I do apparently have a perhaps somewhat unusual way of seeing. That’s not something you notice easily about yourself, and I’m still cautious saying it out loud, because self-mythologizing is a real danger.

But after enough repetition, certain patterns become hard to ignore.

People don’t all think in the same primary domain.

Some people think in music and tone. They feel rhythm before meaning.

Others are visual thinkers—shape, contrast, movement.

Some think symbolically, almost algebraically.

Some live primarily in felt experience, where emotion arrives before explanation.

Others make language primary and carry a near-constant inner monologue.

None of these are better or worse.

They’re just different entry points into the same underlying reality.

For me, structure and geometry seem to come first.

I notice relationships, boundaries, invariants.

But I don’t stay there.

I move across modalities fairly freely—tone, image, language, emotion—using structure more like a map than a destination.

That tends to make me a generalist by default.

While many people go deep into a single knowledge domain, I keep noticing patterns that repeat across domains.

The same shapes show up in families, technologies, institutions, friendships, economies.

The details change, but the geometry doesn’t.

Scale matters here more than we like to admit.

We exist at human scale.

That’s where our nervous systems evolved, where our social instincts function, where meaning feels real.

When conversations jump too quickly to the very large or the very small—cosmology, macroeconomics, microscopic mechanisms—people understandably disengage.

It feels abstract, disembodied, un-tethered.

But patterns don’t disappear when scale changes. They just compress or decompress.

Seeing across scale can be useful because it acts as a bridge. It helps translate between different ways of knowing. It also tends to resist clean framing, which makes it harder to categorize and, sometimes, harder to place socially.

That can be lonely.

But when relationships do form across that gap, they’re usually deeper. Less performative. More real. I think that’s a fair trade, even if it’s not always an easy one.

Where this really starts to matter is in how we perceive other people.

We’re extremely good at pattern matching—and also extremely bad at noticing when we’ve crossed from pattern recognition into category error.

If someone is a vegetarian, many people will unconsciously assume they’re liberal and care about climate change.

That’s understandable.

It’s a shortcut.

Our brains are trying to conserve energy by compressing experience into something familiar.

But it fails utterly in terms of nuance.

Diet is a domain.

Political affiliation is a different domain.

Moral reasoning is another.

Cultural signaling yet another.

When we collapse these into a single imagined identity, we’re not seeing the person—we’re filling in the blanks.

This is where compression becomes dangerous.

At small, intimate scales, compression can be merciful. It allows trust, shorthand, and mutual understanding to form without constant explanation. But once compression travels beyond its original domain—beyond the shared context that made it accurate—it turns brittle.

The error isn’t malice. It’s over-extension.

We mistake the report for the scan.

The label for the lived process.

The symbol for the structure that generated it.

And then we argue with a caricature we created ourselves.

Taking people one at a time is slower. It resists automation. It doesn’t scale well. But it preserves coherence. It keeps us from confusing domains and projecting tribal affiliations where none may exist.

Most misunderstandings aren’t caused by people hiding who they are. They’re caused by us assuming we already know.

And if there’s one thing seeing across domains has taught me, it’s this: patterns repeat—but people don’t.

You still have to meet them where they actually are.