Lessons from a Journey across Science, Teaching, and Spiritual Inquiry
Abstract
This reflective essay explores the life lessons the author wishes he had understood earlier, drawing upon his multifaceted journey as a physicist, educator, science communicator, environmental activist, Sikh theologian, and media host. The article examines the evolution of understanding from youthful ambition and intellectual certainty toward humility, ethical responsibility, and service-oriented wisdom. It presents science as a moral discipline grounded in honesty and reverence for complexity, education as an act of listening and compassion, and communication as an ethical obligation to empower rather than impress. The essay further highlights environmental crises as spiritual failures rooted in human disconnection from nature, informed by Sikh ecological thought. Emphasizing the harmony between faith and reason, the narrative argues that true progress lies in collective upliftment rather than individual success. Ultimately, the article affirms that lifelong learning attains meaning only when guided by empathy, humility, and responsibility toward humanity and the planet.
Introduction
At seventy, one begins to see life less as a series of milestones and more as a long conversation between curiosity and consequence, ambition and humility, knowledge and wisdom. This reflection is not written from a place of nostalgia or regret, but from a deep sense of gratitude for the slow, often uncomfortable, education that life itself provides. As years accumulate, the urgency to prove oneself gradually gives way to the responsibility to understand oneself, and to share that understanding with honesty.
Having lived as a physicist, teacher, author, science communicator, environmental activist, Sikh theologian, and television host, I now recognize that these roles were never separate paths, but interconnected expressions of a single search for meaning. Each discipline taught me something essential, yet incomplete on its own. Science offered precision, faith offered purpose, teaching offered connection, and activism demanded accountability. It took decades to see how these strands converge.
This article is a personal reflection on what I wish I had known when I was younger, not as advice imposed from authority, but as insights earned through experience, error, and reflection. At seventy, clarity does not come from having all the answers, but from understanding which questions truly matter, and why sharing them may help others walk their own paths with greater awareness and compassion.
On Youth, Ambition, and the Nature of Wisdom
When I look back at my younger self, I see someone driven by questions, ambition, and an intense desire to understand how the universe works. Like many young people drawn to science, I believed that clarity would come through accumulation: more degrees, more books, more recognition. I assumed that certainty was the reward of effort. What I did not understand then was that wisdom does not grow in straight lines. It matures slowly, often through failure, doubt, and silence. I wish I had known that impatience with oneself is not a virtue, and that confusion is not a weakness but an invitation.
Youth often mistakes speed for progress and confidence for truth. Over time, life taught me that understanding deepens when one learns to pause, reflect, and unlearn. The most meaningful insights of my life did not arrive during moments of triumph, but during periods of questioning, when old assumptions fell apart. If I had known earlier that life is not a race toward answers but a gradual refinement of perspective, I would have been gentler with myself and others. The universe, I learned, unfolds its meaning not to those who chase it aggressively, but to those who approach it with patience and humility.
On Science as a Moral Discipline
As a student of physics, I once believed that understanding nature meant mastering equations, models, and experiments. I was fascinated by symmetry, laws, and predictability. Yet, with time, I came to realize that science is far more than technical competence; it is a moral discipline. It demands integrity in data, honesty in interpretation, and humility in the face of uncertainty. I wish I had known earlier that scientific knowledge divorced from ethics can become dangerous. The same intellect that can unlock the secrets of matter can also justify destruction if unanchored from responsibility.
True scientific temper, as envisioned even in constitutional ideals, is not merely analytical thinking; it is a commitment to truth over convenience. Science teaches us how little we actually know, and how vast the unknown remains. The universe does not surrender its mysteries to arrogance; it responds to wonder. I wish I had learned sooner that reverence for complexity is not anti-scientific; it is the very heart of scientific inquiry. When curiosity is guided by humility, science becomes not a tool for domination, but a path toward coexistence with nature and more profound respect for life itself.
On Teaching and Listening
When I first stepped into the role of a teacher, I believed my responsibility was to explain clearly, correct mistakes, and transmit knowledge efficiently. Like many educators trained in rigorous disciplines, I equated authority with expertise. Experience reshaped that belief. Over the years in classrooms and lecture halls, I discovered that teaching is less about speaking and far more about listening. Every student arrives carrying invisible burdens: self-doubt, social pressure, economic hardship, or unrecognized talent. I wish I had known earlier that education is not a one-way transfer of information but a shared human encounter.
The actual task of a teacher is not to create replicas of themselves, but to help students recognize their own capacity to think, question, and grow. Learning flourishes where students feel seen, not judged. I came to understand that curiosity dies in fear, and confidence grows in trust. Had I known this sooner, I would have focused less on performance and more on presence. Teaching, at its best, is an act of compassion. It is about nurturing dignity, especially in those who doubt their own worth, and reminding them that intelligence takes many forms.
On Communication and Simplicity
My journey as a science communicator and television host taught me lessons that formal education never did. Early on, I believed that complexity signalled depth and that sophistication commanded respect. Experience proved otherwise. I learned that clarity is not simplification; it is precision with empathy. I wish I had known earlier that communication is a moral responsibility, especially in an age of misinformation and intellectual elitism. When experts hide behind jargon, they do not protect knowledge; they exclude people from it. The public does not need to be impressed; it needs to be empowered.
True communication invites participation rather than admiration. Over time, I realized that communication failure rarely occurs because people disagree; it happens when they feel talked down to or left out. Science, when communicated honestly, should awaken curiosity rather than fear. If I had known this earlier, I would have focused less on showcasing expertise and more on building bridges of understanding. Simplicity, when rooted in truth, is not a loss of depth; it is an expression of respect for the listener’s intelligence and lived experience.
On Environmental Activism and Spiritual Ecology
As an environmental activist, I look back with both urgency and regret. I wish I had understood earlier that ecological crises are not merely scientific or policy failures; they are deeply spiritual failures. We did not just pollute air, water, and soil; we damaged our relationship with nature itself. Early activism often focuses on data, regulations, and technological fixes. While necessary, these are insufficient on their own. Sikh philosophy offers a profoundly ecological worldview: air as Guru, water as Father, and earth as the Great Mother. I wish I had lived this teaching more consciously from the beginning, not as a metaphor, but as daily ethical accountability.
When nature is reduced to a resource, exploitation becomes inevitable. Environmental degradation is ultimately a reflection of human arrogance and disconnection. Had I known earlier that lasting environmental change requires cultural and spiritual transformation, I would have invested more energy in values-based education alongside activism. Sustainability is not only about protecting ecosystems, but it is also about restoring humility in human consciousness. Without that shift, every solution remains temporary.
On Sikh Theology, Humility, and Truth
My engagement with Sikh theology gradually taught me a lesson that unites all my identities: as a scientist, educator, and communicator. Truth without humility becomes dangerous. Whether in religion or science, certainty can harden into ego. I once believed that clarity of belief, scientific or spiritual, was the highest goal. Experience taught me that openness is far more important. Guru Nanak emphasized that wisdom begins with wonder and flowers into compassion. Faith, when divorced from questioning, becomes dogma. Science, when divorced from ethics, becomes a tool of control.
I wish I had known earlier that reason and spirituality are not rivals; they are partners when guided by humility. Both ask us to recognize our limitations and act responsibly within them. Sikh theology does not demand blind belief; it invites reflection, dialogue, and ethical living. Had I understood this earlier, I would have been more cautious of absolute claims and more attentive to lived consequences. Truth is not something we possess; it is something we serve. This realization reshaped how I approach knowledge itself.
On Redefining Success and Progress
If I could speak to my younger self today, I would offer a simple but transformative message: success without service is hollow. Knowledge without empathy is incomplete. Progress without conscience is perilous. In youth, achievement often appears as personal advancement: titles earned, positions held, recognition received. With time, I learned that such markers are fragile and fleeting. What endures is impact, how one’s work contributes to collective well-being.
I wish I had known earlier that ambition must be disciplined by ethics, and growth measured by responsibility rather than applause. Genuine progress does not ask only “Can we?” but “Should we?” Whether in scientific innovation, media influence, or institutional leadership, unchecked progress can deepen inequality and ecological harm. Had I understood this sooner, I would have questioned the direction of advancement more rigorously. Meaningful success lies not in standing above others, but in lifting others along the way. When service becomes central, achievement gains purpose.
On Lifelong Learning and Collective Upliftment
Life, I have learned, is not about arriving at final answers. It is about learning how to ask better questions, questions that heal rather than divide, that illuminate rather than dominate. Perhaps the most important thing I wish I had known when I was younger is that the purpose of learning is not self-advancement, but collective upliftment. Knowledge finds its highest value when it serves humanity and nurtures harmony with nature. When intellect bows to wisdom, and wisdom walks with compassion, both science and spirituality fulfill their highest calling. Aging has taught me that learning never ends; it only deepens in responsibility. Each stage of life brings new ethical demands, new perspectives, and new obligations. If I had known earlier that growth is measured not by certainty but by sensitivity, I would have listened more carefully: to people, to nature, and to silence itself. This lesson, learned slowly, remains the most enduring one, and it is never too late to live by it.
Conclusion
Looking back across the arc of my life, I have come to understand that wisdom is rarely inherited early; it is cultivated slowly through experience, reflection, and ethical struggle. What I wish I had known when I was younger is not a collection of shortcuts, but a way of seeing, one that places humility before certainty and service before success. Science, education, communication, and activism all carry immense power, but without moral grounding, they risk becoming instruments of ego rather than tools of upliftment.
This journey has taught me that knowledge reaches its highest purpose only when it nurtures compassion and responsibility. Teaching is not about authority but about care; communication is not about influence but about inclusion; progress is not about speed but about direction. Sikh philosophy reminds us that truth is not owned, but lived, and that wisdom matures when it flows into ethical action.
As the world confronts technological acceleration, ecological fragility, and social fragmentation, these lessons feel more urgent than personal. If the reflections in this essay offer any guidance, it is this: measure growth by the good it creates, let learning remain humble, and ensure that every advancement, scientific or spiritual, serves the dignity of life and the harmony of our shared world
