Why Do I Suffer? Examining Self-Deception and Wisdom

When I ask the question, "Why do I suffer?" I may be mistaken about the reasons for my suffering. I may lack the necessary knowledge or have developed clever ways of deceiving myself. Yet, I cannot doubt the utterance itself; it is there, expressed and alive.

Hugo Strandberg's book Self-Knowledge and Self-Deception provides an insightful framework for exploring such questions, particularly the classical inquiry, "Who am I?" This question invites critical self-examination, which is at once a moral examination. To know who I am, I must take myself as the object of my investigation, even as I recognize that both the subject and object of this inquiry will change throughout my life. Strandberg describes self-knowledge as a dynamic and evolving process deeply intertwined with my relationships in and with the world.

By scrutinizing these relationships, I may discover things I do not know—perhaps even things I have actively avoided knowing. As Strandberg puts it, "Self-knowledge is not one thing." Instead, it is a dynamic and evolving process connected to other questions that emerge throughout life. Self-knowledge, he argues, is also a moral question; it is about befriending oneself. Drawing on Seneca, Strandberg suggests that understanding who I am is an ongoing dance between self-knowledge and self-deception. In this view, self-deception is a moral phenomenon—a mixture of knowing and not knowing, but always in a moral sense.

One of Strandberg's most compelling ideas is the correlation between self-deception and remorse. Remorse reveals that self-deception is not a neutral act but a moral failure. When I experience remorse, I recognize that I should have seen things differently. The "should" is given by the perspective of remorse itself. In this sense, remorse marks the distance between self-knowledge and self-deception. According to Strandberg, love can reduce this distance, offering a hopeful path toward self-knowledge.

This correlation between self-deception and remorse offers a powerful way to think about why it is so difficult to answer the question, ""Who am I?"" One crucial sub-question is whether the self is fixed, created, or constantly changing. The idea that we create ourselves is intriguing but problematic. As Iris Murdoch once observed, "Man is a creature who makes pictures of himself and then comes to resemble them."

If I construct a particular self-image, I may come to embody it, but I might also deceive myself. Social expectations could shape my self-image more than any authentic understanding of myself. If I conform to the expectations of others rather than living according to what I know to be true about myself, I am not engaged in self-creation but self-deception.

This is where attention becomes essential. Strandberg suggests that the answer to "Who am I?" is ultimately found in how I live. It is not just a question to be asked but an orientation toward life. When I fail to pay attention, I drift into self-deception; when I cultivate genuine attention, I move toward self-knowledge. Attention allows the self to dissolve into a larger reality, making me who I truly am. In contrast, distraction and self-deception fragment my existence and prevent me from fully inhabiting the world.

If self-deception is morally significant, so too is wisdom. Wisdom is not the same as intelligence or necessarily correlated with it. Psychological research supports this distinction: individuals with high IQs are often exceptionally skilled at defending their existing beliefs, constructing sophisticated arguments that confirm rather than challenge their worldview. Intelligence may increase the likelihood of rationalizing cognitive biases rather than overcoming them. In contrast, wisdom involves different capacities—critical self-reflection, emotional regulation, openness to uncertainty, and a willingness to revise one's assumptions in light of new perspectives.

In psychological terms, wisdom correlates more closely with empathy, humility, and metacognition—the ability to think about one's own thinking—than with raw intellectual ability. Intelligence often prioritizes problem-solving, abstraction, and speed, whereas wisdom values slowness, depth, and moral imagination. Where intelligence seeks certainty, wisdom embraces ambiguity.

This distinction has deep roots in Western philosophy. Philosophers love and desire wisdom, but they do not possess it. David Foster Wallace, in Infinite Jest, articulated a strikingly psychological version of this idea: "If you know your weaknesses, you have none." This paradox suggests that self-knowledge—acknowledging one's limitations—is a form of strength. Moreover, wisdom is not merely the accumulation of knowledge.

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Knowledge is always about something; it is directed, structured, and representational. Wisdom, by contrast, is more spacious and less instrumental. It does not merely represent reality; it engages with it directly. As Hugo Strandberg puts it, wisdom is ""not knowledge, but the way knowledge is held."" Wisdom has this how-element, as in how to live a life worth living.

This is why wisdom is best understood as a practice rather than a fixed trait. It requires an ongoing cultivation of perspective-taking, emotional depth, and existential courage. It is not about how quickly one can reason but how deeply one can listen—especially to what unsettles or challenges one. Wisdom remains quiet, slow, and spacious in a world that rewards cleverness, speed, and certainty.

David Foster Wallace's famous commencement address, This Is Water, offers a particularly compelling existential reflection on this idea. He argues that real freedom—the kind that arises from wisdom—means choosing how to interpret experience, resisting the default setting of self-centeredness, and learning to care about others in mundane, everyday moments. Wisdom, in his terms, is attentional. It is about where we place our awareness and how we relate to the world. It is about repeatedly choosing to move beyond the narrow lens of ego and toward something more extensive and generous.

Returning to the question, "Why do I suffer?" To answer it properly, I must cultivate a more profound openness to others and myself, approaching life with love and compassion. Suffering, in this view, is not merely a private burden but a reflection of my relationship with the world. A philosopher's love for wisdom is shown in their capacity to remain open and curious in their interactions with life.

Ultimately, goodness constitutes me in a way that badness does not. As Strandberg writes, "When I treat someone badly this does not mean that I become, or some part of me becomes, fully evil, for that would mean that full moral badness would be possible, that is, that badness would be possible without self-deception." He suggests goodness is a kind of openness—an openness to others, love, and friendship. Badness, by contrast, attempts to determine me and my relationships in a fixed way, shutting down the very openness that makes wisdom possible.

Ultimately, wisdom is not about possessing knowledge but about holding it well. It is about attention, love, and the courage to see myself as I truly am becoming. And perhaps, in cultivating wisdom, I may suffer less—not because suffering disappears but because I am no longer deceived about what it means. Wisdom comes with a kind of calmness.