Why the Earth Isn’t Flat, But Our Thinking Might Be
Part 1 — The Ache Underneath It All
Let’s just clear this up right away: I don’t think most Flat Earthers are stupid. Not exactly. They’re more like… enthusiastic over-thinkers who misread the assignment. Like people who spend all night trying to pick the lock to a screen door. Determined? Sure. Brilliant? No. Especially when they realize three hours later the door was unlocked to begin with. But it’s not about intelligence—it’s about being noticed. Being heard. And unfortunately, the internet rewards volume, not value.
These are people who watched one pixelated YouTube documentary called “NASA Lies” at 2AM and suddenly appointed themselves Chief Orbital Mechanics Officer of the Basement. They slap #DoYourResearch into comment sections like they’re working on a PhD from Reddit State. One guy went by @FlatEarthDaddy420—because who needs telescopes when you’ve got a strain called Moon Skeptic OG and a laser level from Home Depot. If there’s one thing Flat Earth culture has going for it, it’s an unshakable belief that stoned equals enlightened.
But let’s be honest—it’s never really about the Earth being flat. Or the moon landing being fake. Or that vaccines contain government-grade nanobots programmed to shine a bright red target for the space lasers from your scalp. Those are just red flags flapping wildly over something deeper. Something human. What they really want is to belong.
They want to feel like they matter. Like they’re not just screaming into the algorithm while their rent goes up and their relevance fades like an unpaid electric bill. They want to believe there’s a bigger story—and that they’ve been cast in the lead role. That they’re part of the rebellion. That they’ve seen through the lies. That they’re smarter than the sheep.
And once they’re in? Logic takes a backseat. Doesn’t matter how dumb the theory is—once it comes with friendship, shared language, memes, inside jokes, and a sense of tribe, it starts to feel like truth. That’s the hook. That’s the drug.
Because when the world treats you like a number, the first person who says, “You’re one of us” suddenly sounds like a prophet. Doesn’t matter if the message is wrapped in tinfoil and paranoia—if it makes someone feel seen, it sticks.
This isn’t about facts. It’s about loneliness. About identity. And about how far people will go to feel like they belong somewhere—even if it’s on the edge of a flat Earth next to a guy livestreaming his conspiracy board with yarn and push pins.
They’re not dumb. They just picked a hell of a dumb hill to die on.
Part 2 — The Myth of Fitting In
We were all taught, early on, that the goal was to fit in. That being accepted—being liked—was the currency of survival. Blend in. Don’t be weird. Don’t stand out. Don’t ask too many questions. Don’t laugh too loud. Don’t bring tuna salad to school unless you want to eat lunch with the janitor for a week. And whatever you do, never be the only one with your hand up when nobody else studied.
That lesson didn’t fade with childhood—it just got more expensive. In school, it was popularity. In the workplace, it’s “culture fit.” In politics, it’s party loyalty. On social media, it’s algorithm-friendly outrage. Everywhere you look, there’s a system that will welcome you with open arms—so long as you’re willing to sand down your edges and parrot the approved talking points.
The problem is, fitting in isn’t belonging. Fitting in is performing. It’s camouflage. It’s what we do to avoid judgment, criticism, or exclusion. It’s code-switching for acceptance—putting on whatever version of yourself is least likely to make the group uncomfortable. And at first? Sure, it works. You get a seat at the table. But it’s not really you sitting there. It’s the projection. The decoy. The algorithm-approved avatar of a person who’s too tired to argue anymore.
This is where the real damage starts: over time, the performance becomes the identity. And the more you feed the version of you that people want, the more you starve the version that actually matters. Eventually, you forget what belonging even feels like—because the only thing you’ve done for years is fit in.
I know this because I lived it.
In grade school, I was the “weird” kid—the one into chemistry sets and star charts while the other boys memorized hockey stats and played with marbles. I got straight A’s, and for that, I earned a nickname from one of the neighborhood meatheads: “The Perfesser.” His Gilligan’s Island jab stuck, and suddenly the things I loved—the things that made me feel alive—were the very things that made me a target.
By the time I hit high school, I got the message: if you want to survive, don’t stand out. I went from a straight-A student to pulling Ds—not because I wasn’t capable, but because I needed to fit in more than I needed to succeed. The astronomy books got shelved. The science questions stopped. Even my love of computers went underground. The last thing I needed was to be called HAL every time I opened my mouth.
And that’s the real cost of fitting in—it doesn’t just steal your light. It convinces you to hide it yourself.
So when someone comes along—maybe a podcast host, maybe a YouTube guy in a red embroidered trucker hat, maybe a forum full of people who finally get you—and they say, “You don’t have to fake it here. You’re already one of us,” it hits like a rescue.
That’s the moment the hook sets. Because finally—finally—you’ve found a place where you can stop pretending. You can ask the “stupid” questions. You can say what you really think. You can laugh without wondering if you’re going to pay for it. You can be skeptical without being shut down. And maybe it starts small—just rolling your eyes at NASA or reposting a “what if the moon landing was staged?” meme. But soon enough, you’re sitting in a livestream about how Australia doesn’t exist, nodding along with people who say airline pilots are “in on it.”
You didn’t set out to join a cult. You just wanted to belong somewhere that didn’t make you feel like shit. Somewhere that said, “You’re okay the way you are.” And if the price of admission is a couple of dumb beliefs? That’s cheaper than being invisible.
That’s the real tragedy. We’ve built a culture that punishes authenticity and then acts shocked when people go looking for it in places with no brakes and no boundaries.
Part 3 — Belonging Hijacked
This is where it gets dark.
Because once people realize they don’t truly belong anywhere—they start looking for shortcuts. Substitutes. Tribes. Movements. Algorithms don’t just offer them a voice—they offer them a place. And sometimes, that place is built on nothing.
Take Flat Earth. It’s not a belief system. It’s a belonging system. It has everything a person needs to feel like part of something:
- A shared language.
- An enemy (science, NASA, “the sheep”).
- A creation myth.
- And a secret truth that only “the awakened” understand.
It’s not about logic. It’s about identity. Flat Earthers didn’t stumble across a compelling scientific argument—they stumbled into a community that made them feel smart, wanted, and brave… for doubting the curve of the planet.
Same goes for moon hoaxers. The idea that the U.S. faked the moon landing is ridiculous—and provably wrong. But it persists because it feels good to believe you know something others don’t. It feels good to be the “skeptic” in a sea of suckers. It gives the illusion of agency. Like you’re not just floating through a world of lies—you’re navigating it.
Then there’s QAnon. The dark-side version of this same psychological phenomenon—only instead of questioning moon rocks and space suits, they’re interrogating pizza menus and convincing each other that Tom Hanks drinks baby blood. It’s absurd. It’s also incredibly compelling for someone who’s been ignored, abandoned, or disenfranchised. It’s the perfect storm of “I matter” and “you’re all blind.”
And then we get to MAGA. The bright-red, baseball-capped gospel of grievance. It’s not a political movement—it’s a lifestyle brand for people who feel like the world changed without their permission. It offers the same sense of belonging as the conspiracists, just wrapped in the American flag and sold as patriotism. The real draw isn’t policy—it’s identity. It’s nostalgia. It’s the thrill of being told, “You were right all along—and we’re going to burn it all down for you.”
On the opposite end of the spectrum, you’ve got the hyper-woke crowd—where the rules of belonging are so complex and ever-shifting that the only way to survive is to parrot the right language with cult-like precision. Say the wrong thing? You’re out. Ask a question? You’re problematic. Apologize incorrectly? You’re worse. It’s like walking through a minefield blindfolded, while being graded on your posture.
None of these movements start as stupidity. They start as hunger. The desire to be part of something—anything—that gives people a sense of identity and control in a world that constantly tells them they’re powerless.
And sure, from the outside, it all looks unhinged.
But on the inside? It’s intoxicating.
Because now you’re not just someone with doubts or frustrations—you’re part of a rebellion. A revolution. A secret society that “gets it.” And if everyone outside that bubble thinks you’re insane? All that proves is that you’re right.
Of course, some beliefs are more obviously absurd than others. Which brings us back to the Flat Earth crowd. Because if the Earth really were flat, cats would’ve pushed everything off the edge by now. Atlantis, gone. Antarctica, gone. Every flat-screen TV in Best Buy? Batted off the side like an insult to gravity.
But logic doesn’t matter once the belonging sets in. These aren’t theories. They’re tribes. And you don’t argue with tribes—you defend them.
This is what happens when belonging gets hijacked by ideology. When self-worth is outsourced to echo chambers. When the ache to matter is louder than the voice of reason.
And the scariest part?
It works. For a while.
Part 4 — The Real Cost of False Belonging
Here’s the part they never tell you: when someone gets radicalized—flat earther, moon truther, Q-tuber, MAGA hat, woketopian cultist—they don’t just gain a new belief system.
They lose people.
Nobody talks about that. Nobody puts it on the brochure. “Welcome to the tribe. Side effects may include family ghostings, strained friendships, and never being able to have dinner with your cousin again without three drinks and a safe word.”
But it’s real.
I’ve watched it happen in slow motion, like someone backing into traffic while maintaining full eye contact. And there’s nothing you can do to stop it, because from their side, you’re the one who disappeared.
You stopped agreeing. You hesitated before liking the post. You used the wrong word—one that was fine six months ago, but now apparently means you support genocide. Or fascism. Or oat milk. Who the hell knows anymore.
The rules change fast. And if you can’t keep up, you’re out.
What’s left behind is the space where a relationship used to be. You try to bridge the gap, and all you get is silence. Or worse—some vague “protecting my peace” post that you know is about you, even though it’s couched in enough vagueness to win a corporate HR award.
So yeah. We’re bleeding people.
Not all at once. Not with funerals.
Just… one missing text thread at a time.
And we’ve gotten so used to it, we treat it like background noise.
“Oh well. That’s just how it is now.”
No. It’s not. It’s how it shouldn’t be.
We’ve turned disagreement into disconnection. Not because anyone wants to be alone, but because we’ve all been sold this cheap substitute for integrity: “If they don’t believe exactly what you do, they’re toxic.”
That’s not empowerment. That’s cowardice in a self-help hoodie.
And the worst part? We’re acting like it’s strength. Like cutting people out makes you brave. Like filtering your entire life down to people who say “yes” in the right tone is somehow growth.
It’s not. It’s ego preservation.
It’s ideological bubble wrap.
And it’s costing us everything that makes community actually work: disagreement, challenge, growth, and grace.
Part 5 — Welcome to the Fire
I keep trying to talk to people. Not to convince them. Not to argue. Just to talk. To ask questions. To get curious together. But that’s a hard ask now. Somewhere along the way, conversation stopped being a way to understand each other and turned into a contest to see who can talk last (and loudest).
Everything’s a test. Every sentence is a loyalty check. One wrong word, one off-script reaction, and suddenly you’re a threat. Doesn’t matter if your point made sense. Doesn’t even matter if you were agreeing—if you didn’t agree the right way, you’re still on the list.
It’s not enough to be thoughtful anymore. You have to be immediate. You have to respond with exactly the right level of outrage, or exactly the right amount of applause, and if you miss the cue? You’re out.
We didn’t build a culture of conversation—we built a culture of choreography. Everyone performing for their side. Everyone trying to hit their marks. And God help you if you decide to improvise.
We used to be allowed to say, “I don’t know.” That’s gone. “I’m still thinking about it” sounds like an admission of guilt now. And nuance? Nuance gets you shot in the crossfire before either side bothers to ask what you were actually trying to say.
So instead, people start playing it safe. They talk in quotes. They share headlines instead of thoughts. They rehearse opinions like they’re auditioning for a seat at the table instead of just trying to have a conversation. It’s easier that way. Pretend you’ve got it all figured out and nobody questions you. The second you show doubt, you’re a liability.
And what really gets me is that we’re doing this to each other on purpose.
We’re not just accidentally creating a culture where people can’t be themselves. We’re reinforcing it. Every day. We reward outrage and shame hesitation. We treat disagreement like betrayal and silence like an admission of guilt.
It wasn’t always this rigid.
You used to be able to say the wrong thing and have someone correct you. Now they just correct their contact list. Unfollow. Unfriend. Block. Gone. You get erased. Not because you were harmful. Just because you weren’t easy.
And I get it. The world’s heavy. People are scared. They want answers. But we’ve confused certainty with strength and anger with principle, and all we’ve built is a society of people yelling past each other while patting themselves on the back for being brave.
We’re not brave. We’re tired.
And instead of resting, we keep doubling down.
Part 6 — The Way Back
It doesn’t have to be like this.
We weren’t always this fragile. This reactive. This unwilling to give each other the benefit of the doubt. There was a time—not even that long ago—when you could say, “I’m not sure I agree,” and not be treated like you just kicked someone’s dog.
But somewhere along the way, we stopped talking to each other and started talking at each other. We replaced conversation with commentary. Swapped humility for certainty. And now every interaction feels like a referendum on your moral worth.
That’s not progress. That’s regression dressed up as principle.
The truth is, we’re not actually that far apart. Most people still believe in decency. Most people still want to live in a world where their kids are safe, their bills are paid, and they don’t have to pass a political Rorschach test to sit at Thanksgiving dinner. But we’ve let the extremes define the narrative. We’ve handed the mic to the loudest, most rigid voices, and called it a conversation.
It’s not. It’s performance art with better lighting.
The middle isn’t boring. The middle isn’t weak. The middle is where real life happens. It’s where nuance lives. It’s where people admit they don’t know everything, and maybe never will—but they’re willing to listen, and learn, and talk.
That’s where we need to get back to. Not with some big dramatic gesture, but with something simpler. More human. Like asking a question you don’t already have an answer to. Like letting someone speak without planning your rebuttal while they’re still talking. Like remembering that the people you disagree with aren’t your enemies—they’re just people, working with the information they have, trying to feel safe, seen, or heard. Same as you.
We don’t need more shouting. We need more curiosity. We need to stop assuming that everyone on the other side is brainwashed, evil, or one click away from building a bunker.
Some people are too far gone, sure. But most aren’t. Most are just exhausted. They’re scared. They’re stuck in systems that punish doubt and reward outrage. But if we start giving each other room to be wrong—room to think out loud without getting ambushed for it—we might actually start finding our way back to something better.
And as for the truly extreme—the ones who’ve built their identity around always being right, who’ve wrapped themselves in conspiracy, purity, or performative rage—here’s the truth we don’t like to say out loud: they only have power because we keep giving them an audience. If the applause stops, if the crowd walks away, if the cult unravels, they lose their grip. No likes. No validation. No control. They become what they were always terrified of being—irrelevant.
Maybe that’s the move. Not confrontation. Not cancellation. Just disinterest. Just walking away from the people who demand loyalty at gunpoint and toward the ones still willing to have a real conversation. Like the end of some surreal flash mob—just go home.
We don’t have to fix everything all at once. We just have to stop making it worse.
Less performance. More presence. Less fire. More light.
That’s the way forward.
Part 7 — You Don’t Need to Fit In to Belong
The idea that kicked this whole thing off might have sounded like a joke—Flat Earth, moon hoaxes, Reddit skeptics in trucker hats. But underneath it was something heavier. Something I’ve been circling for a long time, whether I meant to or not.
It’s not about the theories. Not really.
It’s about the need to be seen. To feel like your voice matters. Like you’re not invisible. Like you’re part of something that doesn’t demand perfection or full ideological submission just to keep your seat at the table.
That’s why people fall into these groups. These echo chambers. These movements that feel more like brands than belief systems. It’s not because they’re gullible. It’s not because they’re stupid. It’s because they’re tired of feeling alone.
And if we keep pushing people away every time they ask the wrong question, pause too long, or think out loud in a way that doesn’t fit the script, they’ll keep finding places that promise easy answers in exchange for blind loyalty. That’s not connection. That’s compliance.
We need to make space for people to be imperfect while they’re learning. We need to build communities that welcome honesty without demanding conformity. Because real belonging doesn’t ask you to contort yourself into something more palatable—it meets you where you are and invites you in anyway.
That’s not weakness. It’s what makes us real.
Belonging isn’t about fitting in. It’s not about matching the tone, passing the purity test, or rehearsing the party line. It’s about being accepted even when you’re a little offbeat, a little uncertain, a little raw.
That’s where most of us actually live. In the space between the extremes. Not because we’re undecided, but because we’re still thinking. Still listening. Still human.
So if this piece has a message—beneath the frustration, the fire, and the noise—it’s this: we don’t need to keep fracturing. We don’t need to perform. We don’t need to pretend.
We just need to remember that none of us were built to do this alone.
And for the record: the earth is a globe and men did walk on the moon in 1969 (they’re just not allowed to talk about what they saw up there). 😉
END