I remember the first time someone asked me what I thought—what I thought—and I froze. Not because I didn’t care. Not because I didn’t understand the question. But because I truly didn’t know.

Growing up, opinions weren’t something you formed; they were something you were given. In our house, my father supplied the truth. His views filled the room like concrete—there was no space for alternatives. If you disagreed, you were wrong. If you hesitated, you were weak. If you attempted to explain yourself, the conversation was over.

So, when someone—maybe a teacher, maybe a friend—asked, “What’s your opinion?” I didn’t answer. I scanned my memory for something I thought he might say. I searched for borrowed lines and familiar stances, hop...

Please subscribe to keep reading.