People love to treat paranoia like it’s a quirky little pastime, as if some of us collect suspicions the way other people collect commemorative spoons. They act like I’m sitting here in my recliner every morning thinking, “Ah yes, a fresh new day. Time to hydrate, stretch, and assume everyone is lying to me.” As if suspicion is a hobby. As if I’m doing it for enrichment.

Let me be clear: nobody chooses paranoia. Paranoia chooses you. It’s like the world’s worst subscription service. You don’t sign up for it; it just starts showing up on your doorstep, unasked, unreturned, and impossible to cancel. And after a few decades of watching humanity behave exactly like humanity behaves, you start to realize something important: what people call paranoia is often just experience with a good memory.

Take email, for example. If someone I’ve never met sends me a message that begins with “I came across your work and was deeply impressed,” I already know I’m about to be invited into a magical land of SEO optimization, brand elevation, synergistic audience expansion, and other phrases that sound like they were generated by a blender full of LinkedIn posts. I don’t need psychic powers. I just need a pulse and a history of reading my inbox.

And don’t get me started on the ones who promise to “dramatically increase your visibility.” Visibility to what? The IRS? The aliens? The HOA? Because unless you’re offering to increase my visibility to a plate of nachos, I’m not interested. And if you want me to pay you for this miracle, then yes, I’m going to ask questions. Not because I’m paranoid. Because I’m literate.

Funny thing, though: the moment you ask for proof, credentials, references, or even a basic explanation of what exactly you’re buying, suddenly you’re the problem. Suddenly you’re “closed-minded” or “negative” or “not ready for success.” Apparently, asking for evidence is a sign of emotional immaturity now. Who knew? Meanwhile, legitimate professionals will happily tell you who they are, what they do, and why they’re qualified to do it. Scammers, on the other hand, will start talking about your mindset like they’re your life coach, your therapist, and your disappointed aunt all rolled into one.

People accuse suspicious folks of being cynical, but that’s not quite right. Cynics think everyone is lying. Paranoid people just think everyone should show their work. There’s a difference. A mechanic expects you to ask about the repair. A contractor expects you to ask for references. A surgeon expects you to ask about qualifications. But ask an online marketer for proof, and suddenly you’re the rude one. No thank you. If you want my money, my time, my attention, or my trust, then yes, questions come with the territory. They’re not optional. They’re the cover charge.

And let’s be honest: history is full of people who were called paranoid right up until the moment they were proven correct. The employee who noticed the accounting irregularities. The friend who said, “I don’t know, something about that guy seems off.” The mechanic who insisted that noise wasn’t “normal.” The person who looked at a contract and said, “Something here doesn’t add up.”

These people weren’t paranoid. They were observant. They were paying attention. They were the ones who didn’t end up stranded on the side of the road, staring at a smoking engine with a look of betrayed confusion.

Sure, sometimes the paranoid person is wrong. But not always. And that’s the part people forget. Reality doesn’t care whether a concern sounds paranoid. Reality only cares whether it’s true. And the truth has a funny habit of showing up eventually, usually wearing a smug little grin and carrying a clipboard labeled I Told You So.

So yes, I ask uncomfortable questions. Yes, I verify things. Yes, I want credentials and references and fine print and receipts. Yes, I assume there might be a catch. Because after sixty-some years of watching how the world works, I’ve learned something important: most catches come with catches. Most fine print exists because someone, somewhere, tried something. And most unsolicited opportunities become significantly less enthusiastic the moment you ask them to prove anything at all.

Most people call it paranoia because “pattern recognition based on repeated evidence” doesn’t fit on a bumper sticker.

Maybe that’s paranoia. Or maybe it’s experience wearing bifocals.

Either way, the older I get, the more I appreciate a simple truth: just because I’m paranoid doesn’t make me wrong.

Sometimes it just means I’ve been paying attention longer than you have.