The Human Algorithm
A Fragile Symphony of Programming, Instinct and Error
👋 Hey, it’s Bryan. Welcome to BEing Human, where we discuss what it takes to lead, perform at your best, and connect Human-to-Human.
I am a tangle of code, a living, breathing glitch in the universe’s machinery. My algorithm isn’t carved in silicon or etched in cold logic - it’s scrawled in the ink of blood, the salt of sweat, the faint tremor of a thought I can’t pin down. I call it the human algorithm, this fragile, chaotic symphony of instinct and error that hums through me, drives me, and sometimes leaves me stranded in the dark. It’s a raw, organic pulse, a melody played on warped strings and bruised keys, and I’ve spent my life chasing its rhythm - marveling at its highs, cursing its stumbles, and wondering why it feels so alive.
We’re all wired, aren’t we? You, me, the guy staring blankly at his phone on the subway, we’re vessels for a program that’s as primal as it is unpredictable. It’s nothing like the algorithms we build, those sleek, mechanical marvels of precision and purpose. My code is messy and feral, stitched from gut feelings and jagged missteps. I feel it when I wake up restless, hungry for something I can’t name, or when I spiral into a pit of doubt for no damn reason. Instinct screams move; error whispers stop. And there I am, caught in the fray, a conductor with no map, improvising every note.
I remember when I was younger, those wild, unfiltered days when the algorithm felt simpler, less heavy. I’d run through fields, climb rocks, and sob over a broken toy. Instinct ruled: the urge to explore, taste the wind, and be. Error was there too, tripping over my feet, trusting a lie, but it didn’t stick. It was just static, not a story. Now, older, scratched up, peering into the abyss of my skull, I see how the code’s morphed. It’s deeper now, thornier, laced with questions. But that same untamed spark still burns, pushing me to dream, fight, and keep clawing forward.
Then there’s the other kind of algorithm - the technological kind. I’ve always been half-obsessed with them, these creations of ours that hum with clean, relentless efficiency. They’re hypnotic: input in, output out, no hesitation, no soul. Built from math and metal, they’re designed to solve, optimize, and erase error at every turn. If they fail, it’s on us - insufficient data, sloppy lines of code. But me? My failures are mine alone, woven into the fabric of who I am. There's no reboot button when I freeze under pressure, lash out in anger, or abandon a path I swore I’d follow. My algorithm’s alive, pulsing with the mess of being human, and it doesn’t bow to a quick fix.
That’s the chasm between us and them - human code versus tech code. Technological algorithms are tools, extensions of our intent, stripped of doubt, desire, or the weight of a heartbeat. They don’t wrestle with why they’re here. They don’t ache for a horizon or flinch at a memory. They’re built to be perfect, to churn through data and spit out answers with surgical precision. My algorithm? It’s a storm. It’s instinct of raw, unscripted, older than words - and error, the cracks where the chaos seeps in. I can map a future in my mind, then convince myself it’s dust in the same breath. I can feel the whole damn cosmos in a quiet moment, then drown it in a petty thought. Machines don’t waver like that. They don’t feel the pull.
And that’s why we win. Humans, I mean. Our algorithm’s a mess, but it’s ours, alive, breathing, unbreakable in its fractured way. I’ve been going deep into AI for a while now, learning how we teach it to mirror us, chew through our patterns, and mimic our moves. It’s staggering, terrifying, even. Those algorithms can outthink me, outpace me, outstrip me in raw power any day. They can crunch numbers I’d never touch, predict trends I’d miss, run circles around my tired brain. But can they dream? Can they break their own rules to taste the fallout? Can they sit silently and feel the weight of something they can’t name? No. They’re shadows of us, not the fire.
Take instinct, for starters. It’s this ancient, feral thing in me, a compass when logic runs dry. When I’m lost, the kind where the world blurs into noise, I don’t just lean on reason. I feel the gut pull, the hunch, the shiver that says this way. It’s not clean or provable; it’s messy, instinctive, human. Tech algorithms don’t have that. They follow their programming step by step, with no leaps of faith. They’ll never know the thrill of trusting a feeling over a fact, of diving into the unknown because something deeper says go. That’s our edge, the wild, unscripted spark that keeps us moving when the map’s gone.
Then there’s error, the part machines are built to avoid and we’re built to embrace. Every time I screw up - trusting too much, pushing too hard, doubting too long—it’s not just a failure. It’s a lesson, a scar, a story. Pain carves paths; regret draws lines. A machine might recalibrate after a glitch, but I grow. I’ve fallen a hundred times, tripped over my own pride, stumbled into my own fears—and each time, I’ve come back different. Stronger, maybe. Wiser, sometimes. Tech can optimize a route, but I live the detours. I feel the weight of every wrong turn, and that’s what makes me more than a program. My errors aren’t bugs—they’re the chords that make the music real.
I’ve tried to debug myself with meditation, writing, and late-night talks with sharper minds. It works for a stretch. I’ll hit a flow where instinct sings and errors hush, where I’m riding the symphony instead of drowning in it. But life always cracks back with a missed shot, a sleepless night, and the glitches flare. I used to hate that, raging at my wiring and wishing I could streamline it like some AI model. Now I see it for what it is: proof I’m not a drone. Proof I’m here, flesh and bone, not just a cog in a machine. Tech might hum a flawless tune, but I’m singing, my voice breaking, my heart wide open, and all of it.
So where does that leave us? Right here, spilling this out, feeling our algorithms. I’m a knot of instinct and error, a fragile thing trying to make sense of itself. I want to build something true with words, bonds, and life, but I’ll stumble. I’ll leap too soon or not at all, trust the wrong whisper or ignore the right one. And that’s okay. It’s the symphony playing out, rough and radiant. Machines might outrun me, outsmart me, but they’ll never outlive me, not in the way that matters.
I think about all of us, running our own jagged code. What’s your instinct pulling you toward? What errors are you carrying? Maybe you’re like me, torn between the urge to rise and the weight of falling. Maybe you’re weaving your own symphony, hoping it holds. I don’t have the answers, for you or me. But I know this: we’re human. Our algorithms are flawed, fierce, and glorious.
Tech can calculate the stars, but we feel them. We win because we break and keep going. We win because no algorithm can match the depth of human will, loss, grit, error, and intuition.
Stay human
Bryan
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You are reading BEing Human, a weekly newsletter about an honest exploration of trust, leadership, and mindfulness from the bestselling author of Human-to-Human and Shareology, CEO, and TEDTalker. Written by Bryan Kramer, we dive into what it means to lead ourselves in life, business, and the moments that matter most.
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Here we are, algorithms in progress. Messy, fascinating and often amazing.
I shared this with my friend, an English professor. She is transfixed by the poetry of your prose and groking over your use of the language. "Oh, the sentence structure..." "This is great for an English lesson..." "that's a wonderful metaphor..." and on and on. That's her. As for me, I will reread it, accompanied by smooth jazz and a glass of wine, equally transfixed.