That’s some fun music. Welcome out! I am your host, Dr. Corinne Votaw-Freer. I am a humanist and social psychologist, which is just another way of saying I want us all to be better people and be nicer to each other.

This podcast is called We Interrupt Your Programming, and the goal is to peel back the curtain on human behavior, revealing that the vast majority of what we do, think, and believe isn’t the result of intention or choice.

Instead, it's shaped by genetic predispositions, childhood conditioning, and the powerful influence of social circles, celebrities, media, and social media. We like to think of ourselves as the architects of our own lives, but we’re probably more like passengers on a train, being carried along on tracks built by the highest bidder.

Rooted in decades of research, this podcast invites you to take a step back and recognize the forces shaping your thoughts, actions, and beliefs. What can only really be described as programming, the code that makes us function, but it's not just about understanding the programming, it's about interrupting it, reclaiming autonomy, self-control, and self-determination.

Only then can we start to enhance or develop a better understanding of ourselves, and truly understand the experiences, stressors and struggles of others.

We’re going to use current events as a lens to explore these ideas, opening our minds to perspectives we may not have considered, and developing a deeper understanding of the struggles faced by those on the other side of every issue.

These moments of reflection and insight challenge us to grow beyond judgment, to cultivate empathy, and to model this understanding in our communities. Together, on this podcast, we're going to rethink patterns that hold us back and create a ripple effect of empathy and respect, a betterment of our species.

Introduction

I grew up in Southern California, which means I have an enduring love for beaches, Disney, and an unapologetically high standard for Mexican food. But despite those classic SoCal traits, it wasn’t until I moved to Denver 12 years ago that I really found home.

In my early 20s, I landed a job as a Marketing Director at an action sports company. I spent those years rubbing shoulders with famous athletes and musicians while discovering a bizarre knack for learning programming languages in hours. I began merging that talent with marketing, and it turned into a successful career in data-driven strategy, eventually going on to start my own agency. It was in this space that I started understanding what makes people tick—where they focus their attention, how they make decisions, and, ultimately, how they spend their money. This was before Alexa and the 24/7 surveillance we endure today. Back then, I worked the old-school hustle: buying data from whoever was selling it and tracking people using methods that were perfectly legal at the time but now feel, frankly, villainous. Trust me, I feel gross about it too.

Here’s where it gets messier: I was also very Republican, very religious, and held a disdain for people I’d never met and knew little to nothing about. I even ran for office in Salt Lake County, Utah. Thankfully, I lost.

Then came my 30s and what I call "the great undoing." I left marketing behind, recognizing the harm I’d caused in that world and deciding I should use my privilege and skills for good. Maybe it was the lingering influence of religion, but I felt compelled to make amends. I own the fact that I was actively complicit in persecuting communities that I can now admit I was a member of all along.

I went back to school to become a psychologist and immersed myself in working within marginalized communities. It took years—and a lot of humility—to start unlearning the biases and prejudices I’d carried for so long. I’m still learning, and I crave people telling me what I’m doing wrong and how to improve.

The truth is, I only managed my shift into understanding others because people gave me the space to be wrong without shutting me out. That grace was a gift, and I’m not sure that same opportunity exists today. We live in a time where we too often measure people by whether they already have the “right” beliefs, and if they don’t, it’s a swift dismissal: fuck off. I lose sleep over this. It’s why I do the work I do—and why I’m starting this podcast.

I am a humanist. At its core, humanism is the belief that we, as humans, have the power to create meaningful global change—and that every person, regardless of their beliefs, is inherently worthy of respect.

My work as a social psychologist focuses on understanding how people connect, how alliances are formed, and how we can build a path forward through inclusion and empathy. Because, let’s face it, without those, we’re not just stagnating as a species—we’re actively paving our way to destruction.

It’s only fair to start out by sharing kind of where the name comes from for this podcast. And how small things or seemingly small things can make just such a dramatic impact or change in our lives. I'm going to start by telling you a story that had a profound impact on my life.

I should warn you in advance that this story is not a nice story. It involves the topic of suicide so if that is going to be too much to hear about, skip forward about seven minutes, and use a takeaway that sometimes we need to shake up what we’re watching, and that the American Health Insurance Racket is truly evil.

It was mid-afternoon in late April 1998. And it was also an important day because an event unfolded on live television that would forever change the lives of Californians. News stations interrupted daytime talk shows and, more tragically, after-school cartoons to broadcast what could only be described as an erratic protest of HMOs by Daniel Jones, leading to the closure of a critical interchange just a few miles south of downtown Los Angeles.

I was working in a small office near LA, and maybe 12 or 15 of us crammed into the conference room to watch the chaos unfold on a small television. Well, it would have been small in the 1990s, so it was probably massive by today's standards.

But I digress. We were all gathered around the television, captivated by the news coverage. Helicopters were circling this familiar interchange.

Most of us use that interchange three or four times a week, and we knew that a few of our co-workers were also trapped in the traffic nightmare caused by the closure.

This breaking news felt different from the car chases we had grown accustomed to watching throughout the day. Car chases generally invoked feelings of sport, like we were playing cops and robbers. This was Los Angeles in the 90’s. The LA riots were still fresh in our minds. Sometimes, depending on the chase, we’d root for the guy just trying not to be killed by the police. And other times, it was like, whoa – dude, you’re putting innocent people at risk. Stop that guy.

But this news was different. It wasn’t a chase. Daniel had stopped on the side of an overpass, laid out a huge banner, and just waited there. This tugged at our heartstrings and offered an opportunity to form an emotional connection, either sympathy or anger, toward Daniel. Either way, those watching were vested in the outcome.

Above the scene, news and police helicopters crowded the sky, giving us multiple angles to watch Mr. Jones unravel. Everyone watching, including the news station producers, likely assumed that this would end the way most standoffs end: with the suspect being caught and taken into custody. Benign. Predictable.

But this wasn't that. Local news stations, desperate to stay relevant as cable news providers were starting to gain dominance, were determined to stay on the scene and to hold our attention. And then came the flames.

Daniel had fashioned a Molotov cocktail, which he ignited inside of his truck, hoping to end his life and, perhaps even more fucked up, that of his dog Gladys. At 3.50 p.m. He exited the fire-engulfed truck with a shotgun, pointed it at his head, and pulled the trigger.

Like those older than I who vividly remember where they were when the news broke of John F. Kennedy's assassination, I too can recall even the smallest details of where I was that day. They call it a Flashbulb memory, and it’s seared into the mind. I remember the smell of the dusty office chairs around the conference table, the gasp of those in the room, the flickering fluorescent lights overhead, and that instantaneous feeling of guilt for feeding into the normalization of the dark voyeurism that boosted television ratings.

Our team didn't speak to each other for the rest of the day. For weeks, we wandered the halls and conducted meetings in a fog. We knew something was deeply wrong, and we could even pinpoint the exact moment when things changed, but we couldn't explain the stupor we found ourselves trapped in.

It was the first time we had seen a person shoot themselves in real-time. I was just a kid then, barely 18, struggling to process what I had just witnessed. Even now, I still struggle to make sense of it.

At that age, I didn't understand that the harm was far greater than I could have imagined. Adults in offices weren't the only ones who witnessed Daniel's grotesque ending. Hundreds of thousands of children had their afternoon cartoons interrupted just in time to witness this tragedy.

The latchkey generation came into its own in the 90s, and many of these children, home alone, could not access immediate help for what they had just witnessed. Parents remained unaware for hours or even days that their children had been exposed to such a gruesome scene.

If we had known what we now know about Daniel, his history, and his condition, we would have understood that nothing could have stopped him from shooting himself that day. Daniel had recently been diagnosed with HIV and, at the same time, received the diagnosis of cancer.

It wasn't this diagnosis that doomed him, but rather his realization that the time required to access treatment through his HMO couldn't keep pace with the progression of his disease.

Neither condition was a death sentence, but the lack of timely treatment ultimately sealed his fate. I can't justify Daniel's actions. Had his protests led to meaningful changes in our healthcare system, saving millions of lives, I might have been able to rationalize his final act, but it didn't.

As of today, at least 27 million Americans still lack access to healthcare. Millions can't afford necessities like food due to overwhelming medical bills, and millions more have declared bankruptcy because of healthcare costs.

Daniel failed. Twenty years after his death, I worked as a mental health provider in the Long Beach community where he had lived. Life in the area was far from easy. Most residents worked as service employees, forced to choose between living in poverty near their jobs or enduring commutes that would consume more time than the jobs they were working.

Half of the people I treated had to remain unemployed to qualify for life-saving medications through Medicaid. Instead of sparking change in how medical care is provided or withheld, the most notable outcome of Daniel's protests was less coverage of car chases and a multi-second delay in live broadcasts.

At the time, Daniel's actions had the opposite effect of what he had hoped for. Children ready to unwind from a long Thursday at school with cartoons were instead confronted with a Trojan horse of tragedy and horror.

His actions scarred a generation unprepared to have their internal programming so violently interrupted. Daniel took his own life because the programming he received from an early age didn't account for the conditions he found himself living in.

His programming contained what should be a universal truth. No human should die from a treatable disease because others have blocked access to life-saving care. His inability to reconcile that truth with his reality led to a complete loss of hope or any sense of a path forward.

For him, his horrific actions somehow made sense. Years later, that interchange became the opening set for La La Land. I wonder if that was Damien Chazelle's attempt to reframe it as something uplifting and positive. Or was it meant to remind us of the danger lurking beneath Los Angeles's sunny facade?

That day, my programming was interrupted, and my world was changed. I started caring in a way I hadn't before. My goal with this podcast is to open your eyes to a perspective other than your own because most of the perspectives we hold come from a lifetime of being indoctrinated, programmed, and fed a narrative disguised as news.

If I'm being honest with you, and if you can be honest with yourself, you'll recognize that you have beliefs about which you don't know where they came from. You do things without knowing why you do them. It's just a habit. It's just routine.

I used to believe that everyone we met was doing the best they could, and I used that to justify problematic behavior. Some of their words may have been mean, and they may not have realized it, but I just told myself, "Hey, everyone's doing the best they can, and that's all we can ask for.”

I no longer believe that. I don't think everyone is doing the best they can. If they were, they wouldn't spend three, four, or five hours a night watching media that confirms their beliefs.

If they were, they wouldn't spend four-plus hours per day on social media, looking for evidence that their deeply held biases, prejudices, and concerns are somehow valid. If everyone were doing their best, they would take just a little bit more time out of each day, look for people who are different from them, and ask, "Hey, what can I be doing better?” What's your life like? What's your experience like?

There was a time when we sought to understand others, and more importantly, we sought to understand how we could personally improve. That's part of what made our species great. Now it seems like most people don’t give a shit about improving themselves.

We’ve gone as far as to elevate people to positions of power or influence based on their vocal disdain for others. Think about that. There are two paths to becoming famous – You possess a talent or skill that is admirable, or you possess the power to tear down other people. Apparently, we’re all still in high school, and you’re either cool, or you’re a bully.

We should actively work to make everyone's life better. But now it's become commonplace to view that type of humanity, that type of empathy, as a problem. We have reached a point in our species where we are calling something that is good, an awareness of other people, an awareness of their struggles, and a desire to improve ourselves so that we can be kinder, better, and nicer to other people.

And we're calling that bad. Oh, I'm sorry. I mean, we're calling that woke. Imagine that a word that once meant awareness of the suffering of others is now considered pejorative by more than half of the country.

Our media tells us it's okay to hate. It's okay to think less of other people. And in fact, if you don't, you're the problem. If you don't, then you're weird, and you're broken. How have we fallen so far so quickly?

I’m trying to chart a third path, not towards fame. I’d be perfectly happy if the only people who remember my name when I’m gone are the people in my family and a few close friends. It’s the third path, one of center-ground, decency, and respect, that provides the only hope to end our bitter divides. Does this mean I don’t get angry at people, positions, or beliefs? Fuck no. Anger is my superpower. But it also means I won’t give up trying to help people learn different perspectives just because what they currently believe is stupid, hurtful, or hateful. My goal is simple: If I can convince one person to let go of a harmful belief, then I’ve made a difference.

This week, we crossed a new threshold, and I am destroyed by it.

Violent acts as a means of provoking change, and it is nothing new. For as long as we’ve had words, there have been writings about people who took matters into their own hands and went to extremes to change society. And equally, in response, fair-minded people condemned acts of hate, terrorism, or violence. We condemn violence because violence only brings more violence. This week was different.

We saw the execution of Brian Thompson, a healthcare executive for UnitedHealthcare. And instead of recognizing this as a heinous crime, an intentional and plotted murder, what are we seeing on social media?

We are seeing the celebration of an individual who is a criminal, who is a violent and deranged individual, who took matters into his own hands to correct some injustice that he felt had been perpetrated upon others.

Does this mean that health insurance companies are somehow blameless in this? Absolutely not. As we learned earlier from the story of Daniel Jones, health insurance is fundamentally broken, and it has been broken for decades, if not longer. And worse than broken, yes, these companies absolutely seek ways to limit benefits to their subscribers. Crazier Still: People are mandated by law to have health insurance or pay a hefty fine. Let me be clear in case you think I’m on the side of the insurance companies: The Ledgers of American Health Insurance companies are dripping with the blood of the innocent.

Does this mean that vigilante justice is somehow called for? No, it doesn't. This will be our first issue, so we will consider both sides and hopefully develop some perspective.

There was a point in time in my life when I bought into the narrative that our health care was somehow better than the rest of the world. That we should be grateful for the access and care that we can obtain here in the United States. We should count our lucky stars that we are not subject to a government-operated healthcare system. We should be grateful that we avoided a cost burden that would be so tremendous if we were to implement some national health system that it would completely cripple us as a nation.

We’ve all heard anecdotal stories of people not being able to get care in their country, so they come to America to get treatment, or they pay privately for certain procedures overseas. But you know who does that? People far wealthier than you. Why else do you think you’ve heard about that happening? It doesn’t make the news when a low to middle-class woman comes from Canada to get an MRI. It makes the news when a British monarch flies to America to get heart surgery.

But let me ask a question – if our healthcare is so star-spangled super … Why do we suck so hard?

Let’s look at some basic data.

Healthcare Spending:
In 2022, the U.S. spent a jaw-dropping $12,742 per person on healthcare. That’s the highest per capita spending of any wealthy nation. To put it in perspective, that’s 17.8% of our GDP—nearly double the average for other high-income countries. Compare that to Germany at $8,000, France at $6,600, Canada at $6,300, the UK at $5,400, and Japan at just $5,200. And for all that money, what’s the return? The average American life expectancy is 77 years. In Japan? It’s 85. Eighty-five! The country spending the least on healthcare boasts the highest life expectancy. Canada hits 84, France 82, Germany 82, and the UK 82.

Infant and Maternal Mortality:
It gets grimmer. The U.S. has the highest infant and maternal mortality rates among wealthy nations. We rank 54th for infant mortality—sandwiched between Serbia and North Macedonia.

Access to Care:
Then there’s the issue of access. Around 38% of American adults reported skipping medical care last year because they couldn’t afford it. Thirty-eight percent! For context, that number drops to 12% in Canada, 9% in France, Germany, and the UK, and just 6% in Japan. Again, Japan spends the least and gets the best outcomes.

Preventable Deaths:
Speaking of outcomes, the U.S. also leads in preventable deaths. Between 1997 and 2003, preventable deaths in 18 other industrialized nations dropped faster than they did here.

Here’s one last thought that might break your brain – a secret amongst those in border or near border states. Very affordable medical care and prescriptions are available on the other side of our Southern Border.

In early 2010’s, I was still working in Marketing, and I was tasked with bringing an energy drink to market. This was my first exposure to other countries’ FDA-equivalent organizations. And it was the first time I realized America was doing health wrong. I remember conversing with a person inside the Mexican Federal Commission of Sanitary Risks about obtaining permission to sell this drink in Mexico. I was essentially laughed out of the meeting. Genuinely perplexed, I was made aware that the chemicals we put in our food and drinks aren’t just unhealthy. Nearly every other major country has declared those chemicals illegal to protect their people from them.

So, by all accounts, the American HealthCare System is shit and should be nationalized, right? Not so fast. There are some very legitimate issues that the national healthcare system suffers from.

1. Accessibility and Equity Gaps:
   National healthcare systems promise universal coverage, but "universal" can be a slippery word. Sure, everyone might technically have access, but in practice, that access isn’t always equal. Take rural communities, for example. A family living hours from a city might struggle to find specialists—or even basic medical care—without driving for miles. Minority populations often face additional challenges, like systemic biases and language barriers, that make accessing care more difficult. And for people with rare or complex medical conditions? They might find themselves stuck on a months-long waiting list, hoping their condition doesn’t worsen before they’re finally seen. It’s a sobering reminder that even a system designed to serve everyone can end up unintentionally leaving some people out in the cold.

2. Bureaucracy and Inefficiency:
   Ah, bureaucracy—the lifeblood of many national systems. While these processes are supposed to ensure fairness and consistency, they often create headaches instead. Think endless forms, confusing procedures, and long lines that feel more DMV than doctor’s office. Need to schedule a surgery? Better hope it’s not urgent because you might be waiting for months. And then there’s the paperwork. Patients get bounced from desk to desk, feeling like numbers on a spreadsheet rather than people with pressing health concerns. Meanwhile, doctors and nurses drown in admin tasks, leaving less time for, you know, actually helping patients. When a system spends so much energy keeping itself running, you have to wonder—who’s it really serving?

3. Talent Retention Issues:
   Imagine spending years training to be a doctor, only to enter a system that pays less than you’d earn in a private model, piles on exhausting workloads, and forces you to wade through bureaucratic quicksand. That’s the reality for many healthcare professionals in nationalized systems. It’s no surprise that some of the best and brightest opt out, choosing private practice or even different careers altogether. Those who stay often find themselves overworked and burned out, which doesn’t just affect them—it affects patients. When there aren’t enough skilled providers to go around, people end up waiting longer for care or being treated by less experienced staff. And really, can you blame doctors for wanting to work where their expertise is valued—and compensated—accordingly?

4. Financial Sustainability:
   Running a national healthcare system is like trying to balance on a tightrope during a windstorm. Aging populations, rising medical costs, and economic downturns constantly push these systems to the brink. When money gets tight, governments have to make hard choices: Do we fund expensive new cancer treatments, or do we put that money toward upgrading emergency rooms? Do we focus on preventative care or immediate interventions? These decisions inevitably leave someone frustrated. Patients might feel let down when the care they need isn’t covered, or when a facility is underfunded and understaffed. And let’s not forget the bigger picture—how do you promise comprehensive care for everyone when the resources just aren’t there to support it?

5. Quality of Care Variability:
   In theory, national healthcare systems should deliver consistent, high-quality care to everyone. In reality? It’s a mixed bag. One person might rave about the fantastic treatment they received at a well-funded urban hospital, while someone else in a less-resourced area is stuck in a waiting room for hours, only to see an overworked doctor for five rushed minutes. Overcrowded facilities, outdated equipment, and burned-out staff are common complaints in some regions. And even in well-equipped areas, human error and institutional inefficiencies can lead to uneven experiences. The idea of “standardized care” sounds great, but it’s hard to achieve when every region, hospital, and healthcare worker is dealing with their own unique challenges.

6. Resistance to Innovation:
   Healthcare is one of the fastest-evolving fields out there—new treatments, technologies, and approaches are constantly emerging. But large, centralized systems can feel like they’re stuck in slow motion. Why? Change takes time and money, two things these systems are usually short on. Imagine a groundbreaking cancer treatment that hits the market. A private hospital might adopt it quickly, eager to attract patients and improve outcomes. Meanwhile, a national system could spend years assessing its cost-effectiveness, debating whether it fits into the budget, and navigating layers of approval. By the time it’s implemented, patients might already feel like it’s outdated. This lag isn’t just frustrating—it’s a missed opportunity for better health outcomes. Stability is important, sure, but at what cost to progress?

And don’t even get me started with pharmaceuticals and the money behind medication innovation. That’s a novel in itself. Hell, it’s a library of novels.

But what if I told you that these nationalized systems have brought in American Health Insurance companies because they recognize they needed the technology, practices, and expertise of these American companies to reform their own systems? It’s very real, and it’s very happening. I know this because somebody I used to know very well was one of those people who were brought to the UK to reconceptualize the NHS and the way in which treatment was allotted.

If the health insurance issue were limited to these very real and very pragmatic issues, we’d be able to have civil discourse, understanding, and problem-solving. But it’s not. And the CEO of United Health Care, Andrew Witty, irresponsibly hurled gasoline into the fire with his op-ed in the New York Times this past week. His article was arrogant, self-serving, and will only fan the flames of contempt; it was full of issues, including:

On the surface, it seemed heartfelt. But as I kept reading, it felt less like a tribute to the man and more like a PR exercise for the company—a subtle but unmistakable pivot from personal grief to corporate defense.

And that’s what we’re going to unpack today: how statements like these often center the company over the victim—or the larger issues at hand.

Take this line: ‘No one would design a system like the one we have. And no one did.’ Now, sure, that sounds self-aware. But when you stop and think about it, it’s a classic deflection. It absolves anyone—specifically corporations like UnitedHealth—from responsibility for the dysfunction in U.S. healthcare. As if the system is some kind of cosmic accident, not something shaped and sustained by very deliberate choices. Choices that prioritize profits over people.

What’s even more frustrating is how this statement follows a familiar formula: acknowledge the system isn’t perfect, but frame it as inevitable. It’s like saying, ‘Well, it’s just complicated, you wouldn’t understand.’ And let me tell you, that line—‘Health care is both intensely personal and very complicated’—really stuck with me. Not because it’s insightful, but because it’s patronizing. It implies that anyone frustrated with the system must be too naive to grasp its complexities.

But here’s the thing: people do understand. They understand exactly how it feels to be denied care, to navigate an opaque claims process, or to watch loved ones suffer because they can’t afford coverage. It’s not that the system is too complicated—it’s that it’s too broken.

And this is where the messaging goes off the rails. Instead of acknowledging those legitimate frustrations, the piece shifts into defensiveness. It brings up the ‘vitriol directed at our colleagues’ and how they’re ‘barraged by threats.’ Now, let’s be clear: threats and violence are never okay. But framing public criticism alongside a violent act—equating people’s anger with this tragedy—feels manipulative. It’s like saying, ‘Your frustration is part of the problem.’

That’s a dangerous message. It invalidates real grievances people have with a system that, frankly, causes harm. And let’s not forget who’s at the center of this system—corporations like UnitedHealth.

The piece also makes an attempt to humanize Thompson, describing his humble Iowa upbringing and personal integrity. And look, there’s nothing wrong with honoring someone’s character. But when it’s layered with corporate platitudes, it starts to feel performative. It’s as if his life is being used to shield the company from criticism, to say, ‘See? We’re led by good people.’

But being a good person doesn’t absolve a company of its impact.

Nowhere in this piece did I see any real acknowledgment of the patients and families who have suffered under this system—people who might read this and think, ‘Where was that compassion when I needed it?’ Instead, we get vague reassurances about improving transparency or explaining coverage better. As if the problem is just a communication issue, not a fundamental lack of access or affordability.

And the closing lines? They’re a masterclass in self-congratulation: ‘We’ll honor his legacy by making the system more affordable, more transparent, more compassionate.’ But where’s the action? Where’s the accountability? Saying the right things without doing the hard things is worse than saying nothing at all.

This is why corporate responses to tragedy often feel hollow. They acknowledge problems without owning their role in them. They promise change without committing to it. And they center themselves—always themselves—over the people they’re supposed to serve.

If there’s one takeaway from this, it’s this: when corporations speak, we need to read between the lines. Who’s being centered? What’s being downplayed? And most importantly, what’s missing?

Because honoring a life—or addressing a system’s failures—should never be about protecting the brand. It should be about truth, accountability, and real change."

The article is solely for corporate spin and is so poorly contrived that even lay people can see through it. UnitedHealth Group is trying to play the victim rather than genuinely addressing the systemic issues that led to the frustration underlying the tragedy.

I felt dirty reading it, and I’m embarrassed to say I once worked in the spin factories that come up with this bull shit. More importantly, though, Andrew Witty just drew a hard line in the sand. With this piece, he said, We know it sucks, and we don’t plan on changing a damn thing because quite simply: We don’t have to. There is no real accountability, no flexibility. Their “we don’t negotiate” tactics. If you are unwilling to compromise, then rational discussion becomes moot and can only be met with resistance.

Do I have an answer for our healthcare conundrum? Fuck no. But pretending we aren’t already inching our way into a socialized medical system is a little amusing and very naive. The largest health insurance provider in America is America. Medicaid has more than 90 million people enrolled, and Medicare has 67 million people enrolled. There are about 10 million of those two combined who are dual enrolled. It’s three times the size of America’s largest health insurance group, United.

Now, elected officials decide what medical care is or isn’t allowed in their states. Twenty-four states have banned certain life-saving access to treatment for children, medical care deemed necessary by every major medical organization in the world. I'm sure that will come up in future episodes.

The intertwining of medicine and government is like a freight train gaining speed. Nothing will stop it, and it won’t slow down for turns. And like America’s railway system – you know that is will derail in the worst possible way, in the worst possible place, and at the worst possible time.

So, back to the lunatic who killed Brian Thompson. A vigilante. Circling back to the story of Daniel Jones, we learn that the violent act of one person or small group typically yields the opposite desired effect.

I can understand a mindset that may inspire an individual to act the way the killer of that healthcare executive acted. But my understanding doesn’t align with the reality of what happened.

We see the outrage of humanity in the peculiar form of celebrating an individual for taking matters into his own hands and killing a guy who was just a cog in a machine. We are seeing the celebration of murder. This has to stop, and there are two perspectives that we should take away from this.

First, the alleged killer. This person was not a member of United Health Group. You’ve seen the words used to describe him… Scion, Heir, Wealthy. These are not the words tossed around for somebody who couldn’t get life-saving care from their health insurance. Those are the kind of words used to describe somebody who flies to Zurich to get whatever the fuck they want done, whenever they want it done. He was not a victim of the system, far from it. Had the person who committed this act been the husband of a woman who died because his wife died from refusal to cover treatment, I might have been considerably more tolerant of this vitriol. But he wasn’t. He had Unabomber devotee written all over him. The better argument, as far as he’s considered, is one for better mental health access to all.

Second, and perhaps more applicable to our day-to-day, is how we talk about others. I started implementing a practice personally several years back that has changed the kind of dialogue I find myself engaged in. For a long time, in my history in the business world and my history as a psychologist, I’d find myself in a discussion talking (or hearing) about a person who wasn’t in the room. Maybe it was a colleague, or maybe it was a celebrity. Either way, people would talk about the good (but usually bad) traits of this individual.

Whenever somebody else was brought up, I’d listen but not talk. When it came time, naturally in conversation, I’d say something to the effect of, “I don’t really feel comfortable talking about so and so if they’re not here.” If it was a coworker, this would cause the conversation to change, no harm done. And it was somebody I’d never met before, like a celebrity or otherwise, I’d say something like, “I’ve never met them, I wouldn’t know.” It’s such a simple thing, but for some reason, as people in a culture of comparison, people feel compelled to either lift up or tear down others. And sadly, it’s usually torn down.

I never met Brian Thomspon. And that I know, personally, other people who held his exact job before he did does not in any way give me insight into his life and what he did or didn’t deserve. But I can tell you this – He did not deserve to be murdered. His family did not deserve to lose their husband and father. Aside from the clear fact that nobody deserves to be murdered, it only takes an ounce of consideration to start thinking about all the other people whose lives have been permanently scarred by the actions of a lunatic. Quite frankly, the celebration of this act and the perpetrator have to stop. We are better than this. We must be.

That wraps up this episode. Thank you so much for listening. My next episode will air next Monday morning, and it will discuss the Holiday season. Many see it as a joyous time, but in all our celebrations, we forget that it is the most difficult time for people experiencing loneliness. We’ll talk more soon.