Narrator: Imagine it’s 1985 at a busy shopping mall. A young boy sits in a barber’s chair, the smell of aftershave in the air, when a woman’s terrified scream cuts through the noise. A man sprints past the shop window, clutching a small child. Without a second thought, the barber drops his clippers. Other men—strangers to one another, from all different walks of life—abandon what they’re doing and join the chase. They don’t stop to ask questions. They don’t debate the politics of the situation. They just run. Together, they corner the kidnapper and rescue the child. This raw, unified instinct to help, to band together for the good of another, feels like a distant memory in our divided world. What happened to that reflex?

In his book How to Human, author Carlos Whittaker argues that this instinct isn't gone, it’s just buried. He suggests that our shared humanity hasn't been deleted, but it has been corrupted by a constant stream of outrage and division. The book serves as a guide to rebooting our collective operating system, reminding us how to access the fundamental goodness that still lies within.

Narrator: Whittaker's central argument is that humanity doesn’t need a complete rebuild; it simply needs a recalibration. He compares our current state to an old PC from the 1990s, bogged down with viruses and spyware, running so slowly that even simple tasks feel impossible. The solution wasn't to throw the computer away, but to hit Control+Alt+Delete—a simple command that reset the system to its original, functional state.

He believes our innate human "software" is good. We are designed, as he witnessed in that mall in 1985, to instinctively band together for the betterment of one another. The men who chased down that kidnapper didn't know each other. They were Black, White, and from different backgrounds, yet they shared a common, unspoken goal: protect the innocent. That, Whittaker argues, is our default setting. However, the modern world—with its endless cycle of negative news and social media outrage—has infected our system, making us feel hopeless and turning us against each other. This constant negativity obscures our inherent goodness. The solution, therefore, isn't to become something new, but to reset ourselves back to who we were created to be. This recalibration starts with the individual, by choosing to believe in and act on that innate desire to help.

Narrator: Before we can connect with others, Whittaker insists we must first know and embrace our own full identity. He shares his own painful journey with this concept. As a mixed-race child with a Black father and a White mother, he moved to a predominantly White neighborhood in Atlanta in the 1980s. To protect him from the racism he knew his son would face, his father, Fermín, repeatedly told him, "You are Mexican, okay? Not Black."

This well-intentioned lie created a deep identity crisis. At school, a boy picking a kickball team said, "I pick the n*!##^. He can probably run the fastest." When Carlos insisted he was Mexican, the boy just laughed at his Afro. In his church youth group, another boy would regularly smash his hand into Carlos’s hair as a party trick for his friends. To survive, Carlos learned to laugh along, suppressing his pain and his Blackness. It wasn't until 2019, after taking a DNA test that showed he was 72% Nigerian, that he confronted his father. Fermín tearfully apologized, admitting he did it to protect him. In that moment, his father gave him permission to be who he truly was, saying, "Yes, son, you can be Black. Because you are Black." Whittaker argues that knowing where we come from is essential to knowing where we are going. We cannot truly be human until we embrace every part of ourselves—the parts we’ve hidden, the heritage we’ve ignored, and the experiences that have shaped us.

Narrator: Whittaker contends that a critical step in learning to human is to "see" people—not as we assume them to be, but as they truly are. This requires confronting our own biases. For years, Whittaker lived across the street from an older White man named James. James had an American flag on his door and always gave Carlos a cold, unwelcoming look. Based on past experiences, Carlos labeled him a racist and avoided him for four years. His bias created a story about James that seemed entirely real.

One day, in the midst of the 2020 racial justice protests, Carlos saw James in his yard painting one of two identical stone bunny statues black. Confused and intrigued, he finally crossed the street to talk to him. When Carlos asked about the bunny, James explained it was his small way of showing support. He said, "It’s my way of saying that I believe your life matters." In that instant, Whittaker’s four-year-old narrative shattered. He realized he hadn't been seeing James at all; he had been seeing a figment of his own imagination, a character created by his own bias. Truly seeing people means getting close enough to challenge our assumptions and being willing to be proven wrong.

Narrator: In a world that pressures us to take a side on every issue, Whittaker offers a different path: "Don't stand on issues; walk with people." He learned this lesson through a painful experience with one of his best friends, Micah. As Carlos became more vocal about racial justice in 2020, he noticed Micah, a self-described "good ole country boy," had grown distant and eventually unfollowed him on Instagram.

During a tense dinner, Carlos confronted him. Micah admitted, "It was making me not like you. And I love you. So I had to stop following you." He couldn't understand why Carlos was suddenly so focused on being Black. The conversation that followed was raw and difficult. Carlos explained his heritage and the pain he had suppressed for decades. For the first time, Micah truly saw his friend's full identity. He didn't instantly agree on every issue, but he made a promise: "I promise to do my best, man. I promise to see you." By choosing to walk with each other through their disagreement, their friendship didn't just survive; it became stronger. This, Whittaker argues, is how real change happens—not by winning debates, but by preserving relationships and committing to see the journey of the person in front of you.

Narrator: The final step in Whittaker's framework is to "Free" others, which he argues is the key to finding our own freedom. He defines this not as a grand, abstract concept, but as the tangible result of empathy in action. He points to his online community, the "Instafamilia," as a powerful example. One day, he shared the story of Shannell, a young mother with epilepsy who was trying to raise $25,000 for a seizure-alert dog. In just one hour, his community donated over $27,000. Another time, he met Tonee, a pianist at the airport playing for an empty terminal to pay for his kidney dialysis. The Instafamilia tipped him over $60,000 in a single day.

Whittaker explains that this extravagant generosity comes from empathy—the ability to feel with someone, not just for them. He points to the story of Jesus weeping at the tomb of his friend Lazarus. Jesus knew he was about to raise Lazarus from the dead, yet he still wept. He didn't offer a quick fix or dismiss the family's pain; he entered into it with them. Empathy is the bridge between conviction and action. When we allow ourselves to truly feel another person's story, we are moved to act. In freeing others from their loneliness, their financial burdens, or their invisibility, we in turn free ourselves from our own bubbles of indifference and fear.

Narrator: The single most important takeaway from How to Human is that our deep-seated desire for connection and compassion is not a flaw to be overcome but our greatest strength waiting to be rediscovered. Carlos Whittaker makes a compelling case that the anger and division defining our era are not our true nature, but a system malfunction. The solution is not to tear everything down, but to initiate a personal and collective reboot—to Be, See, and Free.

The book leaves us with a profound challenge. It's easy to be a demolitionist, to tear down ideas and people with a tweet or a comment. It’s much harder to be a builder. Building requires patience, empathy, and the courage to connect with those you disagree with. The ultimate question Whittaker poses is not just about how we can be better people, but about what we are choosing to create in the world. Are you building bridges or walls? Because in the end, the path to becoming more human is paved with the love, compassion, and understanding we choose to build for others.