Kindness, Pens, and the Rules That Rebuilt Me

Back in 2013, I scribbled a list into a cheap Beatles themed notebook. A list of rules. Life rules. Survival rules. Philosophy rules. It was messy—literally written in different colors of ink, with smudges and strikethroughs and new thoughts wedged between the old ones. It wasn’t polished. But it was mine.

And looking at it now, over a decade later, it feels like the very first whisper of the worldview I’ve since come to call Ethicism. I didn’t know that name yet, didn’t have the full vocabulary to explain the ethical fire growing in me, but I was already pushing back—against apathy, against cruelty, against giving up. I was sketching out a way to be in a world that constantly told me not to feel so much. Not to care so hard. Not to try so loudly.

Let me take you back.

Rule #1: Get a pencil for notebook. (Written in blue ink)

It starts small. A mundane reminder. But even that was a symbol. A pencil doesn’t run out like a pen. You can sharpen it. Erase with it. Change. Try again. Even then, I wanted tools that allowed me to evolve.

Rule #2: Stop losing pens. (Written in red ink)

There’s something tender in that one. Frustrated, probably. But it reads like a metaphor now—stop misplacing the things you need to create, to speak, to defend yourself. Hold onto your voice.

Rules 3–5: Focus on you. Information with wisdom. Emotion with reason. Accept your darkness and bring out the light.

These were the early echoes of what would become a core Ethicism principle: compassion with moral clarity. I was trying to balance being too open with being too shut down. I was learning that it’s okay to feel, as long as you learn how to carry those feelings ethically. Not weaponize them. Not bury them. To wield them responsibly.

Rules 6–8: Write everything down. Be open to try things. Don’t be scared.

This was me clawing toward life again. After trauma, after silence, after unspoken grief, I was daring myself to re-enter the world. And rule 6—that’s the one that changed everything. Because I did write it all down. These rules. My fears. My grief. The love that nearly destroyed me. And the words became my compass.

Rule 9: Ponies.

Yeah. That rule. A pastel-colored shoutout to My Little Pony: Friendship is Magic. But listen: those ponies taught radical kindness. They taught that friendship was hard work. That empathy mattered. That people could be redeemed, and that boundaries were okay too. I clung to that show like a lifeline, not for escapism, but for a vision of the world that wasn’t cruel by default.

Rules 10–16: Make your dreams come true. Say hello to everyone. Forgive, but never forget. Welcome change. Be kind to yourself. Really stop losing pens. Communicate. Eat, sleep, shower.

This stretch reads like a survival manual. The basic mechanics of functioning while trying not to drown. I knew then that healing wasn’t just abstract—it was practical. Sleep. Food. Words. Little connections. I didn’t always follow them, but I wanted to. That mattered.

Rules 17–22: Remember how you feel. Breathe. Stand up for yourself. Let it go. Change people, places, things. Be more assertive, but wisely.

You can feel the fight here. I was just starting to realize that I had agency. That letting go wasn’t failure—it was strategy. That standing up for myself didn’t mean becoming cruel. It meant reclaiming my space. Ethicism, at its heart, says: protect the vulnerable, including yourself.

Rules 23–24: Remember the “I” statements. If they’re with you at your worst, they’ll be with you at your best.

These were about communication, yes. But also about hope. I hadn’t yet accepted how conditional people’s care could be. I wanted to believe in permanent homes—in friends or partners who wouldn’t vanish when I was struggling. I think I still want that.

Rules 25–26: If you love someone, let them go. If they return, they’re yours. If not, they never were.

Classic. Maybe cliché. But it helped me let go of a relationship that felt soul-bound and sickening all at once. That leads into:

Rule 28 (and the scratched-out 29): Become better for yourself, and you’ll be better for them and her. / Someday, someone will love the fuck out of you.

Yeah. “Her.” The shared delusion. The break. The trauma bond. It took years to admit how bad it got. But I still remember the moment I crossed out “She really does love you” and replaced it with that blunt hope: that someday, someone would love me in the way I was trying to love her.

Rules 30–34: Live and let live. Live and let die. Live and learn. Fake it till you make it. Listen to your own advice. No, seriously. Fuck.

That last one makes me laugh and ache at the same time. I was so self-aware and so lost. I knew what I needed, but I couldn’t always do it. Couldn’t always believe it.

Ethicism didn’t exist in my vocabulary yet, but I can see it now: the idea that you can know what’s right and still stumble. That the trying still matters.

Rules 35–42: Be what you want to be. Turn fear into excitement. Reality is what it is, even if you hate it. Everything happens for a reason. Life is like photography—develop from the negatives. Smile, smile, smile! It is a reflection of them, not you. Kindness & Compassion.

There it is. That last one—the star. Rule 42. The most important. And the most enduring. Even now, with Ethicism fully formed, Kindness and Compassion remains the root of it all. But not empty kindness. Not weaponized compassion. Not guilt-tripped, hollow, “be nice” mandates. But the kind that demands clarity. That knows when to walk away. That refuses cruelty in any direction.

The next few rules—left blank. Because even then, I knew the list wasn’t finished. I wanted to leave room for growth.

Rules 46–48: Life isn’t about waiting for the storm to pass. It’s about learning to dance in the rain. You are your true self.

That’s where I ended. With a storm, and a promise. That I would keep becoming. That my true self wasn’t some polished product—it was who I already was, underneath the noise.

Now, it’s 2025. And I’ve built a worldview that expands those rules into something deeper. Ethicism. A philosophy born from defiance. From grief. From trying to be a good person in a collapsing world. It’s not clean. It doesn’t promise reward. But it insists that care still matters.

These rules weren’t perfect. Some were naive. Some were borrowed. Some were deeply wounded. But they kept me alive. They shaped the ethicist I became.

And maybe someday, I'll finally find my answers.

But even if not?

I’ll keep choosing kindness with clarity. I’ll keep writing it all down. I’ll keep the blank lines open for new rules.

And I’ll keep my goddamn pens.