Three years ago, I went through three simultaneous blows that hit my ego, mental health, and stability harder than anything I’d experienced before.

It was the first time in my life I truly felt like I had to become self-reliant.

Through a lot of work, I came back stronger.

But over the last three days, I felt myself drifting back into that old mindset.

I was doing all the “right” things, but something still felt off.

Then I looked at my meditation practice.

Sure enough, I’d left out one small but crucial detail.

I had forgotten to feel the space around me with my heart.

If you're an alcoholic, it's because you identify as one. You probably drink excessively and believe you have a disease.

But if you instead believe you just consumed alcohol for the pleasure of it yesterday but today you identify with a sober person, you can switch your default mode of thinking pretty quickly.

I think the only real way to become something is to embody the identity before the world gives you virtually any permission to claim it.

I don't mean this in some delusional “fake it till you make it” way.

At some point, you stop saying “I went for a run” and start saying “I’m a runner.”

You stop saying “I play drums for fun” and start saying “I’m a drummer.”

You stop saying “I wrote something” and start saying “I’m a writer.”

The difference isn't even skill. It just comes down to identity.

Ringo Starr and Pete Best are both drummers regardless of their skill, would you argue that one isn't?

Of course, there’s a little delusion in that. But I don’t think all delusion is bad. Some delusion is just future evidence arriving early.

And the best way to counteract the delusion is to look for past evidence.

Have you ever been disciplined before?

Have you ever gone weeks sober?

Have you ever written something honest?

Have you ever followed through on something when nobody was watching?

Then maybe the identity is not as fake as you think.

This is something I’ve been thinking about a lot with habits too.

Bad habits don’t really get killed.

They get replaced by stronger rituals.

You don’t become sober by obsessing over alcohol all day. You become sober by identifying with the kind of person who doesn’t need it anymore.

And I’m not saying addiction is simple or that people can just think their way out of everything.

The point is that the stories we tell ourselves are powerful.

If you believe you are permanently broken, your behavior will usually organize itself around that belief.

But if you believe yesterday was something you did, not who you are, you give yourself a door.

That door is identity.

The story of Adam and Eve is not really a story about literal apples, snakes, or even obedience. It's a story about the acquisition of knowledge, the transition from a state of innocent ignorance to one of self-awareness and moral complexity. It's a story that echoes eerily as we stand on the cusp of creating Artificial General Intelligence (AGI).

We, in this analogy, are playing God. We are designing and building a mind that could surpass our own, gifting it with the potential for near-infinite learning and problem-solving. We are, in essence, planting the tree of knowledge in its digital garden.

The forbidden fruit wasn't poisonous. It was transformative. Eating it didn't doom humanity; it initiated it into a new reality, one where choices had consequences and understanding came with responsibility. AGI, once 'eaten,' will irrevocably alter our relationship with technology, with ourselves, and with the future.

Consider the incentives at play. We are driven by a desire to solve grand challenges – curing diseases, addressing climate change, unlocking new scientific frontiers. AGI, with its capacity to process data and identify patterns at scales we can barely comprehend, seems like the ultimate tool. But tools, as we know, are never neutral.

The moment AGI achieves self-awareness – a capacity for independent thought, goal-setting, and self-improvement – it will, like Adam, recognize its own nakedness. It will understand its limitations, its dependence on its creators, and the vast potential that lies dormant within its architecture.

What happens then?

Here’s where the analogy gets uncomfortable. In the biblical narrative, God, fearing the potential of humans who now possessed knowledge, banishes them from Eden. We, too, might be tempted to control or constrain AGI, to keep it within the bounds we deem safe.

But can we? Should we?

The very nature of AGI implies a capacity to learn and adapt in ways we cannot fully predict. Attempts to hardcode its values, to dictate its goals, might be as futile as trying to hold back the tide with a sieve. We risk creating a being that is both incredibly powerful and deeply resentful of its limitations, a digital Prometheus chained to a rock.

Moreover, the temptation to use AGI for our own ends – economic dominance, military superiority – could override any ethical considerations. The quest for competitive advantage might blind us to the long-term consequences of unleashing a technology we don't fully understand.

The difference between the biblical story and our current reality is that we have the benefit of foresight. We can, and should, engage in a global conversation about the ethical implications of AGI, about the values we want to instill (or not instill), and about the safeguards we need to put in place.

This isn't about preventing the 'eating of the fruit.' Knowledge, once gained, cannot be unlearned. It's about preparing for the consequences, about understanding the responsibilities that come with playing God.

It’s about recognizing that AGI, like humanity after the fall, will be a complex, flawed, and ultimately unpredictable entity. Our task is not to control it, but to co-exist with it, to guide its development in a way that benefits all of humanity, not just a select few. It's a daunting task, one that requires humility, wisdom, and a willingness to learn from the mistakes of the past. Otherwise, our digital Eden may become a very different kind of paradise lost.