Magazine
Don’t Blink! The Hazards of Confidence
Tim Enthoven
It afflicts us all. Because confidence in our own judgments is part of being human.
By DANIEL KAHNEMAN
Published: October 19, 2011
Many decades ago I spent what seemed like a great deal of time under a scorching sun, watching groups of sweaty soldiers as they solved a problem. I was doing my national service in the Israeli Army at the time. I had completed an undergraduate degree in psychology, and after a year as an infantry officer, I was assigned to the army’s Psychology Branch, where one of my occasional duties was to help evaluate candidates for officer training. We used methods that were developed by the British Army in World War II.
One test, called the leaderless group challenge, was conducted on an
obstacle field. Eight candidates, strangers to one another, with all
insignia of rank removed and only numbered tags to identify them, were
instructed to lift a long log from the ground and haul it to a wall
about six feet high. There, they were told that the entire group had to
get to the other side of the wall without the log touching either the
ground or the wall, and without anyone touching the wall. If any of
these things happened, they were to acknowledge it and start again.
A common solution was for several men to reach the other side by
crawling along the log as the other men held it up at an angle, like a
giant fishing rod. Then one man would climb onto another’s shoulder and
tip the log to the far side. The last two men would then have to jump up
at the log, now suspended from the other side by those who had made it
over, shinny their way along its length and then leap down safely once
they crossed the wall. Failure was common at this point, which required
starting over.
As a colleague and I monitored the exercise, we made note of who took
charge, who tried to lead but was rebuffed, how much each soldier
contributed to the group effort. We saw who seemed to be stubborn,
submissive, arrogant, patient, hot-tempered, persistent or a quitter. We
sometimes saw competitive spite when someone whose idea had been
rejected by the group no longer worked very hard. And we saw reactions
to crisis: who berated a comrade whose mistake caused the whole group to
fail, who stepped forward to lead when the exhausted team had to start
over. Under the stress of the event, we felt, each man’s true nature
revealed itself in sharp relief.
After watching the candidates go through several such tests, we had to
summarize our impressions of the soldiers’ leadership abilities with a
grade and determine who would be eligible for officer training. We spent
some time discussing each case and reviewing our impressions. The task
was not difficult, because we had already seen each of these soldiers’
leadership skills. Some of the men looked like strong leaders, others
seemed like wimps or arrogant fools, others mediocre but not hopeless.
Quite a few appeared to be so weak that we ruled them out as officer
candidates. When our multiple observations of each candidate converged
on a coherent picture, we were completely confident in our evaluations
and believed that what we saw pointed directly to the future. The
soldier who took over when the group was in trouble and led the team
over the wall was a leader at that moment. The obvious best guess about
how he would do in training, or in combat, was that he would be as
effective as he had been at the wall. Any other prediction seemed
inconsistent with what we saw.
Because our impressions of how well each soldier performed were
generally coherent and clear, our formal predictions were just as
definite. We rarely experienced doubt or conflicting impressions. We
were quite willing to declare: “This one will never make it,” “That
fellow is rather mediocre, but should do O.K.” or “He will be a star.”
We felt no need to question our forecasts, moderate them or equivocate.
If challenged, however, we were fully prepared to admit, “But of course
anything could happen.”
We were willing to make that admission because, as it turned out,
despite our certainty about the potential of individual candidates, our
forecasts were largely useless. The evidence was overwhelming. Every few
months we had a feedback session in which we could compare our
evaluations of future cadets with the judgments of their commanders at
the officer-training school. The story was always the same: our ability
to predict performance at the school was negligible. Our forecasts were
better than blind guesses, but not by much.
We were downcast for a while after receiving the discouraging news. But
this was the army. Useful or not, there was a routine to be followed,
and there were orders to be obeyed. Another batch of candidates would
arrive the next day. We took them to the obstacle field, we faced them
with the wall, they lifted the log and within a few minutes we saw their
true natures revealed, as clearly as ever. The dismal truth about the
quality of our predictions had no effect whatsoever on how we evaluated
new candidates and very little effect on the confidence we had in our
judgments and predictions.
I thought that what was happening to us was remarkable. The statistical
evidence of our failure should have shaken our confidence in our
judgments of particular candidates, but it did not. It should also have
caused us to moderate our predictions, but it did not. We knew as a
general fact that our predictions were little better than random
guesses, but we continued to feel and act as if each particular
prediction was valid. I was reminded of visual illusions, which remain
compelling even when you know that what you see is false. I was so
struck by the analogy that I coined a term for our experience: the
illusion of validity.
I had discovered my first cognitive fallacy.
Decades later, I can see many of the central themes of
my thinking about judgment in that old experience. One of these themes
is that people who face a difficult question often answer an easier one
instead, without realizing it. We were required to predict a soldier’s
performance in officer training and in combat, but we did so by
evaluating his behavior over one hour in an artificial situation. This
was a perfect instance of a general rule that I call WYSIATI, “What you
see is all there is.” We had made up a story from the little we knew but
had no way to allow for what we did not know about the individual’s
future, which was almost everything that would actually matter. When you
know as little as we did, you should not make extreme predictions like
“He will be a star.” The stars we saw on the obstacle field were most
likely accidental flickers, in which a coincidence of random events —
like who was near the wall — largely determined who became a leader.
Other events — some of them also random — would determine later success
in training and combat.
You may be surprised by our failure: it is natural to expect the same
leadership ability to manifest itself in various situations. But the
exaggerated expectation of consistency is a common error. We are prone
to think that the world is more regular and predictable than it really
is, because our memory automatically and continuously maintains a story
about what is going on, and because the rules of memory tend to make
that story as coherent as possible and to suppress alternatives. Fast
thinking is not prone to doubt.
The confidence we experience as we make a judgment is not a reasoned
evaluation of the probability that it is right. Confidence is a feeling,
one determined mostly by the coherence of the story and by the ease
with which it comes to mind, even when the evidence for the story is
sparse and unreliable. The bias toward coherence favors overconfidence.
An individual who expresses high confidence probably has a good story,
which may or may not be true.
I coined the term “illusion of validity” because the confidence we had
in judgments about individual soldiers was not affected by a statistical
fact we knew to be true — that our predictions were unrelated to the
truth. This is not an isolated observation. When a compelling impression
of a particular event clashes with general knowledge, the impression
commonly prevails. And this goes for you, too. The confidence you will
experience in your future judgments will not be diminished by what you
just read, even if you believe every word.
I first visited a Wall Street firm in 1984. I was there
with my longtime collaborator Amos Tversky, who died in 1996, and our
friend Richard Thaler, now a guru of behavioral economics. Our host, a
senior investment manager, had invited us to discuss the role of
judgment biases in investing. I knew so little about finance at the time
that I had no idea what to ask him, but I remember one exchange. “When
you sell a stock,” I asked him, “who buys it?” He answered with a wave
in the vague direction of the window, indicating that he expected the
buyer to be someone else very much like him. That was odd: because most
buyers and sellers know that they have the same information as one
another, what made one person buy and the other sell? Buyers think the
price is too low and likely to rise; sellers think the price is high and
likely to drop. The puzzle is why buyers and sellers alike think that
the current price is wrong.
Most people in the investment business have read Burton Malkiel’s wonderful book “A Random Walk Down Wall Street.”
Malkiel’s central idea is that a stock’s price incorporates all the
available knowledge about the value of the company and the best
predictions about the future of the stock. If some people believe that
the price of a stock will be higher tomorrow, they will buy more of it
today. This, in turn, will cause its price to rise. If all assets in a
market are correctly priced, no one can expect either to gain or to lose
by trading.
We now know, however, that the theory is not quite right. Many
individual investors lose consistently by trading, an achievement that a
dart-throwing chimp could not match. The first demonstration of this
startling conclusion was put forward by Terry Odean, a former student of
mine who is now a finance professor at the University of California,
Berkeley.
Odean analyzed the trading records of 10,000 brokerage accounts of
individual investors over a seven-year period, allowing him to identify
all instances in which an investor sold one stock and soon afterward
bought another stock. By these actions the investor revealed that he
(most of the investors were men) had a definite idea about the future of
two stocks: he expected the stock that he bought to do better than the
one he sold.
To determine whether those appraisals were well founded, Odean compared
the returns of the two stocks over the following year. The results were
unequivocally bad. On average, the shares investors sold did better than
those they bought, by a very substantial margin: 3.3 percentage points
per year, in addition to the significant costs of executing the trades.
Some individuals did much better, others did much worse, but the large
majority of individual investors would have done better by taking a nap
rather than by acting on their ideas. In a paper titled “Trading Is Hazardous to Your Wealth,”
Odean and his colleague Brad Barber showed that, on average, the most
active traders had the poorest results, while those who traded the least
earned the highest returns. In another paper, “Boys Will Be Boys,”
they reported that men act on their useless ideas significantly more
often than women do, and that as a result women achieve better
investment results than men.
Of course, there is always someone on the other side of a transaction;
in general, it’s a financial institution or professional investor, ready
to take advantage of the mistakes that individual traders make. Further
research by Barber and Odean has shed light on these mistakes.
Individual investors like to lock in their gains; they sell “winners,”
stocks whose prices have gone up, and they hang on to their losers.
Unfortunately for them, in the short run going forward recent winners
tend to do better than recent losers, so individuals sell the wrong
stocks. They also buy the wrong stocks. Individual investors predictably
flock to stocks in companies that are in the news. Professional
investors are more selective in responding to news. These findings
provide some justification for the label of “smart money” that finance
professionals apply to themselves.
Although professionals are able to extract a considerable amount of
wealth from amateurs, few stock pickers, if any, have the skill needed
to beat the market consistently, year after year. The diagnostic for the
existence of any skill is the consistency of individual differences in
achievement. The logic is simple: if individual differences in any one
year are due entirely to luck, the ranking of investors and funds will
vary erratically and the year-to-year correlation will be zero. Where
there is skill, however, the rankings will be more stable. The
persistence of individual differences is the measure by which we confirm
the existence of skill among golfers, orthodontists or speedy toll
collectors on the turnpike.
Mutual funds are run by highly experienced and hard-working
professionals who buy and sell stocks to achieve the best possible
results for their clients. Nevertheless, the evidence from more than 50
years of research is conclusive: for a large majority of fund managers,
the selection of stocks is more like rolling dice than like playing
poker. At least two out of every three mutual funds underperform the
overall market in any given year.
More important, the year-to-year correlation among the outcomes of
mutual funds is very small, barely different from zero. The funds that
were successful in any given year were mostly lucky; they had a good
roll of the dice. There is general agreement among researchers that this
is true for nearly all stock pickers, whether they know it or not — and
most do not. The subjective experience of traders is that they are
making sensible, educated guesses in a situation of great uncertainty.
In highly efficient markets, however, educated guesses are not more
accurate than blind guesses.
Some years after my introduction to the world of
finance, I had an unusual opportunity to examine the illusion of skill
up close. I was invited to speak to a group of investment advisers in a
firm that provided financial advice and other services to very wealthy
clients. I asked for some data to prepare my presentation and was
granted a small treasure: a spreadsheet summarizing the investment
outcomes of some 25 anonymous wealth advisers, for eight consecutive
years. The advisers’ scores for each year were the main determinant of
their year-end bonuses. It was a simple matter to rank the advisers by
their performance and to answer a question: Did the same advisers
consistently achieve better returns for their clients year after year?
Did some advisers consistently display more skill than others?
To find the answer, I computed the correlations between the rankings of
advisers in different years, comparing Year 1 with Year 2, Year 1 with
Year 3 and so on up through Year 7 with Year 8. That yielded 28
correlations, one for each pair of years. While I was prepared to find
little year-to-year consistency, I was still surprised to find that the
average of the 28 correlations was .01. In other words, zero. The
stability that would indicate differences in skill was not to be found.
The results resembled what you would expect from a dice-rolling contest,
not a game of skill.
No one in the firm seemed to be aware of the nature of the game that its
stock pickers were playing. The advisers themselves felt they were
competent professionals performing a task that was difficult but not
impossible, and their superiors agreed. On the evening before the
seminar, Richard Thaler and I had dinner with some of the top executives
of the firm, the people who decide on the size of bonuses. We asked
them to guess the year-to-year correlation in the rankings of individual
advisers. They thought they knew what was coming and smiled as they
said, “not very high” or “performance certainly fluctuates.” It quickly
became clear, however, that no one expected the average correlation to
be zero.
What we told the directors of the firm was that, at least when it came
to building portfolios, the firm was rewarding luck as if it were skill.
This should have been shocking news to them, but it was not. There was
no sign that they disbelieved us. How could they? After all, we had
analyzed their own results, and they were certainly sophisticated enough
to appreciate their implications, which we politely refrained from
spelling out. We all went on calmly with our dinner, and I am quite sure
that both our findings and their implications were quickly swept under
the rug and that life in the firm went on just as before. The illusion
of skill is not only an individual aberration; it is deeply ingrained in
the culture of the industry. Facts that challenge such basic
assumptions — and thereby threaten people’s livelihood and self-esteem —
are simply not absorbed. The mind does not digest them. This is
particularly true of statistical studies of performance, which provide
general facts that people will ignore if they conflict with their
personal experience.
The next morning, we reported the findings to the advisers, and their
response was equally bland. Their personal experience of exercising
careful professional judgment on complex problems was far more
compelling to them than an obscure statistical result. When we were
done, one executive I dined with the previous evening drove me to the
airport. He told me, with a trace of defensiveness, “I have done very
well for the firm, and no one can take that away from me.” I smiled and
said nothing. But I thought, privately: Well, I took it away from you
this morning. If your success was due mostly to chance, how much credit
are you entitled to take for it?
We often interact with professionals who exercise their
judgment with evident confidence, sometimes priding themselves on the
power of their intuition. In a world rife with illusions of validity and
skill, can we trust them? How do we distinguish the justified
confidence of experts from the sincere overconfidence of professionals
who do not know they are out of their depth? We can believe an expert
who admits uncertainty but cannot take expressions of high confidence at
face value. As I first learned on the obstacle field, people come up
with coherent stories and confident predictions even when they know
little or nothing. Overconfidence arises because people are often blind
to their own blindness.
True intuitive expertise is learned from prolonged experience with good
feedback on mistakes. You are probably an expert in guessing your
spouse’s mood from one word on the telephone; chess players find a
strong move in a single glance at a complex position; and true legends
of instant diagnoses are common among physicians. To know whether you
can trust a particular intuitive judgment, there are two questions you
should ask: Is the environment in which the judgment is made
sufficiently regular to enable predictions from the available evidence?
The answer is yes for diagnosticians, no for stock pickers. Do the
professionals have an adequate opportunity to learn the cues and the
regularities? The answer here depends on the professionals’ experience
and on the quality and speed with which they discover their mistakes.
Anesthesiologists have a better chance to develop intuitions than
radiologists do. Many of the professionals we encounter easily pass both
tests, and their off-the-cuff judgments deserve to be taken seriously.
In general, however, you should not take assertive and confident people
at their own evaluation unless you have independent reason to believe
that they know what they are talking about. Unfortunately, this advice
is difficult to follow: overconfident professionals sincerely believe
they have expertise, act as experts and look like experts. You will have
to struggle to remind yourself that they may be in the grip of an
illusion.
Twenty years ago, Evgenia Cherkasova and Elena Kornilov were doctoral students in their mid-20s, living in the same housing complex at Penn State University. As they pursued their degrees -- Cherkasova in philosophy, Kornilov in physics -- both started families, and to take a break from studying they often found themselves meeting for wine or tea, or watching their young children on the playground. As their friendship deepened, their conversations often veered into the Big Questions on their minds: How could they live a "good life" with purpose, happiness and success? What did those words mean?
After graduation, Cherkasova and Kornilov went their separate ways, keeping in touch via letters and weekly phone calls, sharing the details of every aspect of their lives – their kids’ first days of school, their academic research, their relationship hurdles.
On March 4 of this year – Kornilov’s 48th birthday -- her doctor called to tell her she had breast cancer. Even as she hid the diagnosis from other friends and some family members, Kornilov confided in Cherkasova, and the two went over her treatment options. Some, like chemotherapy, were physically intrusive, but would greatly reduce the chance of remission. Others, like hormonal drugs, were easier to handle, but came with a higher risk of a tumor returning.
Suddenly, the conversations and questions that guided their friendship over the years took on a new meaning. They weren’t just idle speculations; they were real, urgent, full of consequences, perhaps now even a matter of life and death.
“We started talking about how you deal with these situations, especially when it’s a patient with a potentially terminal disease,” recalled Cherkasova, now a philosophy professor at Suffolk University in Boston. “She told me, ‘it’s a question of the quality of life versus length of life. You have to decide: If you want to prolong your life, then what do you do it for? What am I doing in life at this point? What’s happiness?”
Statistical and anecdotal evidence suggests this is easier said than done. According to the Bureau of Labor Statistics, which takes an annual measure of how Americans use their time, the average person spends about 45 minutes daily “socializing and communicating.” Watching TV, meanwhile, accounts for nearly three hours of the average American’s day. And today’s laptop-scattered coffee shops don't seem to foster environments of conversation and debate, like the salons of France, often credited with incubating philosophical discussions that ushered in the Age of Reason, or the cafe culture, a backdrop for the Existentialist musings of Jean-Paul Sartre and his contemporaries.
Of course, it’s much easier to measure TV-watching than America's intellectual engagement and introspection. But for some time, scholars and observers have been documenting, often with alarm, a shift from a society structured around social gatherings to a culture of technology-driven individualism -- or, depending on your point of view, isolation. Writing more than a decade ago in Bowling Alone, Harvard public policy professor Robert D. Putnam documented the erosion of Americans’ participation in community clubs -- like bowling leagues and civic organizations -- and the disengagement from society and the self that it fostered. More recently in Alone Together, Massachusetts Institute of Technology clinical psychologist Sherry Turkle, who studies the impact of technology on social relations, examined how hyperconnected-ness has created relationships where we have the “illusion of companionship” without the “demands of friendship.”
In other words, we are moving toward a way of life that discourages the kinds of conversations that defined and sustained Cherkasova and Kornilov’s friendship.
"We have stripped away so many of the conditions that make conversations like these flourish. And the condition that makes it flourish, in many cases, is the uninterrupted full attention to each other," said Turkle, who has spent the three years interviewing dozens of people from various walks of life about what they talk about with friends and how they do it for an upcoming book called Reclaiming Conversation. "These conversations are what college students are missing, they're what people at work are missing, they're what we're all missing.”
In the midst of this shift, the American university system remains an oasis of sorts, a place where the Big Questions are freely and fiercely debated -- in no small part because many students are not yet dealing with the pressures of work and family. But there’s a shift on American campuses, too. Just seven percent of graduates major in the humanities, like philosophy and literature, while majors in largely career-oriented fields have increased as more Americans pursue higher education. A half-century ago, twice as many students walked across commencement stages with humanities degrees.
New York Times columnist David Brooks, who has written and spoken extensively about the decline of the “humanist vocation,” began teaching a course at Yale University last spring about the history of character building. He said he believes there’s a shortage of people publicly asking the cosmic questions.
“People are hungry for a certain side of writing about these issues, but we no longer have that kind of group of writers widely discussing how you measure a life," said Brooks.
On occasion, an awe-inspiring commencement speech -- like David Foster Wallace's "This is Water," which was given at Kenyon College in 2005 and became a book after his death -- makes its way into pop culture. But Brooks believes we need much more. "Back in the 1950s, you had Joshua Heschel and Reinhold Niebuhr; they were writing books devoted entirely to these issues," he said.
Heschel, a rabbi who stood on the front lines of the Selma-to-Montgomery marches with Martin Luther King Jr., also was known for penning provocative theological works, like Man is Not Alone and God in Search of Man. The works of Niebuhr, a Christian theologian and professor at Union Theological Seminary, include Moral Man and Immoral Society and The Nature and Destiny of Man.
“For anyone who goes to church, these are the questions they are essentially grappling with via their faith,” said Brooks. Indeed, a measurable drop in religious affiliation and attendance at houses of worship may be a factor in the decline of a culture of inquiry and conversation. According to the Pew Research Center, 1 in 5 Americans identifies with no religion, including those who are atheist, agnostic or “spiritual but not religious.”
But the Big Questions aren't just for the faithful, and there are glimmers of hope for those who long for the days when it was easy to find souls loudly searching for what the Greeks described as eudaimonia, or the “human flourishing,” considered central to a person and society’s development.
On Meetup.com, a website where people organize get-togethers around mutual interests in homes, restaurants or cafes, hundreds of groups focused on philosophy, spirituality and religion have launched in recent years. TED, the conference series with the slogan “ideas worth spreading,” has an independent affiliate that hosts weekly salons in a Manhattan apartment where attendees watch taped talks then discuss them (in August, the theme of each meeting was “courage”). And from suburban Columbus, Ohio, to Seattle, individuals and nonprofits have launched grassroots efforts aimed at getting Americans to talk about death and what they desire out of life; events include Death Cafes -- monthly coffee shop-centered discussions on dying that can now be found in nearly every major American city -- and Death Over Dinner, a coordinated series of meals that took place in hundreds of homes last month.
The Adult Philosophy Club of East Greenwich, R.I., was launched just over three years ago by a drug addiction counselor who recognized what he called “existential crises” among his clients. Today, the group is open to the whole town.
“What constitutes morality? Are we moral? Is what’s right something natural or is it something that we’re taught?” Houghtaling said, recounting some of the club’s recurring themes. “People come in with strong convictions and religious views. It can get heated.”
Oftentimes, the conversation spins off of the news. With international controversy over revelations about the National Security Agency’s extensive spying programs and amid increased tensions over the Obama administration’s threat to launch strikes against Syria, the discussion frequently turns to the role of the state. “What obligation does the state have? In a critical situation like a war, can the government suspend natural rights?” said Houghtaling. “Where’s the line?”
As Houghtaling sees it, these are questions that can all too easily be swallowed by the activities and stresses of everyday life.
“We go through the perfunctory things so much, putting on our suits and ties, and putting on our titles, that we don’t get to talk about humanity and life. It’s cathartic when you get to do it,” he said. “It’s tough to sustain yourself unless there are ‘whys’ and purposes.”
Yet, there are plenty of reasons for putting off these questions. With high unemployment and economists predicting years of recovery from the recession ahead, jobs and money have a way of taking precedence over any talk of higher purpose. When Gallup researchers asked an international group of respondents a few years ago to describe their “best possible future," the responses leaned heavily toward “wealth” and “good health.” It was harder, on the other hand, for people to describe what they considered good relationships and a sense of community, and how important they were.
Recognizing a yearning for “intellectual community,” the National Endowment for the Humanities has given $2.2 million in grants since 2009 to fund college and university courses that tackle the “enduring questions.” Cherkasova will teach one next year at Suffolk University in Boston called, What is the Meaning of Life (its syllabus includes Ecclesiastes and Siddhartha, Hermann Hesse’s philosophical novel about a young Brahmin’s journey of self-discovery during the age of Gautama Buddha). Among dozens of courses that the NEH has funded are, What Is The Meaning of Happiness, taught at New Mexico State University, Las Cruces; an upper-level class at the College of St. Benedict in St. Joseph, Minn., titled, What am I?, and at Ursinus College in Collegeville, Penn., What is Love?
To advocates, these courses are more than mere intellectual exercises and bull sessions. They pose questions intimately connected to the core of everyday life.
“When you are dealing with college students, mostly what you are doing is trying to plant seeds so they are familiar with different world vocabularies,” said Brooks, whose own course was not taught with a grant but is similar in some ways to the NEH programs. “You want it to be so that when they get older and encounter challenges, they know what to do, and have books and ways of thinking to help them tackle problems.”
The West Conshohocken, Penn.-based John Templeton Foundation, best known for its annual Templeton Prize, has spent tens of millions funding largely academic endeavors looking into the "basic forces, concepts, and realities" of the universe and our place in it. They range from the esoteric, like a $5 million project to research immortality at the University of California, Riverside, to projects aimed at a wider audience, like Big Questions Online, a news site updated weekly with essays by academics and spiritual thinkers.
“One of the things that interests me is whether we can save young people literally decades of wasted time in coming to the conclusion that almost everyone does generation after generation: The things we thought were important in our youth when the world was open to us, when it was our oyster, when the future would bend itself to our will, really are not,” said billionaire natural gas and gold investor Thomas Kaplan, who started Recanati-Kaplan with his wife, Dafna Recanati.
Kaplan’s own interest in philosophy was set off in high school when his mother gave him a copy of Marcus Aurelius' Meditations, a major Stoic text.
“There are certain truisms. No man on his deathbed ever said, 'I wish I spent more time at the office,’” Kaplan said, describing one of the many lessons he hopes to impart through the nascent effort. One of the foundation's launch events in 2012 was a two-day conference on the “Art of Living.” Hundreds of students, faculty and Providence residents listened to philosophers, psychiatrists, experimental psychologists and scholars of other disciplines examine the "good life."
Meanwhile, at Stanford University, there’s Sophomore College, a three-week intensive course series where students meet for several hours every day with the same class and live together on campus. Among its seminars, the Meaning of Life was taught by the university’s dean of religious life, and included field trips to houses of worship and readings of George Bernard Shaw’s Major Barbara and Robert Bolt’s A Man for All Seasons. In another push, the Office of Religious Life hosts “What’s Meaningful to Me and Why,” a series of hour-long public discussions with faculty and administrators about “life questions.” Speakers are encouraged to discuss their personal struggles and reasons for pursuing their fields.
Isabelle Wijangco, who graduated from Stanford last year with a degree in human biology, is among those who took the Meaning of Life seminar in Sophomore College and said the course is part of what spurred her to want to focus on global women's health issues when she attends medical school.
“One of the big questions we grappled with in Meaning of Life was how to live every moment and be fully present while also being forward-looking and planning for our hopes and dreams for ourselves and the world," she said.
Wijangco recalled that a fellow student described a way to strike that balance by repeating a bit of wisdom he heard from his father: ‘Lay each brick reverently. Lay a purposeful brick, but be in the moment of laying that brick. The house will form.’”
She has carried that wisdom with her ever since. “It has helped serve as a metric for me in maintaining intentionality in every action,” she said, “for both present and future.”