Why I Write
On Reading, Thinking, and the People Who Saw Something More
Author’s Note
Every writer has influences.
Some arrive in the form of books. Others arrive as teachers, mentors, family members, or chance encounters that leave a lasting impression. Looking back across the years, I realise that much of what I have become rests upon the encouragement, challenges, and guidance of others who took the time to see possibilities within me that I had yet to fully recognise for myself.
Therefore, this essay is, in many ways, an expression of gratitude.
Gratitude for the teachers who encouraged me to read more deeply, think more critically, and communicate more effectively, for the authors whose words expanded my understanding of the world and for those who challenged the limitations of my own ambitions and invited me to consider larger horizons.
My hope is that readers might reflect upon the people who have shaped their own journeys and perhaps recognise that who we become is rarely the result of solitary effort. More often than not, it is the product of countless visible and invisible contributions made by those who came before us, who walked alongside us, and upon whose shoulders we now stand.
And perhaps, in recognising those gifts, we may be inspired to offer similar encouragement to someone else.
—Baruti KMT-Sisouvong, PhD
People occasionally ask why I write.
The question is understandable. Essays, articles, books, journals, notes scribbled in margins, thoughts captured on scraps of paper, ideas recorded on mobile phones before they disappear into the ether—writing has become such a regular part of my life that it is difficult to imagine a time when it was not.
Yet when I reflect upon the question honestly, I realise that I did not begin writing because I wanted to become a writer. I began writing because I wanted to understand.
Long before I ever considered publishing an essay or pursuing a doctorate, I was a reader.
As a child, I spent countless hours in libraries. School libraries. County libraries. Any place where books could be found. Books represented possibility. They offered access to worlds beyond my immediate surroundings and introduced me to people, places, and ideas I would otherwise never encounter.
I did not know it at the time, but reading was unquestionably expanding the boundaries of my imagination.
Years later, while reflecting upon my childhood, I realised that some of my earliest intellectual influences had been sitting on my father’s bookshelves and in the Dining Room Buffet drawers all along. Among his collection were works by W.E.B. Du Bois and Ralph Ellison’s Invisible Man. As a young person, I read them without fully appreciating their significance. Yet those ideas lingered.
Like many readers, I was captivated by the novel. Yet it was the prologue that remained with me. Ellison’s observations about invisibility struck a chord deep within me, not merely as literature but as a lens through which to observe the world.
I remember walking through downtown Milwaukee as a young man and conducting a small experiment of my own. I wondered whether people would truly see me. As I passed strangers on the street, I paid attention to their reactions—or lack thereof. After a time, I became aware of a certain indifference to my presence.
Whether that indifference stemmed from my youth, the colour of my skin, or something else entirely, I could not say definitively. What I did know, however, was that the experience left an impression upon me.
If others could not or would not see me, then I would endeavour to see the world as clearly as I could.
I would learn how it worked, how people thought, how social systems formed and operated, and how to navigate them.
Without realising it, I was developing what sociologist C. Wright Mills would later call a “sociological imagination.” Long before I formally studied sociology, I found myself searching for connections between individual lives and larger social forces, between personal experiences and historical realities.
Books had begun teaching me how to think.
University deepened the lesson.
During my first semester of undergrad study, I submitted a paper for a class taught by a professor whose name I sadly no longer remember. What I do remember is that he always dressed in black. During the autumn months, he seemed perpetually clad in a black turtleneck sweater.
After returning one of my papers, he asked me to remain after class.
An “A” sat in red ink at the top of the page.
“You are a good writer,” he said.
Naturally, I was pleased.
Then he continued.
“If you want to become an even better writer, read. And read incessantly.”
He encouraged me to move beyond the average newspaper and seek out sources that would broaden my understanding of the world. He suggested publications such as The New York Times, The Wall Street Journal, The Washington Post, and Business Week. Read widely, he advised. Read beyond your community, your assumptions, and what is comfortable.
His lesson was simple.
Good writing emerges from good reading.
The quality of our thoughts is often limited by the quality of our intellectual diet. A poor mental diet results in impoverished thoughts, thinking, and outcomes. However, a rich mental diet produces the opposite.
Looking back, I realise that he was teaching something far larger than writing. He was teaching intellectual expansion.
Another professor, Jimmie Meese Moomaw, taught me something equally important.
After delivering my first speech in her class—a presentation on the history of the Stars and Bars of the Confederate South—she offered an observation that has remained with me for decades.
“You have a lot to say,” she remarked. “And I want to teach you how to say it.”
What a remarkable gift.
Many people possess ideas. Far fewer learn how to communicate them effectively.
Professor Moomaw recognised a distinction that I did not yet understand. Having thoughts and expressing thoughts are not the same skill. One requires curiosity. The other requires discipline.
Through her guidance, I began to appreciate the importance of structure, clarity, rhythm, and reading the audience. In short, she taught me that communication itself is a craft.
This lesson came home when I delivered my Convocation Address as President of the Global Student Council at Maharishi International University (2009-2010). At the conclusion of my brief remarks and as we were processing out of the auditorium, one of the professors I had met during my first year on campus made a beeline to me and enthusiastically asked, “How did you learn to speak so well and command a crow with your words.” I simply responded that I had a long history of speaking from my childhood in church as well as my undergrad years studying with Professor Jimmie Meese Moomaw at Georgia State University.
His expression said more than he did.
Looking back, I suspect he was less surprised by the speech itself than by the person delivering it. Perhaps one day I shall pen an essay on some of the occasions when people seemed shocked—or perhaps even dismayed—that I had learned to communicate ideas effectively through public speaking.
For my part, however, there was nothing surprising about it at all. I was simply drawing upon lessons first imparted years earlier by Professor Moomaw.
Note: After drafting this essay, I rediscovered both the audio recording and written text of the Convocation Address referenced above, delivered while serving as President of the Global Student Council at Maharishi University of Management during the 2009–2010 academic year.
Related: Readers interested in hearing the restored audio recording and reading the complete text of the Convocation Address referenced above may do so here:
https://barutikmtsisouvong.com/writing/convocation-address-2009/
Another formative influence arrived outside the classroom.
During my undergraduate years, I volunteered at Visions 3000 Bookstore in Clarkston, Georgia. The owner, Ako Mutota, often gathered students together and challenged us to think deeply about our futures.
One afternoon, during a lull in activity, he asked each of us what we hoped to become.
When my turn arrived, I answered confidently.
“I want to be a college professor.”
Mutota looked at me for a moment before responding.
“Here is a man who can write so well that he wants to become a college professor and reach thousands when he could write and reach millions.”
His words stung.
At the time, becoming a professor was precisely what I wanted. Yet his challenge planted a seed.
He was asking me to think beyond the immediate horizon of my ambitions.
This was not the only time he had challenged me.
Not long before I matriculated to Georgia State University in the Fall of 1994, he had given me another assignment.
“Within six months,” he instructed, “I want you to be the head of some group on campus and make a difference in the lives of your fellow students.”
As it turned out, during the Spring of 1995, I was elected President of the Black Student Alliance. I would go on to serve two terms. And during my tenure, I had the pleasure of hosting more than a few national and internationally known authors for readings and book signings on campus as a result.
Again and again, Mutota pushed me toward larger possibilities than I imagined for myself.
Only now, many years later, do I fully appreciate the significance of those conversations.
As my academic journey continued—from finance to history at the encouragement of Professor Stephen Bourque, and eventually to sociology, consciousness studies, and beyond—my relationship with writing continued to evolve.
At first, writing was a requirement.
Then it became a skill.
Eventually, it became something else entirely.
It became a way of thinking, processing, making sense of experience, and of bringing order to questions that otherwise remained unresolved.
Even now, many of my essays begin not with conclusions but with curiosities. A question emerges. An observation lingers. A conversation refuses to leave my mind. As a result, I begin writing not because I already know the answer, but because I wish to discover it.
The page becomes a place of inquiry.
A workshop for thought or rather a space where ideas can be examined, refined, challenged, and occasionally transformed.
In that sense, writing resembles meditation more than performance. Both require stillness, attention, and reveal things that are difficult to see amid the noise of daily life.
Perhaps that is why writing remains therapeutic for me. It allows thoughts that exist only in fragments to take shape. It permits intuitions to become arguments, questions to become investigations, and experiences to become understanding.
Over time, however, I realised that writing serves another purpose. It allows us to share the gifts we have received.
When I think about the teachers, mentors, authors, and elders who shaped my life, I recognise that each offered something invaluable. A book, ideas, challenges, encouragement, even a different way of seeing. And each expanded my world.
Perhaps writing is simply my attempt to do the same for others.
Not because I possess definitive answers or believe my perspective is uniquely important.
But because words have the capacity to illuminate possibilities that might otherwise remain hidden.
A well-placed sentence can alter the trajectory of a life.
I know because others once offered such sentences to me.
And so, after all these years, I find myself still following the advice of that professor dressed in black—Read. Read incessantly. Expand your world. Then write what you discover.
The practice has served me well.
More importantly, it continues to help me become.
And as I believe I yet have a long road ahead, writing, reading, sharing, and you—dear reader—are worthy companions for the journey.
Suggested Practice
Tracing the Lineage of Influence
Set aside fifteen to twenty minutes in a quiet place.
Take a sheet of paper and write your name in the centre.
Around your name, begin listing the people who have significantly influenced your development. They may be teachers, family members, mentors, authors, coaches, spiritual guides, friends, or even individuals you have never met personally.
For each person, ask:
What did this person teach me?
How did they expand my understanding of myself or the world?
What aspect of who I am today can be traced to their influence?
Have I ever thanked them?
When finished, spend a few moments reflecting on the pattern that emerges.
Consider how your life might have unfolded differently had these individuals never crossed your path.
Finally, ask yourself:
Whose name might one day appear on someone else’s list because of the influence I chose to have today?
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About the Author
Dr. Baruti KMT-Sisouvong is a scholar of consciousness, researcher of human development, and Certified Teacher of Transcendental Meditation® based in Cambridge, Massachusetts. His work explores the relationship between Pure Consciousness, neuroscience, and social systems, and how deeper awareness can inform both personal growth and institutional transformation.
He is the Founder and Chief Meditation Officer of Transcendental Brain, an initiative examining the intersection of consciousness research, cognitive science, and high-performance decision-making. He is also President of Serat Group Inc. and Founder and Director of Radical Scholar Inc., a nonprofit dedicated to consciousness-based research and public scholarship.
Alongside his wife and teaching partner Mina, he co-directs the Transcendental Meditation program for Cambridge and the Greater Boston area. He is also the host of the On Transcendence Podcast and Founder of International Meditation Hour, a quarterly global gathering dedicated to the unifying power of silence.
His writings—spanning frameworks such as The Model for Perpetual Growth and Progress and The Seven Layers of Manifestation—explore the evolving relationship between consciousness, leadership, and society.
He writes from the conviction that the most important race is not between nations or machines, but between the conditioned mind and the awakening soul.
To learn more about him, visit: https://barutikmtsisouvong.com/.