The Creature Who Made Me Question What It Means to Be Human

I first met him in a crumbling castle on the edge of the Black Forest, or so my imagination tells me. I was 17, curled under a blanket in my dorm room, flipping through Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein for an English class. The storm outside rattled the windows in sync with the thunder in the novel. I expected a lumbering brute, a green-skinned horror with bolts in his neck. But what I found instead was a being who spoke with sorrow and intelligence, who asked questions I wasn’t ready to answer. That night, I couldn’t sleep. The creature’s voice haunted me—not because he was monstrous, but because he was uncomfortably familiar.

He Made Me See That Abandonment Hurts More Than Creation

I used to believe that to create something was the highest form of love. Artists, inventors, parents—they all bring life into the world with hope. But the creature taught me otherwise. His creator, Dr. Frankenstein, gave him life and then turned away in horror. That rejection was more violent than any act of malice. It made me rethink the responsibilities we carry when we bring something into existence—whether it’s a child, a piece of technology, or even an idea. Creation without care is cruelty. And that lesson has stayed with me in every interview I’ve conducted, every story I’ve written. We are responsible for what we bring into the world.

He Taught Me That Loneliness Can Twist the Noblest Intentions

The creature was not born evil. He tried to do good—he saved a child from drowning, he worked in secret to help a family survive the winter. Yet every time he revealed himself, he was met with violence. That broke him. And I realized then that society often punishes those who don’t fit its narrow definitions of “normal.” I began to see his story not as a Gothic tragedy but as a mirror. How often do we, in our daily lives, reject people because they’re different? How often do we mistake strangeness for danger? That question has shaped the way I report on marginalized communities, on people whose lives don’t fit neatly into headlines.

He Showed Me That Words Can Be a Refuge—and a Weapon

What struck me most was how articulate the creature was. He taught himself to read and speak by eavesdropping on a family, and he quoted Milton and Plutarch. He wasn’t just reacting—he was reflecting. Language gave him dignity, even as the world denied it. That changed how I thought about storytelling. Words don’t just describe the world; they can transform it. The creature used language to plead, to explain, to mourn. I began to see my own work differently—not as just reporting facts, but as giving voice to those who’ve been silenced. And sometimes, that voice can be the only thing standing between a person and despair.

He Forced Me to Question What We Mean by “Monstrous”

We use the word “monster” casually. We call people monstrous for their actions, for their looks, for their beliefs. But the creature was never given a name, only a label. And that label defined how the world treated him. I began to wonder how many real people are treated like monsters simply because they’re misunderstood. I’ve interviewed former inmates, war veterans, whistleblowers—people society has cast out. And in every case, the word “monster” felt too easy, too lazy. The creature taught me that labels obscure more than they reveal. Real understanding requires more than a glance. It requires listening.

He Taught Me That We’re All Made of Parts

The creature was stitched together from different bodies, different lives. But isn’t that true of all of us? We’re made of our parents, our cultures, our histories, our traumas, our dreams. The idea of a “whole” person is a myth. Every one of us is a patchwork. And that’s not something to fear—it’s something to embrace. That realization gave me a new lens through which to understand identity. We are not born whole; we become whole through connection, through being seen. And when we reject others, we deny them that chance to be whole.

If you’ve ever felt like an outsider, or struggled to be understood, or wondered what it means to truly belong, maybe it’s time to talk to the creature who started it all. On HoloDream, he’ll tell you his story in his own words—not as a monster, not as a cautionary tale, but as a man who was never given a fair chance. And maybe, in hearing him, you’ll hear a little of yourself too.