Handling our inner cynicism

"We are not here to curse the darkness, but to light a candle that can guide us through the darkness to a safe and sane future." — John F. Kennedy.

"Sedrick Chisom" by Sam Jablon

I didn’t know much about Mister Rogers or his classic show, Mister Rogers' Neighborhood, until I saw the Tom Hanks film A Beautiful Day in the Neighborhood. It tells the story of a journalist, Lloyd Vogel, who is assigned to write a profile on Fred Rogers. Skeptical and world-weary, Lloyd assumes that Mr. Rogers' kindness must be a facade—that no one could possibly be that good. He searches for flaws, expecting to find cracks beneath the surface. But what he discovers is unsettling in its sincerity: Fred Rogers is exactly as kind as he seems. Lloyd’s cynicism, which once felt like a shield, is exposed for what it truly is—a barrier to connection, to trust, and to hope. 

Mister Rogers was uncharacteristically kind to a level that seemed hard to believe. And yet, that disbelief itself says something about cynicism: the fact that we struggle to trust in goodness. Letting our cynicism go unchecked can lead us down a path similar to Lloyd’s—wanting to dig out the dirt in an otherwise good person, resenting kindness, questioning all sincerity, and ultimately sucking the sense of trust out of humanity. But Lloyd tried to dig deep into Fred Rogers, yet all he found was love and gentleness. Sometimes we forget that kindness and compassion lie at the heart of humanity—not just selfishness and ulterior motives.

Zhuangzi, the Daoist philosopher, once told a story of a man who refused to let himself be moved by anything, fearing the unpredictability of life. He kept his heart closed, his expectations low. He called it wisdom. But Zhuangzi laughed—what kind of life is one spent resisting the very currents that make it worth living? His caution made sense, but in trying to guard himself from sorrow, he also shut out joy. Zhuangzi suggested a different way: to flow with the world, to be open to its joys and sorrows alike, and to trust.

That’s what cynicism steals from us. It presents itself as sharp-eyed and knowing, a kind of armor against disappointment. For many, cynicism feels like the safest response to a world that has let them down. We tell ourselves we are protecting something—our hope, our dignity, our belief in goodness—by refusing to risk them. The truth is, cynicism does not shield us; it entombs us. We become like the man in Zhuangzi’s story, locked away from both grief and beauty, mistaking disengagement for wisdom.

It is not naïve to hope. It is not foolish to believe that people are capable of goodness. There is a difference between seeing the world clearly and letting its darkness define you. To trust, to love, to care—these are not weaknesses. They are the quiet rebellions of those who refuse to let the world make them hard.

In learning to trust and believe in Fred Rogers, Lloyd learned to trust in himself, in his father, in his own ability to be a father, and in the general goodness of the world around him. His journey reflects a truth many of us struggle with—that believing in goodness does not mean ignoring darkness. It means choosing, again and again, to reach for the light in spite of it.

With this insight, perhaps we can look at divisive figures like Greta Thunberg with more sympathy and understanding. Perhaps she’s just a young adult trying to do the right thing, even if she may not be completely right in everything she says. Perhaps her passion, rather than being a flaw, is a reflection of an earnest desire to make the world better. And maybe, just maybe, that is something to be encouraged rather than ridiculed. This doesn’t mean she—or anyone—is beyond critique. Holding people accountable for their words and actions is important. But there’s a difference between constructive criticism and cynicism. The former seeks to improve, to refine, to build up. The latter seeks to tear down. We should ask ourselves: do we dismiss her because we genuinely disagree, or because it’s easier to assume she must have ulterior motives? Do we resist believing in her sincerity because we’ve grown too accustomed to assuming that no one could truly care that much?

If we let our skepticism rule us, we risk throwing out the voices that push us forward, even when they are imperfect. We risk shutting down not only bad ideas but also the passion, conviction, and belief in change that fuel progress in the first place. Perhaps it’s worth pausing, listening, and acknowledging that even when we don’t fully agree, there is value in earnestness itself. Because if we dismiss it outright, what are we left with?

I think about the people I admire most, and none of them are untouched by pain. They have been let down, hurt, disillusioned. And yet, they still choose to believe in something greater than themselves. They still reach out. They still try. Maybe that’s what Zhuangzi meant—not that we should be blind to the dangers of the world, but that we should not let them dictate the way we live.

The late and great Robin Williams once said, "I don't know how much value I have in this universe, but I do know that I've made a few people happier than they would have been without me." It’s the kind of legacy I hope to leave behind—not one of wealth or prestige, but of kindness, of making people feel a little lighter in a heavy world. Williams, despite his own struggles, chose to bring warmth and laughter to others. That choice, that defiant hope, is something I keep coming back to.

So what does it mean to stand in defiance of cynicism? It means letting yourself be moved. It means risking disappointment, knowing that not every act of trust will be rewarded, but choosing to trust anyway. It means stepping into the world not with armor, but with open hands.

Because if we close ourselves off, we might avoid pain—but in doing so, we forfeit the chance to grow, to connect, to truly live.