The Answer to Stu Redman's Question

September 21, 2026

In the last paragraphs of Stephen King's The Stand, which follows the survivors of a plague that wipes out 99% of the population, protagonist Stu Redman says to Frannie, the woman he's rebuilt a life with:

"Do you think… do you think people ever learn anything?"

"I don't know," she said at last. She seemed unpleased with her answer. She struggled to say something more, to illuminate her first response, and could only say it again.

I don't know.

I've been plagued by her answer, or rather the lack thereof, since founding a company for the first time. Starting a company is nothing but feedback—every day whether you want it or not. And as someone who wants to learn effectively, I have been forced to make sense of learning.

Most of what I've read on learning is about creating the conditions for learning. But what happens when the conditions are perfect, and learning still doesn't happen? What about the things that bite you over and over again, no matter how much you cram them into your brain?

Learning is intentional and active—not passive consumption. If I were to offer my definition to Merriam-Webster it would be the acquisition of knowledge that results in a behavior change. Contrary to some definitions, I don't think you have learned anything if you keep your behavior static. Only in changing your behavior have you earned the right to say you learned.

Defining it this way allows you to course-correct with the sharpest magnitude possible. For example, I cold call to grow my business. I used to end my spiel with, "do you have thirty seconds", and across twenty pickups, zero converted. I could've kept saying that same line over and over again, but I figured it was time for a change. Instead, I started saying, "I've got a question if that's alright", and I booked three meetings in my next twenty pickups. I changed my behavior based on feedback, meaning I learned. Unfortunately, learning isn't always this simple.

Everyone's heard the phrase "you should see your parents more". I have a tendency to immerse myself deeply in work, and forget about everything else until it's done. I leave my parents' texts hanging, miss calls and don't return them, and forget everything they did to raise me. I forget about the very people that gave me the life I have today. Three weeks ago, my Mom called on Sunday and I didn't call her back for a week. No matter how many times I remind myself that I need to see my parents more, I don't. What is going on?

By my own definition, learning has two stages: attention, then action. The cold call cleared both in one motion. The parents lesson has had my attention for years and has never once reached action.

"You should see your parents more" is something I've heard since childhood, so it arrived pre-labeled as a cliche. This lesson is one of a whole class I call unlearnable lessons:

1. Nothing is as important as you think it is when you're thinking about it.
2. Most of your fears are a waste of time.
3. You should see your parents more.
4. You'll be fine after the breakup and will be glad you did it.
5. It's perfectly fine to cut toxic people out of your life.

Even just reading through the list again, it sounds so trite. But when digging deeper, I can recall multiple instances where I tried to exclude myself from the group of people that these lessons apply to.

There is an unmistakable correlation between familiarity and learning—a negative one. The more familiar a life lesson, the less it gets learned, because you've heard it so many times you've stopped hearing it. This is why the lesson about my parents didn't get a real decision in the first place.

I convinced myself I was an exception to the rule with my parents because I reasoned that I would have plenty more time to see them, and I had other priorities. However, your time with work is infinite, and your time with people is finite. The information was right there, so the obvious explanation is that I never took ownership. Ownership means admitting that cliches are written about you, and by ignoring them you paradoxically bend to their will.

But I did admit it. I have known this cliche is about me for years, and I have known it fifty separate times. Owning the lesson got my attention and nothing else. The reason is that admitting and acting never happen in the same moment. I admit it at night, once work is done. I have to act on it on a weekday afternoon, deep in work, when her name lights up my phone. That second moment is a busy one, and it comes with its own reason to do the opposite: I'm in the middle of something, and the call is an interruption. So the only decision the lesson ever gets is made in the busy moment, and it loses every time. The cold call never had this problem. After twenty pickups and no meetings, the next dial had no pull toward the old line. The lesson and the action were seconds apart with nothing in between.

When starting this essay two weeks ago, I thought about my parents and how I should see them more. Then, like clockwork, the familiar rationalization showed up: "I don't need them right now, I need to focus on work." I started editing this essay. However, twenty minutes later I caught myself in the act. I then pattern-matched to the fifty other times this had happened, and realized I had learned nothing. It's almost like amnesia. So I called my Mom back, and scheduled a call with her on Sunday, and now the Sunday call is a normal routine. The Sunday call worked because the deciding happened once, in a quiet moment, and by Sunday it wasn't a decision anymore.

Don't ignore the lessons that sound like cliches. Instead of becoming infatuated with novelty, pay attention to familiarity. Attention is stage one, but stage one fired fifty times for me and changed nothing. So the more unlikely piece becomes stage two: action. Pre-committed action is the cheapest fix, because you decide while it's quiet, before the busy moment arrives.

Every generation has started with more information than the prior, and yet these unlearnable lessons haven't become any more learnable. With this in mind, I now have the answer to Stu Redman's question: people learn the lessons they can act on right away. They don't learn the ones where the acting comes later, in the middle of something else. Nobody has ever had more information about consequences than the survivors in The Stand, and Stu still can't tell if anyone learned, because knowing was never the problem. Knowing happens in a quiet moment. Acting happens in a busy one.

This is a quiet moment. You're reading an essay. There's a line on that list that's about you, and you already know which one. Decide now, while it's quiet.