Thomas Kuhn concluded in The Nature of Scientific Revolution that even scientists don’t “see” data that are inconsistent with current beliefs about their field of study. Max Planck, a physicist, wrote, “A new scientific truth does not triumph by convincing its opponents and making them see the light, but rather because its opponents eventually die and a new generation grows up that is familiar with it.”

If scientists, who base their work on precision and objectivity, struggle with “seeing” data under their microscopes or at the end of their telescopes, imagine how easy it is for laypeople to convince themselves that what we want to believe is true.

The following story is a dramatic example of how my unconscious choice to “search for stupidity” rather than “search for a reason” shaped my opinions about another person (and thus I became part of the problem).

Although this story is from my personal life, the lessons I learned have profoundly shaped my work.

During the second week of my new job at the Department of Education in South Dakota, I noticed a woman standing demurely in the corner of an elevator. She had striking, blond hair falling to her waist, and a gaping hole in her sweater.

I was amused by the contrast of her natural beauty and the glaring flaw in her clothes. A few weeks later colleagues introduced us, and we discovered a mutual love of books, music, and conversation. As I got to know her, I realized that her choice of clothing reflected her personality quite well. Jenny was brilliant, attractive, and rebellious. There was always a button missing, a hem slightly undone, or sleeves that hung below her wrists.

South Dakota, with its low population and scarce amenities, is a “do-it-yourself” state. If you don’t create your own entertainment, you’re not very well entertained. Hence, after Jenny and I met, we quickly became wonderful, fun-loving friends who cooked up all kinds of interesting forms of things to do, such as watching the moonrise by the river, midnight swims, and winter picnics amidst that state’s untamed beauty.

Years later Jenny moved to Wisconsin to continue her training as a nurse practitioner and I returned to Minnesota to enter graduate school. Despite our physical distance we stayed connected through phone calls and intermittent visits.

Soon her calls included breathy, excited updates on Stan, the new man in her life. Despite an intense attraction at the onset of their relationship, by the third year of their relationship, Jenny began to vacillate between happiness and despair. Periods of intimacy were punctuated with estrangement and tears. After one of their painful breakups, Jenny called me with a sobering announcement, “I’m pregnant.”

My heart sank. Missing from her life was the financial stability and emotional foundation a new mother and infant needed. I felt powerless to help.

Stan and Jenny made one last attempt to reconcile after the discovery of Jenny’s pregnancy, but their reconciliation lasted only a few weeks, and they broke up for the last time. Jenny, with her endearing qualities of pride and defiance, was determined to raise her child alone. Several months later, she home-birthed a beautiful, healthy daughter, Alicia.

During the months that followed, Jenny and her close-knit circle of friends struggled with grief for the missing father. I prayed that Stan would re-enter her life, or Jenny would find a partner who would lovingly raise Alicia as a daughter. However, the years passed, Alicia grew into a precocious youngster, and we continue to hear nothing from Stan. The magical stepfather never materialized.

Through mutual friends we learned that Stan had moved across the state and married a woman with two children. Although he was aware of Alicia’s birth and had returned to visit his parents in the town where Alicia lived, he never stopped to see his daughter. His behavior seemed irresponsible and incredibly callous.

When Alicia was present, Jenny and I stayed matter-of-fact about Stan’s absence. But privately, our dislike for him became a source of passionate camaraderie. Our anger, like all contempt, had a subtle pay-off. No matter what strains developed in the relationship between Jenny and I, there was always a handy source of agreement—we could instantly connect and be energized by focusing on our mutual dislike of Alicia’s father.

However, when Alicia turned 7 she began reacting to Stan’s absence. She cried herself to sleep and become increasingly preoccupied with her absent father. She was restless and agitated at school. It was obvious that she needed to connect with her father, or find closure to the possibility that he might return.

During one of my visits to Wisconsin, Jenny got a babysitter for Alicia and the exhausted mother and I went out for a quiet meal. The conversation turned to the well-worn subject of Stan’s absence. However, with Alicia’s unhappiness weighing heavily on my mind, something shifted, and a sense of discomfort grew in my heart. I began listening to our conversation with a detached perspective and realized that our images of Stan were distorted by contempt.

Jenny and I described the problem as if the whole problem were Stan’s fault, as if everything about him was useless, and he couldn’t change. In reality, I wasn’t behaving well either. Jenny and I were using our creative denigration of Stan as a familiar source of bonding. I was beginning to see that my behavior was also part of the problem. By working so hard to be loyal to my precious friend, I had unintentionally made Alicia’s struggle more difficult.

In that moment I realized Alicia wasn’t suffering just because of her father’s behavior, she was paying a price for mine too. The cost of my self-righteousness contributed to our inability to solve the problem.

I put down my fork, surprised by what I was about to say. “Jenny, we have to stop talking about Stan as if he’s the enemy. We have to reach out to him. He needs to know how important he is to Alicia.”

There was dead silence. Jenny looked as if she was struggling to understand what I had just said. “We need to go find him and tell him how important he is. We have to at least try.”

I knew I had taken a risk—siding with Jenny about Stan’s irresponsible behavior was a familiar ritual of our friendship. But suddenly I realized that by not reaching out to Stan, Alicia was paying a price.

Jenny was taken aback by my sudden unwillingness to view Stan as a hopeless deadbeat. Eventually, her desire to ease her daughter’s pain would trump her anger.

Jenny hesitated. “Let me think about it.”

The next day, during a long drive back to Minnesota, I had hours to mull over what had happened. I realized that the power of my anger had kept me from seeing Stan in a reasonable light. Because of my disappointment in his behavior, I wanted to dislike him. I had unconsciously given my brain the command, “Search for stupidity! Stan is a jerk!” and my brain had responded. I swept over the complex story of their relationship with a brush of contempt. I finally realized that the allure of self-righteousness indignation also boxed us in, leaving no possibility of resolution.

During the drive I decided to try a mental exercise. I was determined to come up with as many answers as I could to the question, “Why would a person do what Stan had done? What would cause a reasonable person to withdraw?”

I gave my brain a totally different command, “Help me understand.” I analyzed the situation using reflective, problem-solving questions.

What was Stan’s “baby in the back seat”? Could he think Alicia was better off without him? Maybe he felt awkward and didn’t know how to initiate a connection after all these years. Perhaps when Stan discovered Jenny was pregnant he asked her to put the child up for adoption and she had refused. Perhaps, overwhelmed with anger and fear, she had told him to stay away.

Maybe he felt inadequate and ashamed, and thought Alicia wanted him to stay away. Perhaps he was ill. Possibly his new wife was putting pressure on him to leave his daughter in the shadows. Maybe he thought his lack of involvement would make it more likely that Jenny would find a partner.

Then something hit me suddenly. I realized that when Jenny got pregnant she had been teaching birth control at a local clinic. Maybe Stan didn’t want to be a father at that juncture and felt the pregnancy had been intentional. Perhaps he felt justified in his withdrawal and lack of support. Maybe he felt trapped and responded by refusing to take responsibility.

I realized these thoughts were speculations, but even contemplating them was breathtaking. I had been hoodwinked by my own thinking! When I wanted to see Stan as the “bad guy,” I overlooked important facts and my mind created an image of him that fit my intention to make him the scapegoat.

When I examined the situation without blame, and tried to understand him, my hostility toward him dissolved and I saw the facts in a totally different light. I even considered facts that I had previously ignored. Similar to scientists, blinded by the limitations of their existing paradigm, my mind limited the data to support my intentions.

I still wanted Stan to take responsibility for his daughter, but now, without the baggage of contempt, I could think of a multitude of reasons for why he might have withdrawn. As well, I saw an endless number of ways to reach out to him and invite him into Alicia’s life.

Several days later Jenny called and read me the letter she had written to the absentee father. She had written poignantly about Alicia’s longing for him. She prepared a small package and included recent photos of Alicia and stories she had written at school.

Jenny and I edited the letter over the phone, until all that remained was a plea for his presence in her life. During that critical conversation we cried, laughed, and supported each other in the importance, and strangeness, of this new direction.

Stan responded. Strained phone calls between Stan and Jenny eventually evolved into plans for a meeting. Several weeks later, Jenny, Alicia, Stan, my son, Ben, and I sat down for Thanksgiving dinner in my home. Jenny and I were dizzy with the reality that he was really there. It had been seven years. We couldn’t believe it was happening.

Alicia sized her dad up and down and vacillated between, “Isn’t he cool?” and “Can we go now?” That evening she began a cycle of emotions that ran through happy, sad, mad, happy, and would take several years to run its course.

Despite all of our wasted negative speculation about Alicia’s father, there he was, looking older, a bit fragile, with a slight tremor in his fingers and a hesitation in his voice. But bless him—he was there.

Alicia is now a beautiful 16-year-old. Her father has remained an active, loving presence in her life, and recently volunteered to help Alicia with her upcoming college expenses.

I learned a lot from that experience and have often reflected on the power of my thinking to create my reality.

I suspect that other people are caught in the same bind of filtering, judgment, distorted perceptions, and self-fulfilling behaviors.

In many ways the experience with Alicia’s father laid the foundation of my work.