Educated

People see the world through the lens of experience. The things we’ve lived through—and the emotions tied to those events—become the standards by which we interpret what’s happening now and anticipate what might happen next. We often assume, without realizing it, that others must share the same experiences we had. That they must think the same way we do.

This illusion becomes even more pronounced when we feel, even slightly, that we stand on higher ground than others. The overbearing boss, the hypocritical preacher, the self-righteous politician, the entitled customer—these are all familiar examples. And another common case is the well-meaning parent. Unlike the others, however, parental intentions are usually pure. Who could blame a parent for wanting what’s best for their child? Naturally, any parent would want to pass down whatever life lessons they believe might help. That’s what normal, loving parents do.

I’m no different. I want my daughter to live a fulfilling life. So I try to let her experience the good things I’ve come to value. But this raises a critical question: What truly benefits a child, and what doesn’t? Is it possible that what I believe to be good is simply what I want to believe is good? I’m just an ordinary person living one version of life. My judgment is shaped by 40 years of limited experience, and it can’t stretch beyond that. Recently, I read a book that shook the very foundations of how I decide what’s right and wrong.

Educated: A Memoir by Tara Westover was a book handed to me by my wife. She’d received it at work and passed it on after noticing my interest. I was drawn not so much by the title, but by the subtitle underneath. While “A Memoir” might sound fairly standard, I was curious to see how the author approached her story. When I flipped open the front flap, I saw the author’s photo and a short bio—and at that point, I knew I had to read it.

Tara Westover, the author, grew up without formal education for the first 16 years of her life, due to her father’s extreme beliefs. Yet at 17, she entered college, and by 28, she had earned a PhD from Cambridge. Thinking about where I was at 28, I could hardly fathom what she had accomplished. That brief introduction sparked intense curiosity: What had happened in her life to make this possible?

Westover was born in 1986, around the same time as me, yet her upbringing couldn’t have been more different. It wasn’t just a matter of nationality. Her childhood environment was alarmingly outside the norms of modern society. Raised in rural Idaho as the youngest of seven children, her parents were far removed from what we’d consider educational influences. In fact, they were aggressively anti-education.

Her father ran a scrap metal yard and frequently sent his children into dangerous work environments without hesitation. On one occasion, he dumped heavy metal scraps from a crane right where she was standing, nearly killing her—all for the sake of efficiency. Obsessed with conspiracy theories, he forced the family to stockpile food and build a fallout shelter, convinced that the government was out to get them. He saw public schooling as brainwashing and refused to let any of his children attend. He ruled the home not as a father, but as a tyrant, wielding unchecked authority.

Her mother was no better. Devoted to homeopathy and mystical healing, she refused proper medical care even in life-threatening emergencies. When one of the children suffered a serious injury, she turned to folk remedies instead of a hospital. That child was left permanently disabled. What’s most shocking is that all this didn’t happen in some distant past—it was the 1990s and early 2000s. In a country like mine, this would have been front-page news: a clear case of chronic child abuse.

And yet, as often happens in life, a rebel emerged from the depths of despair—someone determined to carve a different path. That someone was her brother Tyler. He escaped the toxic household and went to college. Later, he encouraged Tara relentlessly to do the same. His persistence became the decisive factor that pushed her to leave and pursue education. She credits him as a lifesaver, dedicating the first chapter of the book to him.

Educated traces her journey from escaping her isolated family to enrolling at Brigham Young University in Utah, then progressing to Harvard and Cambridge. Even after leaving, she struggled with her identity, torn between her new life and the lingering pull of family ties. She traveled back and forth between college campuses and her childhood home, unable to fully sever the emotional bonds. Her story resonates because none of us are immune to the influence of family.

As I closed the book, I was forced to reexamine myself as a father. And I must confess, I felt a jolt of recognition—one that was almost disturbing. In her father, I saw shadows of myself. I too had been applying the lessons of my life to my daughter. I had come to believe that the life I lived was the best possible model for her. Even while knowing there are better ways, I had been using my own past as a standard. Maybe, just maybe, this was the pride of fatherhood talking.

For example, now that my daughter is in upper elementary school, I often wish she’d read more books with substance. But she still prefers comics, and I can’t help feeling a little disappointed. Then I remember that I also read tons of comics at her age—and that gives me some comfort. Whenever possible, I take her to the local science museum. I do it because I remember how intellectually curious I felt in such places as a child and want her to feel the same. She doesn’t seem that interested right now, but I keep trying, hoping that spark will come.

On weekends, I watch her sit in front of the TV, eyes glued to loud cartoon shows. I feel a mix of concern and nostalgia—because honestly, I did the exact same thing at her age.

But will my daughter experience life the way I did? Will what worked for me work for her? Was it even the right path to begin with? Sometimes, I doubt myself. What I remember is only one narrow version of life. I try to pass on what I believe was good, but in the end, I’m making decisions based on a single life experience—my own. It’s like winning the lottery once and then telling my daughter that lottery tickets are the best investment strategy.

The world my daughter is growing up in is nothing like the one I knew. When I had questions as a child, I asked adults. She opens her laptop and chats with ChatGPT. I used a landline to ask if a friend was home. She uses her smartwatch to message friends instantly. Back then, TV meant four national channels, and most of the day was just a test pattern. Today, she browses countless YouTube channels and searches whatever she wants. I didn’t travel abroad until my twenties. She visited more than 20 countries before turning ten.

So maybe, when someone like me tells her, “This is what you should be” or “This is what you need to learn,” it’s just background noise. Honestly, I can’t even predict my own future. How could I possibly coach hers? The more I think about it, the more arrogant that assumption seems.

So what can I say to her?

There’s a line I heard on an educational YouTube channel I enjoy watching, from parenting expert Dr. Ho-Sun Lee. It stuck with me. It also perfectly captures the lesson I took from Educated:

“You can be anything you want to be.”