People often quote the phrase, “Curiosity killed the cat,” as though curiosity were something dangerous … a warning against asking too many questions, venturing too far beyond what is known, or looking too closely beneath the surface of things.

What many forget, however, is that the original saying was not about curiosity at all. Centuries ago, the phrase was “Care killed the cat.” In older English, care meant worry, sorrow, or an emotional burden. Over time, “care” evolved into “curiosity,” turning the proverb into a cautionary tale about the dangers of knowing too much. Eventually, another line emerged and was added: “Curiosity killed the cat, but satisfaction brought it back.”

That second half changes everything.

It acknowledges something profoundly human: while curiosity may disrupt innocence, simplicity, or certainty, it also resurrects us through understanding.

In the Paris project, there is a line I wrote that echoes throughout the storyline: “Curiosity is the only weapon you have.” The older I become, the more I understand why I feel this way, and I centered a manuscript theme around it. Not a weapon of destruction, but a weapon of survival, an awakening, and resistance against becoming emotionally asleep.

Curiosity has always drawn me to the hidden layers beneath people, history, relationships, and even myself. It is what prompts someone to question inherited stories rather than accept them blindly. It is what compels us to revisit the narratives we were handed about family, identity, humanity, or the world itself and ask: Is this true?

Yes, curiosity can absolutely be taken too far. I have learned that too much curiosity can dismantle comforting illusions. It can create emotional unrest. It can make returning to surface-level living nearly impossible once you notice contradiction, grief, complexity, or hidden truths beneath what others prefer to leave untouched.

Curiosity can strain relationships when one person seeks deeper understanding while another simply wants stability. It can leave you emotionally adrift in questions that may never fully resolve. But perhaps that is the cost of consciousness?

Because curiosity also deepens empathy. It prevents certainty from calcifying into arrogance and keeps us teachable, permeable, and alive. Without curiosity, we stop expanding. Well, at least I do. I have noticed many begin moving through life assuming they already know enough about people, history, themselves, and the world around them.

For me, curiosity is about collecting information, but more importantly, about staying open.

Open to being surprised. Open to being wrong. Open to discovering that people are rarely just one thing. Open to letting the world continue reshaping me.

Maybe that is why I have never feared curiosity as the proverb suggests. The greater danger, to me, has always been emotional stagnation — the slow hardening that occurs when certainty replaces wonder.

So yes, curiosity disrupts comfort, but maybe comfort was never the point.

Maybe aliveness was.

And I hope I never lose the part of myself that still wants to look more closely, ask deeper questions, and remain vulnerable enough to be changed by what I discover. For me, the danger was never curiosity itself. It is the danger of remaining untouched by the world and never bending or arriving at a different viewpoint or conclusion.