The Art of Truly Understanding Something
Written by Gabriel Azuola, Head of the House of Azuola
Legal strategist, founder of Cola Blanca Consulting, and Head of the House of Azuola, advising global FinTech and public institutions on regulation, governance, and strategic growth. Dedicated to ethical leadership, institutional development, and responsible innovation.
There is a line in Phil Collins's song Son of Man, written for Disney's Tarzan, that has stayed with me for years: “In learning, you will teach. In teaching, you will learn.” I first encountered those words as a child, without giving them much thought beyond the beauty of the song. Years later, after becoming a lawyer, working in business and consulting, and dedicating a considerable part of my life to historical research, I have come to appreciate their meaning in a rather unexpected way: through writing history books for children.
It is a curious thing to discover that one of the most intellectually demanding exercises of your life is explaining something to a six-year-old.
We spend years accumulating knowledge. We attend universities, read books, study complicated theories, and develop specialised vocabularies. In professional environments, we are often encouraged to demonstrate our expertise through increasingly sophisticated explanations.
Yet, when faced with the challenge of explaining something important to a child, much of that intellectual armour becomes useless.
A child does not care how many books you have read, how many degrees you hold, or how impressive your professional title may be. A child wants to understand, and if you cannot make yourself understood, perhaps you have more learning to do.
The unexpected education of writing children's books
My interest in history has always been deeply personal. As a descendant of historical figures who participated in the formation of the Colombian Republic, I have spent years researching my family's past, studying historical documents, and attempting to recover stories that deserve to be remembered.
This interest eventually led me to write children's books about Colombian history, including the lives of Simón Bolívar, Antonio Nariño, and my own ancestor, Luis Eduardo de Azuola.
The original intention was relatively straightforward: to introduce younger generations to the people and events that shaped their country, making history accessible, engaging, and enjoyable.
I wanted children to discover that history is not simply a collection of dates to memorise for an examination. It is a succession of human decisions, ambitions, sacrifices, ideas, and circumstances that continue to influence the world in which we live.
I also wanted to demonstrate that the past belongs to everyone, not exclusively to historians, academics, or those fortunate enough to inherit family archives.
However, as I began writing, I encountered an unexpected difficulty. I knew the historical facts. I understood the chronology. I was familiar with the political circumstances and the importance of the individuals involved.
But how could I communicate that knowledge to someone who had never heard of a constitution, a republic, or a declaration of rights?
How could I explain the significance of a historical event without first requiring a child to understand the entire political and social structure of the nineteenth century?
Initially, I thought the solution would be to simplify the vocabulary. It soon became evident that this was not enough.
Replacing a complicated word with an easier one does not necessarily make an idea understandable. Sometimes, the problem is not the language but our own failure to identify the essential meaning of what we are trying to communicate.
I found myself returning to the historical sources, reconsidering explanations, and questioning whether I truly understood certain aspects of the lives I was attempting to narrate. The process became an education in itself.
Luis Eduardo de Azuola: Understanding the importance of those who build
Writing about Luis Eduardo de Azuola presented a particularly personal challenge. As my ancestor, his life was already familiar to me through years of genealogical and historical research. He participated in the independence movement, contributed to the constitutional development of Cundinamarca, and held important public responsibilities during the early years of the Colombian Republic.
From a historical perspective, I could explain the significance of his work through institutions, legislation, political circumstances, and constitutional developments. But how could I explain to a child why a man who helped write laws was important?
Children are naturally attracted to adventure. Battles, journeys, discoveries, and dramatic confrontations provide wonderful material for storytelling.
The work of a jurist is somewhat less obvious. I eventually realised that I needed to approach the question differently. Before explaining what Luis Eduardo did, I needed to explain why societies need laws, institutions, and people willing to build something that will survive them.
A country cannot exist on heroic victories alone. It requires people who establish rules, organise institutions, and attempt to create a society in which others can live. That realisation changed the way I approached his story.
It also reminded me that history is not made exclusively by those whose names appear on monuments. It is equally shaped by people whose contributions are less dramatic but whose work establishes the foundations upon which future generations depend.
In trying to explain my ancestor's life to children, I developed a deeper appreciation of his historical significance. I had known what he had done. Writing the book helped me better understand why it mattered.
Simón Bolívar: Understanding greatness without losing humanity
Writing about Simón Bolívar required a different intellectual exercise. Bolívar is among the most recognisable figures in Latin American history. His military campaigns, political ambitions, personal sacrifices, and role in the independence of several South American nations provide an extraordinary narrative.
It would have been relatively easy to write a children's book consisting of heroic achievements, famous battles, and memorable quotations. But would that have helped a child understand Bolívar?
Historical figures are human beings, not marble statues. Their lives contain extraordinary achievements, but also uncertainty, contradictions, disappointments, and difficult decisions.
The challenge was to present Bolívar's significance without suggesting that historical greatness requires human perfection.
For children, this distinction is particularly important. If we present historical figures as individuals who never experienced fear, made mistakes, or faced uncertainty, we risk making their achievements seem entirely disconnected from ordinary human experience. A child should be able to admire courage while understanding that courage does not require the absence of fear.
Similarly, determination becomes more meaningful when we recognise the difficulties that someone had to overcome. Writing about Bolívar reminded me that understanding a historical figure requires more than memorising accomplishments. It requires recognising the human circumstances that made those accomplishments possible. That is a lesson that extends well beyond history.
Antonio Nariño: The power of making ideas accessible
Perhaps the most interesting connection to the central argument of this article emerged while writing about Antonio Nariño.
Nariño's translation and publication of the Declaration of the Rights of Man and of the Citizen in 1793 is one of the most significant episodes associated with his intellectual and political legacy.
His contribution illustrates something that we frequently underestimate: the importance of making ideas accessible. An idea may be extraordinary, but its influence is limited if people cannot understand it.
Knowledge confined to a small circle of specialists cannot exercise the same influence as knowledge that can be communicated, discussed, questioned, and understood by a wider audience.
In translating and circulating those ideas, Nariño helped bring important political concepts into a different linguistic and social environment.
While writing his story, I found myself reflecting on the very nature of my own work. Nariño had translated ideas across languages. I was attempting, on a much smaller scale and in an entirely different context, to translate history across generations.
The comparison helped me appreciate that communication is not merely a secondary activity that follows the acquisition of knowledge.
Communication is itself an intellectual responsibility, and to communicate something properly, we must first understand it.
The difference between knowing and understanding
These three books gradually led me towards a conclusion that has influenced how I approach knowledge in general. There is a considerable difference between knowing something and understanding it.
We can memorise information without fully comprehending its meaning. We can repeat technical explanations without being able to reconstruct the reasoning behind them. We can become familiar with specialised terminology while remaining surprisingly incapable of explaining the underlying concepts.
This is particularly common in professional environments. We sometimes associate expertise with complexity. Elaborate vocabulary, extensive presentations, and highly technical explanations can create an impression of authority.
There are, of course, subjects that require specialised language and considerable technical precision. Simplicity should never become an excuse for inaccuracy. But complexity should not become a substitute for understanding either.
I have come to believe that the true test of understanding a subject is whether we can explain it in a way a child can understand without sacrificing its essential meaning.
This requires an intellectual exercise that is far more demanding than it initially appears. We must identify the fundamental principles, distinguish what is essential from what is secondary, and reconstruct our explanation from the beginning.
We must also be prepared to confront the uncomfortable possibility that we do not understand the subject as thoroughly as we believed.
If I cannot explain why a constitution matters without relying on complicated legal terminology, perhaps I need to reconsider whether I fully understand its purpose.
If I cannot explain a business model without using financial jargon, perhaps I have not yet identified the fundamental mechanism through which it creates value. The ability to simplify does not diminish expertise. It demonstrates a deeper command of it.
From children's books to the boardroom
What surprised me most about this experience was how directly it translated into my professional life. As a lawyer and consultant, I have participated in business meetings, developed proposals, and worked with complex legal, financial, and strategic concepts.
I have seen excellent ideas become lost in unnecessarily complicated presentations. A proposal may contain sophisticated financial projections, impressive terminology, and dozens of carefully prepared slides, yet leave its audience uncertain about what is actually being proposed.
What does the business do? Why does it matter? How does it create value? What problem does it solve? If those questions cannot be answered clearly, adding another twenty slides will rarely solve the problem. The same applies to legal structures, investment opportunities, and strategic partnerships.
Technical details are indispensable when evaluating a proposal. They provide evidence, establish credibility, and allow informed decisions to be made. But they should support a clear idea, not conceal the absence of one.
Writing for children has reinforced a principle that I now consider essential in business: simplicity is not the absence of sophistication. It is often the result of mastering it.
Imagine explaining a new business venture to a child. You cannot begin with market segmentation, projected EBITDA, or a complicated corporate structure. You must begin with something more fundamental. What are we trying to do? Who needs it? Why would they want it? How will we make it happen?
Only after answering those questions does it make sense to introduce the additional layers of complexity required for a professional proposal.
In many ways, this is precisely what an effective business pitch should accomplish. The objective is not to demonstrate how much we know. It is to make the audience understand why our idea matters. If we cannot explain that clearly, perhaps the proposal is not yet ready.
In teaching, you will learn
I began writing these books believing that I had something to teach the next generation. I wanted children to discover historical figures, understand the importance of their contributions, and develop an appreciation for the past.
Somewhere between the archives, the illustrations, and the challenge of finding the right words, I discovered that I was still learning myself. The experience has changed how I approach knowledge, both personally and professionally.
I no longer believe that mastering a subject is demonstrated by our ability to speak extensively about it. I believe it is demonstrated by our ability to identify its essential meaning and communicate it clearly.
That is not an argument against complexity, scholarship, or specialised knowledge. On the contrary, it is an invitation to pursue them more seriously. Because explaining something simply often requires understanding it profoundly.
The next time you believe you have mastered a subject, whether it is history, law, finance, or your next business idea, try explaining it to a child.
If you struggle, return to the subject. Study it again. Question your assumptions. Remove the unnecessary complications. Find its essential meaning.
Then try once more. When you can make something understandable to a child without making it inaccurate, you have reached a deeper level of mastery. If a child can understand your business idea, you may already have the beginnings of a great pitch. After all, in teaching, you will learn.
Read more from Gabriel Azuola
Gabriel Azuola, Head of the House of Azuola
Gabriel Azuola is a legal strategist and founder of Cola Blanca Consulting, advising FinTech firms, investors, and public institutions across global markets. He has guided cross-border regulatory strategy and high-value capital mobilization, contributing to ventures surpassing $150 million. Azuola also serves as Head of the House of Azuola, a historic Latin American lineage dedicated to civic duty and ethical leadership. His work focuses on responsible innovation, institutional development, and principled governance.
