Years ago, Pablo, a friend of mine, who lives in Israel, was visiting the United States when the Dead Sea came up in our conversation. Pablo had been there many times and was describing the strange, almost magical experience of floating effortlessly on the surface, as if the water itself had decided to take full responsibility for holding you up. Then, very casually, he offered an important public-service announcement: while you are in the Dead Sea, you should absolutely not relieve yourself in the water. Not because it’s frowned upon socially, though I assume it is, but because the extremely high salt content will cause immediate, intense, unforgettable pain.

This was not framed as a suggestion. This was a warning.

The reason was clear. The chemistry made sense. The potential consequences sounded… educational. And yet, what stuck with me wasn’t the science; it was how perfectly this moment captures something deeply human. Because if we’re honest, warnings don’t always stop us. In fact, sometimes they seem to dare us.

We are exceptionally good at hearing, “Don’t do that, it’s going to hurt,” and replying internally, “I understand the risk… but I feel like I might be different.” Surely the laws of nature, cause and effect, and basic common sense will make an exception for me. This mindset has fueled everything from bad haircuts to ill-advised relationships to texts that begin with, “I probably shouldn’t say this, but…”

We touch the hot stove just to check.

We convince ourselves that ignoring the warning label is basically a personality trait.

We return to situations that previously caused pain because this time, we’re convinced, we’ll manage it better.

We pee in metaphorical Dead Seas and then act shocked when it stings.

What’s interesting is that many of these warnings don’t come from abstract rulebooks or controlling authorities. They come from people who have already felt the burn. People who aren’t trying to limit our freedom but trying to spare us unnecessary pain. Yet somehow, we hear caution as criticism and boundaries as buzzkills. We confuse wisdom with restriction and defiance with independence.

Part of the problem is that we don’t fully trust secondhand wisdom. We want personal confirmation. We don’t want the story; we want the experience.

Unfortunately, experience is an excellent teacher with a terrible bedside manner. Pain doesn’t always make us wiser; sometimes it just makes us stubborn, defensive, or determined to blame the water instead of the choice.

“Don’t pee in the Dead Sea” sounds like a joke, and honestly, it kind of is. But underneath it is a reminder worth sitting with. Not every lesson requires firsthand suffering. Not every warning is an attempt to control us. Some are simple acts of care, offered by people who would prefer we not learn everything the hard way.

And maybe wisdom—real wisdom—is knowing when to listen, when to trust the warning, and when to resist the urge to prove that we’re the exception. Because sometimes the water is exactly as salty as advertised, and the pain arrives right on time.

And really, wouldn’t it be nice to skip at least one unnecessary life lesson?

Patrick Carden

www.thegracistproject.com

pdcarden@icloud.com