Novel Idea: How Fiction Helps Us See Ourselves & Others

By Hailey Hechtman for The 44 North

Contributing Writer

The words of a Spanish novel spilling onto a desk

“It’s in fiction that we find pieces of ourselves yet to be discovered, that we recognize our own humanity in the eyes of figures expressed in words and alive through our imagination.” ​​​​

I’m curled up on the couch, a book in my hand, blanket over my outstretched legs, a cup of tea on my side table, and music playing off the T.V. with some digitally rendered image of a bookstore in New York City.

I feel present for one of the few moments in my day.

Every other second, my mind is occupied with the rustling, restless thoughts that come with being a person in 2026; the distractions of the world and my day taking hold of the little attention I can muster up these days. Yet, for those hours enthralled in a story—with a central or series of characters that I don’t need to rescue, a setting that feels distant yet familiar, a plot I can follow and fumble through with the urge to know yet not the need to fix—I’m captivated.

Sometimes it’s a thick literary fiction spanning decades of family saga or interweaving relationships; others, it’s a historical reimagining, inviting me into the point of view of someone long lost or never having lived at all, in a time that I can only picture through the page. In other cases, it’s a translated work, cultivating insight into a cultural perspective that feels emotionally close yet contextually distant. In rare cases, on an evening of deep freeze in January, it’s a fantasy—complete with mystical creators, lands imposing and impossible.

Genre aside, it’s the act of escape into these spaces between pages that gives me the freedom to see myself or others from new vantage points. While the plot points may be planets or periods away from my day-to-day existence, novels allow me to question aspects of myself and others in a way that even my journal never fully captures.

They allow space for my imagination to posit questions about revenge, love, identity, deceit, decadence, and desire. They act as a frame for my own answers to emerge alongside the characters’ actions, opening an internal dialogue that rarely runs free when I stop to assess my responses in real-time. They permit me to try on personalities that, while seemingly opposing from my lived experience, somehow fit in my subconscious. They illicit emotional resonance, allowing the feelings to blossom even if I’ve never encountered a dragon, a witch, or a spy.

This can be extrapolated further to my understanding of those in my life and those around the world. Through the characters in a novel, I can identify with and recognize the lived experiences of my partner, my colleagues, the rider across from me on public transit, and the person whose image shows up across my phone screen while scrolling on social media. We often hear real-world retellings of those navigating strife, those engulfed in violence, those subjected to mistreatment.

Yet, so often when this is but a flash across our screens, we sit for a moment in rage and move forward, or feel utterly helpless yet continue to scroll to the next image, the next video. There is something about literature—maybe it’s the world building and imprinting that happens when something is on the page, maybe it’s the emotional investment that comes from our storybook days, curled up in our pjs at 8 p.m. on a school night, maybe it’s simple that these characters and stories are both not at all and yet fully real to us somewhere in our mind.

Translating that experience—those deep reflective moments stepping mentally into the shoes of another—can activate us, alongside the same sensibility in the way we look around us. The stories and settings we choose can help to contribute not only to our understanding of the broader world but to our capacity for compassion. As we dive into the inner worlds captured in a novel set across the globe, in real-world and fictional settings, we can begin to expand our hearts for those living those moments each and every day.

Empathy takes many forms within the world of a book: Pain for the protagonist’s agonizing decision, fear for the unknown as they travel off on an adventure, elation as they find themselves with their soulmate as the final chapter closes.

We can see ourselves in them and yet see them in us. Different from a film or a show, the act of absorbing a story from the crisp paper sheets of a book on your bedside table allows for greater insertion and participation; the chance to fully immerse yourself without the added layer of visual representation. The settings become an illustration of your own design, the language a tool for curating the tone and flow of conversations that move the plot forward.

It’s in fiction that we find pieces of ourselves yet to be discovered, that we recognize our own humanity in the eyes of figures expressed in words and alive through our imagination.

How many times have I dug into a first paragraph knowing that the journey will be grueling and yet I read on? How often have I wept as a character faces hardship only to lie in bed pondering the hurts I have faced myself? How enthusiastically I’ve cheered when the person I’ve followed from moment one finally sees their dream come to fruition or their plan transform into reality? In those instances, have I not stopped to assess where I am on my own road to happiness, freedom, or fulfillment?

Have I not nostalgically galivanted through childhood memories, scattered vividly, to explain the backstory? Or found myself cycling through the losses, regrets, or missed opportunities that have passed me by as those on the page make the wrong choice, let go of the wrong person, shut the wrong door?

On my literary expedition, I can place myself in many lives, yet it’s in the sentences and plot twists that shine a light on my own humanity—and that of those around me—that I find myself most transfixed; transformed.

When the lessons show themselves, the morals crafted by our architects of the human experience, I find myself enveloped in questions about what it means to be human, to be a woman, to be alive, and to be alone. The author empowers me to step into curiosity through the safety of others, like a blanket over my own shame, survival, and sensitivity. They gift me space for an internal conversation that otherwise would require a whole lot of personal commitment to self-awareness and introspection.

What if we approached every book we opened as a window into our innermost secrets—if we saw them as a chance to discover what doesn’t easily float to the forefront of our consciousness, a sort of cover that makes the digging a little easier?

What if we allowed ourselves to dream about our motivations and misgivings through the eyes of that misunderstood mermaid, the cast-aside medieval servant, that mischievous villain or that heartbroken heroine? Would we give ourselves more grace? Would we dole out forgiveness to those around us, recognizing that perhaps, as our beloved characters etched on pages, they, too, have stories hidden that take a plot reveal to understand, complete with motivations and backgrounds that have not yet been revealed?

What if we thoughtfully approach each life interaction, each new acquaintance, each uncertain scenario with the openness with which we approach a novel? Not assuming that we know the ending—that we have all the answers from the start—but instead sitting tight, navigating each oncoming segment with an understanding that with each new point and page we will gain greater insight.

We may see that some moments in life will be novellas. Others will be series. Our neighbourhoods close and far may be mysteries first unsolved, yet with time invested, patience, and the one-page-at-a-time approach, we can learn to uncover the pieces that are not just sitting on the surface. That even our own thoughts—the ones that gnaw at us as anxiety or flutter with anticipation—may not always be what they seem.

They may be the sign of a new chapter emerging, or be the clarifying instance that allows us to move on to the next book in the saga.

How can we take life a little more like a book to be read, and in turn, use each new book as a chance to better understand life? What a novel idea.

On Healthy Masculinity

by Asante Haughton & Helena Nikitopoulos, ​for The 44 North

Contributing Writers & Editors

A father with dark curly hair & a beard kissing his baby son on the cheek

"The journey toward being a good guy isn’t one of weakness, it is one of strength. To reflect on where I have failed and how I try to grow isn’t to garner sympathy or redemption points, it’s to help create more happiness for myself with the understanding that being a kind, compassionate, and emotionally healthy person will invite healthy relations from others."​

Foreword

by Helena 

While I am a woman myself, I empathize with the pressure society has instilled on our male population. I have never seen my father cry, nor have I seen a man cry without shame. What type of society is that? When women cry, we applaud them for their strength. Why can’t we do the same for our male counterparts — the men in our lives who are told to “stand up straight and smile,” even if they are silently carrying depression or the weight of everyday struggles? 

Why do we advocate for the freedom of expression except when it comes to men?

In rebuttal to this, I leave you with my thoughts on healthy masculinity in the hopes that we can open up more conversations about its impact and importance. 

Healthy masculinity is a term and practice that challenges harmful stereotypes, suggesting that men must be “tough” or conform to a narrow idea of what a man “should” be. Healthy masculinity encourages men to embrace all aspects of their true self, including their emotions of vulnerability, empathy, and authenticity. 

While society might expect a man to shut down or hide his feelings from those around him, healthy masculinity takes an opposite stance; it makes space for vulnerability, for sharing one’s fears, grief, or hopes without shame. Supporting others who demonstrate healthy masculinity, encouraging their growth, and celebrating their successes are ways that men can show up for one another in healthy, positive ways. This can look like checking in on a friend who is struggling, listening without judgement, or complimenting a friend for putting their own well being first — all of which build a supportive, non-competitive environment.

Another key element of healthy masculinity is rejecting the shame society places on men who do not conform to the ‘alpha male’ stereotype, refusing to let that narrative dictate their lives. Only by confronting these stereotypes directly and recognizing their harmfulness can one truly embody what healthy masculinity means. Emotional literacy — learning to identify, express, and regulate your feelings without fear of judgment — allows men to build stronger relationships and a deeper sense of self-awareness. Practice answering questions about yourself and your identity to hone in on who you are despite societal pressure: When do I feel most authentic in my actions and emotions? Which values truly guide my decisions? How do I express my emotions in my friendships and relationships? What strengths do I have beyond traditional ideas of masculinity?

Of course, these ideas are easier to talk about than to put into practice. Many men grow up without seeing these qualities modeled in their homes, communities, or media which creates a gap between those who are exposed to healthy masculinity and those who are unsure of what it actually looks like. As a result, I encourage our male readers to discuss this article with your friends, your peers, and your mentors. I firmly believe that the more we have these conversations, the closer we get to defining — and embodying — “healthy masculinity.” Of course, be patient as you navigate these unsteady terrains. As Asante’s story reveals, you are meant to face trials and tribulations as you discover what healthy masculinity truly means, so do not let that discourage you. 

As for us women, we should continue encouraging and supporting our male counterparts when they share something personal or vulnerable in order to create a space where men feel safe to open up without fear of judgement, ridicule, or dismissal. If feelings of discomfort or confusion come up the next time you see a man cry or express his vulnerability, ask yourself why. What beliefs or social “norms” might be shaping your reaction and do those beliefs truly align with the kind of empathy and equality you want to practice? After all, learning to be a more accepting and positive society does not just fall on the men but on us women as well—because only by coming together can we truly create a culture where everyone thrives. 

A Brain Dump

from Asante 

I look behind me and cringe. There is a trail of hearts, broken and frayed, in my wake. The truth is jarring. I’m the one responsible. I never wanted to be a bad guy. But I was. And I often worry that I still am, even though I’m trying my best.

When I’ve caused harm I’ve often rested on the excuse that I was “trying”. I didn’t know any better. That is true. Well, partially. Sometimes I did know better, but prioritized my own feelings and desires anyway. I wonder if I made those decisions because of arrogance. Or immaturity. Or a lack of compassion. I placed myself above others, particularly many of the romantic partners — women — of my past. Of course, I’m not proud of this admission. But I must admit this nonetheless. I was the nice guy — manipulative in my generosity. I was the bad guy — dismissive, withdrawn, unreliable, willfully mysterious. I feigned goodness while living out many of the tropes of toxic masculinity. Don’t be sympathetic. I’m just being honest. 

With respect to doing my best — I often told my romantic partners, who were upset with my behaviour, that I didn’t know how to be a partner. I didn’t witness any healthy romantic relationships in my household growing up. All of my friends came from single parent households. And my mother very intentionally raised me and my brothers away from the other men from my culture — Jamaica — hoping we wouldn’t become as bad as the men who had mistreated her and other women she’d known back home. Furthermore, the older men I was exposed to, regardless of ethnicity or nationality, weren’t exactly the kind of men I wanted to be like. They lied. They cheated. They conceptualized women as trophies, toys, and objects to conquer. I deigned to never be one of those guys. And yet…

The media is a powerful force. Though I had very little contact with older men from whom to learn — good or bad, probably bad — as a very lonely child, a latchkey kid if you will, I was a copious consumer of media. And the guys in the media, even the good guys — the heroes in the story — upon closer examination are generally awful. So whether in real life, or in fiction, any examples of manhood I was exposed to lacked the features that a good man should hopefully exhibit. But these heroes, the good guys, became who I thought I should be.

So, after intentionally shedding the most obvious of my bad boyfriend behaviours in my mid-20s, and after deciding to actually try my best as a partner and parent, I was still missing the mark. I wasn’t just off target, my darts weren’t even hitting the board. Each time I hurt someone I cared about, I committed to being better. I went on learning journeys consuming everything I could find on the internet about being a good guy — not the Andrew Tate, red pill, MGOTW type stuff but the actual supposed-to-be-helpful-stuff — and implemented it all as best I could. It worked marginally. Even when following all the advice I could find on the internet, I still sucked at being a good guy. The internet, as we know, provides surface level advice that lacks both depth and nuance (y’know, the stuff that truly defines personal relationships). More than that, the good guys authoring the content I consumed were likely “good” by their own estimation but not in reality. The quality of their advice wasn’t being measured by those in the best position to judge goodness, namely women. 

I had no teachers in real life who I trusted, none in media or works of fiction, and the advice section of the internet was inadequate. So where was I — am I — to learn how to be a good guy? I can’t keep putting the labour of teaching me on my partners, past and current. That’s not fair to them. 

The missives explaining toxic masculinity tell you how not to be — but often don’t explain how to be. So I’m often left feeling lost, wondering where to turn for genuinely good wisdom and guidance on how to be the guy I want to be; the guy the people I love and people of all identities deserve. My compass is spinning. Where is my healthy masculinity north star?

On my quest to become a good guy I had to go farther. I explored many roads. The most important of which were lined with sign posts that pointed toward men like Jason Wilson, a martial arts teacher whose content centers around how he helps the boys and adolescent men in his dojo identify, process, and become accountable to their emotions and how they express them. The primary message? Experiencing negative emotions like hurt, shame, sadness, frustration and anger as a man is normal. They don’t make you weak. And it is better to feel them than to direct them toward others through violence and abuse in an effort to reclaim the false sense of masculinity men are conditioned to believe comes from dominance and displays of power that hurt others. Jason Wilson’s content has been immensely helpful in recognizing and unpacking the false ideas of masculinity that I was wearing like a cloak.

Another sign post on my journey pointed me toward feminist scion, bell hooks. Particularly her work, “All About Love.” I was pointed toward this book by a friend who thought I would benefit from the wisdom within. It didn’t take long for me to get the message — love is comprised of actions that one commits to — it’s not a feeling. Love is to treat someone with kindness, respect, and gentleness. It is to consider someone’s past, present, and future condition and how one’s actions can either cause harm or bring solace across these dimensions. To be direct, to love someone is to treat them well and protect them from hurt derived from your actions. Love is action.

The final signpost on my journey that I’ll mention is feminism itself. Disclaimer: I don’t purport to be a feminist. That is not a title any man should bestow upon himself. We, however, can learn from the experiences of women to listen and very deeply critically reflect on how constructions of manhood and patriarchy have been and continue to be harmful to women in all areas of life. The damage men have done and continue to do to women is pervasive. But here’s the kicker, the things we do that are harmful to women are also harmful to us as men as well. 

Some expressions of masculinity men have come to accept as normal aspects of being a man — such as keeping one’s complex emotions to oneself, engaging in performative stoicism,  and utilizing violence to assert power — contribute to the loneliness more and more men are experiencing. It is difficult to maintain friendships and romantic relationships if one doesn’t approach others with thoughtful gestures, open communication, integrity, accountability, reliability, vulnerability, and actions that bring others closer as opposed to actions that create distance — the building blocks of intimacy.

With respect to the above, many men read these things as meaning they have to abandon any proclivities toward competition, healthy displays of physical strength, and the drive to protect their loved ones. This is not true. What we need to do is to integrate healthier modes of expression into our toolbox. In doing so, we gain the opportunity to fully express our humanity. And by creating less discord for others and within oneself, we will invite more love and happiness into our lives. 

The journey toward being a good guy isn’t one of weakness, it is one of strength. To reflect on where I have failed and how I try to grow isn’t to garner sympathy or redemption points, it’s to help create more happiness for myself with the understanding that being a kind, compassionate, and emotionally healthy person will invite healthy relations from others. Most of all, my journey toward being a good guys is to be a good example for my two sons. My greatest priority as a parent is to raise good men. In order to do that I have to become a good man myself. I don’t know if I am yet — that’s not for me to decide. But I will keep trying every day. Because to be a good man and to raise good men, is to help create a better world for us all.

I Don't Want to be Your Martyr: Navigating the Impossible Standards of Digital Activism and the Power of Showing up Imperfectly

By Karli Elizabeth, PHD(C) for The 44 North

Karli Elizabeth is a PhD student, mom, health and wellbeing scientist and founder of The Well-Being Scientist, who believes that true well-being isn’t just an individual pursuit, but a collective one. 

This article was originally published on Substack as part of The Well-Being Scientist, and is reprinted here with the kind permission of the author. 

A laptop lit up by a pink-blue light

"In exposing my very real, imperfect self, I put a target on my back. I face comments that cut deep—vicious reminders that as a woman, as a person of colour, and as a creator in the social justice space, I’m held to impossible standards: ones that demand I sacrifice my authenticity and my journey of learning to serve others' ideals."​

Before you become a content creator, you dream of the day your work is seen and your voice finally matters. Virality seems essential for your growth, a lifeline that promises your message can reach someone who feels less alone. Sure, you know there are risks—exposure, vulnerability, even trolls—but you convince yourself that blocking a few haters is a price worth paying. Until you’re on the other side.

I wish someone had warned me about the all-consuming nature of emotions that come with every comment, like, DM, or email—each one digging into the raw parts of you, both positive and pointed. Here I am, sharing the very human chaos I’m navigating as I show up online.​

The niche I’m in is as unique as it is challenging. It’s where health and wellness intersect with social justice, science collides with mothering, and a woman in her 20s—still figuring out her career path, lays bare her journey. I share everything: daily vlogs, think pieces, accessible science that leaves you with more questions than answers. I’m an able-bodied, Asian woman in a cis-partnership; a mother, a first generation phd student, a “healthy food nut” who lives to eat, cook, write, and learn; someone healing her relationship with her cultural roots. I’m a realist aware of systemic barriers yet fiercely believing in resilience. I am a human of multitudes. 

I believe in science and hold strong faith. I’m an ally to Black, Indigenous, and other people of colour, even as I live in a long-term partnership with a white man. I advocate for underconsumption even as I wrestle with impulsive spending and student debt. I drink matcha and love a matching workout set and also dedicate my life’s work to challenging systemic injustice and capitalism. I show up online with all these contradictions—in the grey areas, the messy overlaps of life.

In exposing my very real, imperfect self, I put a target on my back. I face comments that cut deep—vicious reminders that as a woman, as a person of colour, and as a creator in the social justice space, I’m held to impossible standards: ones that demand I sacrifice my authenticity and my journey of learning to serve others' ideals.​

Anonymous commenters demand, I shouldn’t use “PhDc” behind my name, that I can’t uplift cultural pride if I’m “married” to a white guy, that my decolonizing efforts are nullified by my relationship. They write, “I swear Asian women be social justice warriors for profit.” And it’s not just about opinions on my choices; it’s about an endless checklist: don’t wear the wrong thing, say the wrong thing, follow the wrong person, like or share the wrong post. No matter how hard I try, I’m expected to be flawless—and when I inevitably falter, the fall is brutal.

What would happen if I stripped away every part of me that’s meant to appease your narrow expectations? If I ditched the white guy from my narrative, stopped plastering “distracting stickers” on my face, erased the hard-won letters from my display name, and stopped worrying about whether my “advice is irresponsible”? 

I wouldn’t be human anymore—I’d be the version you want, the perfect activist that validates your own lived experiences. But perfection doesn’t exist. And chasing it only leaves me feeling like a martyr, sacrificing my authenticity on the altar of validation.​

I’m not here to be “the one with the answers” or the saviour who fixes your life. I’m not going to morph into the idealized version you expect just to earn your approval. Because if I bend to every version of who you want me to be, I lose what makes me, me and what makes my journey mine. And that loss is the price of perfection—a pedestal that, once you fall, leaves a bruise that never fully heals.

I’m committed to doing better, to learning, to evolving—as a creator, as a human being. And with that commitment, I need something from you. I need you to engage with me in ways that are compassionate and rooted in care. ​

Before calling me out, think about how to call me in. Before making a snap judgment on a three-second video clip, remind yourself to stay curious. We will not always agree, but that’s the beauty of being exposed to diversity of thought—it opens space for dialogue, growth, and genuine connection. 

I want this space to be one where we challenge each other with compassion rather than criticism, and celebrate the messy, raw, and ever-evolving journey of being human. In our shared vulnerabilities lies the power to build a community where authenticity isn’t just accepted—it’s revered.