. He signs up for clubs but drops out halfway. He starts group projects but ghosts his teammates. Deadlines come and go. When asked why, he replies with a resigned expression: “My parents were always super critical,” or “My family’s just messed up—I guess that’s how I turned out.”

Sam’s story is not uncommon. He’s not uninterested in life; he just feels stuck. Rather than searching for new paths, he leans on his family history as an explanation—and unintentionally, an excuse.

It’s natural to reflect on how our family history or ancestral patterns have shaped us. But using our past as the only lens to interpret our present can limit us. When we focus solely on what went wrong before, we might miss the opportunities for growth that exist now. Insight into our past should empower us, not confine us.

Sigmund Freud, the father of psychotherapy, emphasized how early childhood experiences shape adult behavior. His ideas form the foundation of concepts like intergenerational trauma—the idea that emotional wounds, coping mechanisms, and behavioral patterns can pass down through families. This lens can help us develop compassion for ourselves and others, but it also risks fostering passivity. If we see ourselves only as products of our parents and their pain, we may begin to believe we have no control over our future.

Thankfully, modern approaches in psychology focus not just on where we’ve been, but where we’re going. Approaches like Reality Therapy, Solution-Focused Therapy, and Cognitive Behavioral Therapy (CBT) emphasize present awareness and personal agency.

Reality Therapy invites individuals to ask: Are my current behaviors helping me meet my needs? If not, what can I change? It’s not about dwelling on what went wrong in the past— it’s about making better choices today. Similarly, Solution-Focused Therapy shifts attention to strengths and possibilities, helping individuals build on what’s already working rather than endlessly analyzing what’s broken.

CBT, one of the most widely used therapeutic methods, teaches that while our thoughts may be shaped by past experiences, they can be consciously restructured. It highlights the link between thoughts, emotions, and actions, showing us, that change is possible when we challenge negative beliefs like “I’m not good enough” or “Nothing ever works out.”

In CBT, therapists collaborate with clients to teach tools like cognitive restructuring—identifying and replacing distorted thinking patterns—and behavioral activation, which encourages small, meaningful actions that reinforce healthier thought patterns. The underlying message is simple but powerful—and it ties directly to the question posed in our title: we are not stuck with our past. With intention and effort, we can change how we think and live.

Broader reflections on responsibility and growth

Psychology isn’t the only field that values present-moment responsibility. Across cultures and traditions, we find a similar theme: that change begins not in our past, but in our choices today. The Bhagavad Gita teaches that individuals must rise above the influence of past karma through present action. Rumi writes, “Don’t get lost in your pain, know that one day your pain will become your cure.” The Qur’an reminds believers, “Indeed, God will not change the condition of a people until they change what is in themselves.” In the teachings of Jesus, personal transformation is often illustrated through parables that emphasize repentance, forgiveness, and renewal. Even Stoic philosophers like Epictetus emphasized that while we cannot control what has happened, we are responsible for how we respond now.

These insights mirror modern psychology’s message: transformation begins with self-awareness and conscious effort. While our backgrounds influence us, they don’t define us. True empowerment comes when we recognize that we are not stuck— we are authors of the next chapter.

Conclusion

Acknowledging our past is important, but it shouldn’t hold us back. Consider Sam again. What if he began to question the narrative that his family history defines him? With support, reflection, and action, he could start reframing his story—not by denying his struggles, but by deciding they don’t get the final say. Like many of us, Sam has the power to take ownership of his present and move forward with clarity and intention.

Modern psychology and time-honored spiritual and philosophical traditions alike remind us that personal growth is not about blaming the past but about reclaiming the present. Therapeutic tools like goal setting, reframing negative beliefs, and behavioral activation offer practical paths forward. Cultural and spiritual traditions echo this call, inviting us to act, reflect, and renew.

So—are you stuck with your past? Perhaps a better question is: what story will you write next?