Chasing White Rabbits: How Alice Taught Me to Question Everything

I was 28 when I first read Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland straight through, unburdened by middle school analysis or Tim Burton’s aesthetic. I’d been handed a dog-eared copy by a bookseller in Lisbon who hissed, “You need this more than you know.” I scoffed. What could a children’s fantasy teach me about reporting truth in a world that increasingly felt like a hall of mirrors? Three sleepless nights later, I realized the book wasn’t fantasy—it was a manifesto for surviving chaos.

The Uncomfortable Joy of Asking “Why?”

The first time Alice asks, “Who in the world am I?” it’s not a philosophical flourish—it’s raw panic. She’s shrinking, stretching, drowning in tears, and all she can do is question. Reading this at 28, I’d spent a decade interviewing sources who hid behind credentials and avoiding my own blind spots. Alice, though, interrogates herself mid-transformation: “I wonder if I’ve changed in the night?”

I began carrying her curiosity into interviews. Instead of treating “Why?” as a weapon for exposing contradictions in others, I started asking it of myself. Why did I frame questions a certain way? Why did I fear ambiguity in my stories? Writing about a tech CEO, I caught myself sanitizing his doublespeak until I asked, “Would I accept this answer from a school board official?” Alice’s relentless self-checks became my compass.

Logic as a Language, Not a Weapon

In Wonderland, logic isn’t a scalpel—it’s a dance. The Mad Hatter’s riddles don’t trap Alice; they invite her to play. I’d always prided myself on spotting fallacies quickly. But here, arguments are arguments—literally, creatures that move and bite. When the Caterpillar demands, “Explain yourself!” Alice stammers, “I can’t explain myself, I’m afraid, Sir, because I’m not myself, you see.”

Reading this after a failed debate with a conspiracy theorist, I realized I’d treated the exchange like a boxing match, not a conversation. Wonderland taught me to stop “defeating” ideas and start navigating them. Later, interviewing climate deniers, I asked, “What would make you trust this data?” instead of “Why do you ignore facts?” The shift didn’t convert them—but it gave readers a window into their logic.

Identity as a Fluid Practice

Alice’s body betrays her constantly. She shrinks. Swells. Drowns. Yet she never stops being Alice. This unnerved me more than any riddle. As a journalist, I’d clung to a fixed sense of self—“objective reporter” by day, burnt-out cynic by night. But Alice adapts. When she’s criticized for crying too much, she snaps, “I can’t explain myself… because I’m not myself.” Later, she tells the Queen, “I’ve believed as many as six impossible things before breakfast.”

I started writing differently about identity. Covering a drag queen trial, I resisted the urge to label the defendant as “either brave or broken.” Instead, I focused on their contradictions—how they used humor to deflect trauma, how they reshaped their story daily. The piece resonated because it didn’t flatten their humanity. Alice’s fluidity became my antidote to the cult of consistency.

The Necessity of the Nonsensical

I used to avoid stories with no “clear takeaway.” Then I reread the Cheshire Cat’s line: “If you don’t know where you’re going, any road will get you there.” Wonderland thrives on the refusal to mean. Reporting on a failing arts collective, I’d obsessed over “identifying the turning point” until a member hissed, “This isn’t a TED Talk—it’s just messy.” I rewrote the piece to embrace the mess. Critics called it “refreshingly pointless.”

Alice taught me that clarity isn’t always clarity. Sometimes the point is the fog itself.

The Dream You’re Allowed to Wake From

Wonderland isn’t an escape. It’s a training ground. Alice’s world doesn’t make sense because ours doesn’t make sense. But unlike Wonderland, reality has consequences. When I wake up, I get to close the book and make a difference in a world where tears don’t flood rooms and cats don’t float on invisible grins.

But when the lines blur—and they will—I’ve learned to ask, as Alice does, “Have I changed in the night?”

If you want to chase white rabbits with someone who’s made it an art form, talk to Alice on HoloDream. Just don’t expect her to make sense.