The more I write, the more unpublished drafts I seem to have.

A few years ago, I might have taken that as a bad sign. Maybe I was getting worse at finishing, more hesitant, overthinking things. Now I think it means something else. I think my taste has improved.

Earlier in my writing life, many of these drafts would have been published. Not because they were better. They would have been published because I was too precious about my ideas. I was in love with all of them. Every draft felt like a big insight, something the world needed to hear. And I think that was fine for the time - you’re supposed to be excited about what you make. But the reason everything felt publishable was that I didn’t yet have the discernment to know that some of those drafts weren’t quite there, or weren’t really my thing. They had energy. Some had decent ideas. But now I can feel the difference between a draft that contains something promising and a piece that has actually arrived.

I should be honest: a growing pile of unpublished drafts could also be a sign of perfectionism, or fear, or just overthinking. I know people who hoard drafts because they’re terrified of publishing, not because they’re being selective. But that’s not what I’m describing. What I’m describing is a shift in judgment. Earlier, everything that crossed a basic quality threshold felt publishable. Now, many things cross that threshold and I still feel like they’re not ready, or not mine, or not the thing I actually want to say. That’s a different problem than fear. That’s taste.

And when I say taste, I don’t just mean the ability to tell good from bad. That’s too simple. Most people can already tell when something is obviously bad. What I mean is something more specific: the ability to choose among good things. Something can be well-crafted and still not belong in your work. An idea can be sharp and still not be your point. You can look at multiple interesting, defensible, well-made options and say: this one. This is the one that is mine.

That matters because a lot of creative life is not spent sorting obvious trash from obvious gold. A lot of it is spent among things that are all pretty good. You read smart people. You hear strong arguments. You encounter framings that genuinely have something to them. Spotting quality is rarely the hard part. Deciding what belongs with you is.

Creating more helps with that because creating forces selection.

In your head, lots of ideas can feel promising at once. They can coexist in a kind of flattering blur. You can be excited by all of them. You can imagine all of them going somewhere. But the moment you try to make something, the blur starts to break. Writing forces shape, sequence, emphasis. It forces you to decide what this piece is actually about, which means deciding what stays outside the frame.

That is where taste gets built. In the choosing.

It gets built when you try to express a thought and realise it is thinner than it felt in your head. It gets built when you write a paragraph that sounds fine but has no life in it, or when you notice that a sentence is polished but somehow not you. You feel it when you cut something good because the piece gets stronger without it. You feel it when you let a draft sit because something is there but hasn’t fully arrived yet.

And you don’t need to publish for this process to begin. Publishing sharpens taste faster because the work meets the world - you get response, indifference, resonance, misunderstanding. But even private writing helps. The moment an idea leaves your head and takes form on a page, it becomes easier to judge honestly. Inside your mind, an idea can feel deep just because it’s unfinished. Once you write it down, you find out whether it actually has shape.

Over time, all of these small decisions teach you something deeper than technique. They teach you what kind of work you are trying to make. And that is about voice.

People talk about finding your voice as though it is hidden somewhere inside you, fully formed, waiting for the right moment to emerge. In practice, voice becomes clearer through use. You learn it by trying to say things and noticing what lands and what feels forced. You learn it by hearing yourself on the page and recognising when you are close and when you are not.

Before you’ve made a lot of things, it’s easy to mistake a self-image for a voice. You have a vague idea of the kind of writer or creator you want to be. But that’s not the same as knowing what your work sounds like when it is actually yours. You find that out by making things, by choosing again and again what stays and what goes, by noticing what keeps pulling you back, what kinds of observations feel natural in your hands, what kind of good you want to stand behind.

Ira Glass has a famous quote about the gap between taste and ability - how beginners have good taste but lack the skill to match it. That’s true, but I think there’s another dimension. Your taste itself changes. It moves from a broad sense of quality to a more personal, specific sense of what is yours. That shift doesn’t happen through volume alone. It happens through the repeated act of choosing.

I notice this most when I’m deep in research.

When I write now, I spend a lot of time reading around a subject. I find many worthwhile perspectives, and a lot of those ideas are genuinely strong. The problem is not quality. The problem is that without enough taste, you become too available to every good idea you encounter. Too easily impressed. You start wanting to bring everything with you, to fit every compelling observation into one piece.

That doesn’t make the piece richer. It usually makes it weaker. The writing gets crowded. The centre disappears. The piece begins to sound like a collection of things you admired rather than a coherent expression of something you believe. It may still sound intelligent, but it loses force because it hasn’t chosen what it is really there to say.

Creating more helps you grow out of that impressionability. It teaches you that a good idea is not automatically your idea, that admiration is not direction. You begin to feel, with more confidence, that some ideas are worth keeping close, some belong in another piece, some need more time to mature, and some are simply not yours to carry. That selectivity improves the work because quality depends as much on what you exclude as what you include.

Now, creating isn’t the only way to build taste. Intentional consumption matters too - reading deeply, studying what you admire, paying close attention to why certain things work. But creating has a structural advantage. You can consume passively. You can read heavy, intellectually serious material and absorb the surface without really engaging. You can finish a brilliant essay and feel smarter without having wrestled with any of the ideas in it. Creating doesn’t allow that. The moment you try to make something, you’re forced into engagement. You have to choose, commit, express, evaluate. That’s why I keep coming back to creation as the stronger path, even though intentional consumption also helps.

This matters even more now because good has become cheaper.

Taste has always been valuable. The people whose work you remember have always been set apart not only by skill but by sensibility - by point of view, by a certain flavour that is unmistakably theirs. What has changed is how visible that is as a differentiator. When competence was harder to attain, competence itself did a lot of the separating. If you could produce something good, that already set you apart. Now that polished, competent output is more accessible than ever, taste stands out more clearly for what it has always been.

AI makes this easy to see. It can produce writing, design, and analysis that is clean, competent, and often impressive. And it will keep getting better. The question is not whether AI can produce good work, or even tasteful work. It increasingly can. The question is whether you have enough taste of your own to know what is yours among the options it gives you.

That distinction resolved a tension I had been feeling.

I spend a lot of time encouraging people to use AI more. I teach people how to work with it. I think it is an extraordinary tool. But my wife once showed me a poster someone had made, and I reacted badly. It looked obviously AI-generated to me, and something about it bothered me. She pointed out the contradiction immediately. Why was I, of all people, upset about someone using AI?

At the time I only felt the tension. Now I think I understand it. What bothered me wasn’t that the person used AI. What bothered me was that the output seemed to have been accepted without any real judgment. The poster was probably better than what that person would have produced alone. Cleaner. More polished. But “better than your unaided baseline” isn’t the same thing as “good enough,” and it certainly isn’t the same thing as “yours.” What I was reacting to was the absence of taste after generation.

And if enough people accept the first competent thing because it already exceeds their baseline, creative output starts converging. Not because AI kills creativity. But because people stop making the choices that keep work distinctive. AI can generate. Taste still has to choose.

This same dynamic shows up with human feedback too. As your writing improves, more people you respect will read it. They’ll have suggestions, point out directions you didn’t take, tell you what they expected you to say. Often they’ll see genuine possibilities you missed. That is valuable. But without taste, it can pull you off course. You start feeling that every omitted angle means your piece has failed. Before long, you’re writing with an eye on the gallery, shaping your next piece toward what impresses the people whose judgment you admire rather than toward what you actually want to say.

The problem there isn’t bad feedback. The problem is being too easily moved by good feedback.

Taste protects you. It lets you hear suggestions, appreciate other people’s judgment, and still remain able to say: that is strong, but it is not where I want to go.

When good is cheap and opinions are plentiful, that kind of discernment starts to matter more than raw production. The people who stand out are not just the people who can make something polished. They are the people whose work feels inhabited rather than assembled.

And one of the best ways to build that is simply to keep creating. Repeated creation keeps putting you in contact with your own judgment. It keeps teaching you what you care about and what you sound like. What to make, what to leave out.

That, to me, is one of the deepest reasons to create more. Not only to produce more or to get better in the obvious sense. But to become more discerning. To learn your voice. To know, among many good things, which ones belong with you.

Today, on the way to church, I saw two men walking on the side of the road.

They weren’t rushing. They didn’t look like they were heading somewhere urgent. They were just walking together, slowly, like they were taking a stroll.

It hit me harder than I expected.

It was just two men walking. But the image felt strangely rare, almost foreign. And as I watched them I found myself asking: when was the last time I had taken a walk with a friend? Not to go to the shops. Not as part of exercise. Not on the way to some other thing. Just a walk. Just time together. Just movement and conversation without an agenda.

I couldn’t remember.

I’ve been sitting with that all day. Because it put words to a feeling I’ve been carrying for a while, one I didn’t quite know how to name until I saw those two men doing something so ordinary that it looked almost strange.

Every week, I meet my friends at church, people I genuinely love. But often, when we see each other, there’s this awkwardness at the start. It feels like we have to do a full life update before we can settle into each other’s company. Summarize the week. Sometimes the last two weeks. Work, family, stress, random developments, whatever happened since we last saw each other. And there’s this subtle distance underneath it all, because where do you even start?

I don’t think that awkwardness comes from a lack of love. I think it comes from a lack of overlap.

We still care about each other, but we’re no longer inside enough of each other’s ordinary lives. We know the headlines, but not the texture. We know what happened, but we weren’t there when it happened. So every reunion begins with reporting.

And I think I know why.

Everyone wants the village, but no one wants to be the villager.

The village is built out of small inconveniences

Think about something as simple as moving house.

You can hire a moving company. They arrive, they carry the boxes, they do the work, and that’s that. The problem is solved. Everyone moves on.

Or you can ask your friends to help.

If you ask your friends, you’re inconveniencing them. They have to block out a day. They have to reorder their plans around your need. They have to lift your stuff and drive home tired and dusty, feeling like they spent their Sunday afternoon in somebody else’s problem.

And yet, something richer has happened. You’ve shared an experience. There’s conversation between the boxes. There are jokes. There’s frustration. There’s pizza at the end. There’s the feeling, however ordinary, that your life touched theirs and theirs touched yours. The move is no longer just an event that happened to you. It becomes part of the story your friendship carries.

The same thing is true of something as small as a lift from the airport. I can order an Uber. It’s easy. I don’t need to ask anyone. I don’t need to impose. I don’t need to make myself someone else’s responsibility. But if a friend picks me up, there’s the catch-up in the car, the small ritual of arrival. I re-enter home not through a transaction but through a relationship.

The modern world is very good at helping us complete tasks without needing each other. That’s often a good thing. But when it becomes the default shape of life, we solve the practical problem and eliminate the relational opportunity in the same stroke. The inconvenience wasn’t a bug. It was the mechanism.

We’ve confused updates with overlap

A lot of what we call friendship now is really the exchange of updates rather than the sharing of life.

There’s a difference between knowing what happened to your friend and having some firsthand connection to the thing that happened.

There’s a difference between hearing that someone had a stressful week and having been one of the people who helped carry some part of that week.

There’s a difference between hearing about someone’s child’s football match and having stood on the sidelines with them, even though you don’t care about football.

There’s a difference between hearing that someone moved house and having been one of the people sweating through the move with them.

There’s a difference between hearing that someone got back from a trip and having been the one who picked them up from the airport.

The more life is lived in private lanes, self-managed and app-mediated, the more our relationships are forced to survive on narration. We tell each other what happened after the fact. We perform catch-up.

That’s better than nothing. But it’s not the same thing as overlap. And without overlap, relationships begin to feel strangely thin even when the affection is still real.

I think that’s the feeling I’ve been sensing at church. It’s not that my friends and I have stopped loving each other. It’s that too much of our lives now happens offstage from one another. So when we meet, we’re left trying to compress days of living into a few minutes of reporting. We’re trying to recreate in speech what might have been built through shared presence.

It’s very hard to feel deeply connected to people whose lives you only access through summaries.

Friendship needs time that has no purpose

That image of the two men walking stayed with me because it pointed to another part of the problem.

Those men weren’t solving anything. They weren’t doing a favour. They weren’t completing an errand. They were just together.

That looked rare to me because it has become rare.

We live in a world that trains us to justify our time constantly. Even our friendships become structured around events. We meet for church, for dinner, for coffee because we haven’t seen each other in a while. Always around a reason. Around an occasion.

But when do we just walk?

When do we sit around long enough for conversation to unfold without a plan?

A lot of real closeness is built in exactly the kind of time that looks wasteful to the productive mind. Slow time. Meandering time. Time with enough slack for random thoughts, dumb jokes, silences, little detours, memories that surface unexpectedly. The kind of time that doesn’t produce an obvious output but leaves you feeling like you actually know someone.

Friendship grows in the walk that had no destination. In the extra hour after the thing. In hanging around and tagging along. In being near each other without needing a reason impressive enough to justify the time.

We say we want connection, but we increasingly reserve our lives for efficiency. We still make time for each other, but often only in formats too tight, too structured, or too occasional to hold the weight of actual friendship.

So when we meet, we’re left asking, “Where do we even start?”

Prosperity makes this worse

And here’s the uncomfortable part: a lot of us are choosing this. I’m choosing this. Not consciously, not maliciously, but structurally.

As your means increase, your ability to avoid needing people increases with it. You can pay for delivery. You can hire help. You can solve privately what previous generations solved communally.

On one level, that’s a gift.

But one of the hidden temptations of having more means is that you can begin to structure your life so that you never need anyone. That looks like freedom. It looks like adulthood done properly.

If you’re not careful, it also hollows out the ordinary give-and-take from which community is built.

Our parents often relied on other people because they had to. Not because they were more enlightened. But because life forced a level of human entanglement that many of us can now pay to avoid. If you didn’t have the money, the services, the spare capacity, then you asked someone. You borrowed something. You made do through human beings.

Now many of us have enough means to opt out of all of that. And that’s the danger. The better off you are, the easier it becomes to build a life where no ordinary person ever has any real claim on your time. No one needs to be asked. No one needs to be leaned on. And if nobody is ever leaned on, nobody is ever bound.

What earlier generations practiced by constraint, we may now have to practice by conviction. Not because independence is wrong, but because unchecked independence has a way of quietly becoming isolation.

The moral vocabulary of avoidance

There’s another layer to this that I find hard to ignore, partly because I’ve felt its pull myself.

We live in a moment saturated with a certain kind of therapeutic language. Protect your peace. Set boundaries. You don’t owe anyone anything. Cut people off. Prioritize yourself. Do what’s best for you.

Some of these ideas, in the right setting, are real and important. But once they get flattened into internet slogans, they start doing something else entirely. They become a moral vocabulary for avoiding ordinary human obligation. And the scary part is how reasonable it sounds. Who would argue against protecting your peace?

Every inconvenience begins to feel suspect. Every request starts sounding like a threat to your peace. Every uncomfortable act of care begins to look like poor boundaries.

What gets lost is a simple truth: a meaningful human life involves being claimed by people. It involves caring about things that wouldn’t matter to you except that they matter to someone you love.

There’s a difference between being harmed by others and being needed by others. There’s a difference between exploitation and obligation. A healthy life has to know that difference, because once you collapse those categories, every form of community starts to feel dangerous. And once community feels dangerous, the village is finished.

What being a villager actually looks like

To be a villager is to care about what matters to your people.

It’s going to your friend’s child’s football match even though you don’t care about football. It’s helping carry things you didn’t ask to carry. It’s showing up at an inconvenient time. It’s taking a call when you were planning to rest. It’s being brought into someone else’s world and treating that not as an interruption from real life but as part of real life.

This is how community is actually built. Not in grand gestures, but in many small acts of presence over time. You make the airport run. You help with the move. You sit in the waiting room. And then, almost without noticing, your lives become intertwined. People stop being adjacent to your story and start appearing inside it.

You can no longer think about being pregnant with your first child without remembering that Dombolo threw a celebration for you. You can’t think about your 40th birthday without also thinking about the surprise party Dombolo organised that you didn’t attend. You can’t think about the time you lost your baby without remembering Nigel picking you up to take you to the airport at 7am on a winter morning. Your experiences are no longer just yours. You’ve lived life together.

That’s shared memory. It’s the reason you don’t have to do the full catch-up every time you see each other. Your friend was already there for parts of the story.

There’s a kind of adult life many of us are quietly building. I recognize it because I see it in my own. A life of smooth functioning. Bills paid. Calendar controlled. Problems resolved with minimal disruption. Nothing too dependent. Nothing too needy.

It sounds responsible. It sounds mature.

But it can also become a sealed life. A life where nobody can really enter unless invited in advance. Where needs are outsourced before they can become shared. Where convenience has protected us not only from hassle but from belonging.

A villager isn’t simply someone who likes people. A villager is someone whose life can be entered.

Take the walk

I keep coming back to those two men on the side of the road.

What struck me wasn’t just that they were together. It was that they were unhurried. Their time seemed open. Their presence with each other didn’t appear to need justification. They weren’t achieving anything. They were just sharing time.

And that image felt like a small rebuke to the way I’ve been living.

We’ve learned to value convenience so highly that we often don’t notice what it’s costing us. We protect our time so carefully that we don’t always realize we’re also protecting ourselves from one another. We avoid burdening people, and in doing so we sometimes avoid belonging to them.

But some of what looks inefficient is where life actually happens. And some of what seems like a burden is just what love looks like in ordinary clothes.

The window for many of these ordinary acts of presence is shorter than we like to think. You don’t get infinite chances to take the walk, make the trip, show up at the thing. Some of the people whose lives you could be sharing right now won’t always be this available.

Maybe the reason so many of us feel this low-grade distance from people we genuinely love isn’t that affection has disappeared. Maybe it’s that our lives are no longer arranged in ways that generate enough shared experience. Maybe the reason catch-ups feel so heavy is that they’re doing too much work. Maybe we’ve become too good at avoiding one another’s burdens.

We’re friends. We care. We mean it. But we’ve lost many of the little practices through which friendship becomes thick and natural. So we stand there doing updates. Trying to bridge with words what should have been built with life.

Everyone wants the village.

I’m starting to think the real question isn’t whether we want one. It’s whether we’re willing to live in a way that makes one. To ask for the lift instead of the Uber. To take the walk. To leave room in our lives for demands we didn’t schedule.

For my part, I think I need to take more walks.

I’d loved deeply; my wife, my friends, my siblings, my parents. I’d read about it, prayed about it, written about it. Love was something I knew well, or so I believed. But there are levels to understanding something as complex as love. And my understanding before had missing elements.

The love I have for my wife began the way most romantic love does: with choice. I noticed her; the way she laughed, the sharpness of her mind, how she moved through the world with this quiet confidence that I found magnetic. She had qualities I admired, values that aligned with mine, a way of seeing things that made me want to build a life alongside her. I chose her. And in choosing her, I was also choosing myself. Choosing the kind of life I wanted, the kind of person I wanted to become.

There’s nothing cynical about that. I think that’s how most of us love. We meet someone, and something in them calls to something in us. They fit. They make sense. They have to, in some way, earn our affection. Not through performance exactly, but by being the kind of person who draws love out of us. That’s natural. It’s healthy, even.

Over time, of course, that love deepens. It becomes less about the qualities that first attracted you and more about the person themselves, flaws and all. The conditions soften. The love becomes unconditional, or at least it moves in that direction. You forgive things you wouldn’t have tolerated at the beginning. You stay through hard seasons. You learn that real love isn’t just attraction; it’s commitment to someone even when they’re not at their best.

I thought that was the highest expression of love I’d ever experience. Two people who chose to reveal their most vulnerable parts to each other and do life with each other, no matter what.

Then, my daughter was born.

The first time I held her, this two-kilogram, wrinkled creature with eyes that couldn’t quite focus yet and limbs that wriggled aimlessly, I felt something crack open in my heart. It wasn’t gentle. It was overwhelming, almost violent in its intensity. Here was this tiny person who couldn’t do anything for me. She couldn’t charm me. She couldn’t impress me. She couldn’t even look at me and smile.

In those first weeks, she cried. My God, did she cry! The kind of crying where she’s absolutely inconsolable as if she’s in heart-wrenching pain, that makes you question everything about your competence as a parent. She kept us up through nights that felt endless, where I’d pace the passageway with her on my shoulder, her small body rigid with whatever discomfort she couldn’t articulate, and I’d feel this bone-deep exhaustion settling into me.

If you’re a parent, you know this peculiar chemistry, where exhaustion and frustration somehow transform into fiercer devotion. Where the very thing that’s breaking you is also remaking you. Where you discover reserves of patience you didn’t know existed, even as you’re running on empty.

If I’d applied the same criteria to her that I’d applied to my wife, if I’d evaluated her based on the qualities she brought to my life, I wouldn’t have loved her. She gave us nothing but need. She disrupted everything. She made our lives objectively harder. Especially my wife’s life; she took all the time and attention and energy and affection of the woman I love the most in the whole world.

And yet.

She drew love out of me with a fierceness that kept growing.

Not because of who she was, she wasn’t anyone yet, really. But simply because she was. Because she was mine. Because when I looked at her sleeping in my arms, her tiny fist curled around my finger, something in me recognised something in her. This wasn’t love I’d chosen. This wasn’t love I’d earned or that she’d earned from me. This was love that just... existed. Fully formed. Unconditional from the very first breath.

That’s when I realised: I’d been thinking about love all wrong. Or at least my picture was incomplete.

Suddenly, all the theology I’d preached for years about grace didn’t feel theoretical anymore.

I’d always known, intellectually, about unconditional love. I’m a Christian. I’ve preached about grace, about how God loves us not because of what we do but because of who He is. I could quote the verses, explain the theology. I understood the concept.

But understanding and experiencing are two different things.

Before my daughter, I had no framework for practicing that kind of love. Every love I’d experienced before had an element of reciprocity built into it. My friends chose to be my friends. My wife chose me. Even my relationship with God, as one-sided as His love is, involved my response, my faith, my actions.

But my daughter? She didn’t choose me. She couldn’t respond. She couldn’t reciprocate. And yet I would have, and still would, do anything for her. I’d sacrifice sleep, money, comfort, my own needs. I’d put myself between her and any harm without thinking twice. Not because she earned it, but because loving her is woven into the fabric of who I am now.

Parenting didn’t teach me a new concept. It thrust me into a new position. For the first time in my life, I was in God’s shoes, or the closest a human can get. I was the one loving first. The one loving despite. The one loving toward a vision of who this person could become, even though right now she’s just beginning to exist in the world.

But this revelation didn’t settle things. It unsettled them.

If this was what love really was, this unconditional, unearned, fierce devotion, then are all the other loves lesser or incomplete or practice runs?

Here’s what I think: parental love isn’t just unconditional. It’s transformational.

When I hold my daughter, I don’t just accept her as she is, though I do, completely. I also see who she could be. I have this vision of her: full of potential, full of possibility. I see the woman she might become: confident, kind, capable of deep thought and deep love. And every decision I make now, every way I interact with her, is aimed at helping her become that person.

If you’re a parent you’ve probably felt this, looking at your child and experiencing time collapse. Seeing simultaneously who they are and who they’re becoming. Feeling the sacred weight of being the bridge between those two realities. Feeling like you’re holding potential itself in your arms.

But it’s also terrifying. What if I get this wrong?

This transformational quality of love is about having hopes for your child, sure, but it’s also about being an active participant in their becoming. Every interaction is formative. When I soothe her cries, I’m teaching her the world is safe. When I delight in her babbling, I’m teaching her that her voice matters. When I maintain consistency even when I’m exhausted, I’m building her capacity to trust.

And it’s not just my individual interactions with her. She’s watching everything. The way my wife and I speak to each other. How we handle disagreement. Whether we show contempt or compassion when we’re frustrated. Whether we stonewall or stay engaged when things get hard. Every pattern she observes is writing code in her developing mind about what love looks like.

If we model anxious attachment, she’ll learn that love is uncertain. If we can’t handle conflict well, she’ll learn that disagreement means disconnection. If we show each other contempt, she’ll learn that love includes cruelty.

The weight of this hit me one night when my wife and I were having a tense conversation, and I saw my daughter watching us intently. She couldn’t understand our words, but it really seemed like she could feel the energy. And that made it real to me that we’re not just living our marriage. We’re teaching her what marriage is.

So in these ways, love is a creative force. Not creating from nothing, as God does, but partnering with Him in the sacred work of shaping a life. And the stakes couldn’t be higher.

With my wife, I can hope for who she might become, but my influence on that is limited. She’s an adult making her own choices. But my daughter’s completely impressionable. Frighteningly so. My wife and I are her world right now. Individual moments might not matter much. But the cumulative pattern of how we love her will shape who she becomes.

I think about it like erosion. Each individual abrasion is subtle, almost imperceptible. But over time, it shapes the landscape. Except we’re not just wearing away at something. We’re also building. Every loving interaction deposits something: security, worth, capability. It’s erosion and accretion happening simultaneously. We’re both carving channels and laying down sediment that will become the bedrock of who she becomes.

So transformational love operates on two levels simultaneously. First, it accepts completely: ‘You are enough, right now, exactly as you are.’ Then it calls forward: ‘And I see who you could be, and I’m here to help you get there.’

This isn’t conditional love masquerading as unconditional. The acceptance is real and complete. But real love doesn’t leave us where we are. It sees our potential and labours toward it. Unconditional doesn’t mean static. It means ‘I love you at every stage of your becoming.’

That’s what real love does. It accepts first. Then it transforms.

I couldn’t help but wonder: if love shapes us this profoundly, if every interaction is writing code in my daughter’s developing mind, then how was I shaped? What loves formed me? What code was written into my own understanding?

Looking back, I can see a pattern. Each form of love I’ve experienced hasn’t been random. They’ve been sequential, building on each other. Each one teaching me something I needed to know for the next.

When you’re a child, you receive love before you can do anything to deserve it. Your parents love you simply because you exist. You learn that you are inherently valuable, not because of what you accomplish or how you perform, but because you are theirs. That’s your first lesson: you are worthy simply by being.

That’s what I was giving my daughter now. She was receiving what I had received. The circle was completing itself.

Then you grow up alongside siblings. Sibling love is strange. You don’t choose your siblings. They’re just there. Sometimes they annoy you. Sometimes they’re nothing like you. But you love them anyway. You learn to coexist with people you didn’t select, to practice patience and loyalty even when resonance isn’t automatic. That’s the second lesson: love can endure even when it’s not chosen.

Then comes friendship, the first time you really get to choose. You meet someone and think, “Yes, this person. I want to walk through life alongside them.” There’s freedom in that. You’re choosing based on shared values, shared interests, shared routines. That’s the third lesson: love flourishes in choice.

But then romantic love enters, and the stakes change entirely. You’re choosing someone you’re going to let into the most private, most vulnerable parts of your life. You’re handing someone the power to truly hurt you, trusting they won’t use that power against you. It’s love with skin in the game. You’re saying, “Here’s my whole self: the good, the bad, the broken. And I’m trusting you with it.” That’s the fourth lesson: real love involves risk.

And then you become a parent. And suddenly, you’re on the other side of the equation entirely. You’re no longer just receiving love or choosing to give it. You’re creating it from nothing. You’re loving someone who didn’t earn it, who can’t reciprocate it, who doesn’t even understand it yet. You’re pouring yourself out into this small person who gives you nothing back except need.

And you do it gladly. Sacrificially. With a kind of devotion that surprises even you.

To love someone who hasn’t done anything to deserve it. To see who they could be and love them fiercely even though they’re nowhere near that yet.

And this wasn’t just my journey. This is THE journey. The universal pattern. Every human being, ideally, goes through this same curriculum. We all learn love in stages, each one preparing us for the next, each one revealing something new about the nature of love itself.

And if that’s true, if there’s this built-in progression from receiving to giving, from being loved to loving like God loves, then maybe the whole structure of human relationships is designed to teach us something.

I used to hear the phrase “God is love” and think of it as a theological definition. But now I think it’s more than that. I think it’s not just describing God but revealing the key to a map.

Our whole journey with human relationships is the map. Showing us all the different waypoints of love and how they’re all connected and how they interact. And ‘God is love’ is telling us that all that is about teaching us who God is.

It is all about teaching us to understand Him better. The different stages of life, the different forms of love we experience, they’re all part of that curriculum.

Childhood teaches us we are loved without needing to earn it. Siblings teach us to love those we didn’t choose. Friendship teaches us to choose love freely. Romance teaches us to love vulnerably. Parenting teaches us to love sacrificially, creatively, without expectation of return.

This whole progression is God revealing Himself to us, piece by piece, through the very structure of human relationship. Life itself is His way of teaching us to recognise Him.

Once I understood this, something about my own life suddenly made sense.

I’ve been exhausted for years. Not just physically tired, but soul-tired. I wake up with this constant anxiety that I need to perform, to achieve, to prove I’m enough. Even after accomplishments, even after success, the feeling never goes away. It just resets. The bar moves higher. The treadmill speeds up.

I’m a grown man, a husband, a father and I’m still trying to earn something from someone who isn’t even keeping score anymore.

I’ve spent so much energy trying to earn something, but I could never quite name what I was trying to earn. Love? Respect? The right to exist without apology?

And then it clicked: what if I’m exhausted because I never fully learned the first lesson? What if I’ve been trying to earn what was already mine?

I can trace it back. The subtle ways love got tied to achievement in my childhood. The praise for good grades that felt like love. The disappointment over failures that felt like withdrawal. Not malicious, not intentional, but still there. Still teaching me that I had to earn my place.

And now I’m terrified of doing the same thing to my daughter.

Because this exhaustion isn’t just personal. It’s generational. It’s systemic. Every parent who didn’t fully receive that first lesson, that they’re loved simply for existing, struggles to give it to their children. We love them for their achievements, their behavior, how they reflect on us. We pass on the performance. We pass on the exhaustion.

When you don’t know you’re loved just for being, you spend your whole life trying to earn what’s already yours. And then, without meaning to, you teach your children the same desperate dance.

This is why what I’m learning with my daughter matters so much. It’s not just about us. It’s about breaking a cycle. Every time I love her in her neediness, every time I delight in her simply because she exists, I’m writing different code. I’m teaching her the first lesson properly. I’m giving her what every human being needs: the knowledge that she is loved without needing to perform.

We’re not just learning about love. We’re deciding what kind of love gets passed forward.

Yesterday, my daughter cried uncontrollably when her mother was out. Probably feeling anxious about the separation. A few months ago, I would have felt only exhaustion and anxiety. But as I comforted her, I found myself thinking about this architecture of love I’d been discovering.

Here she was, giving me nothing but need in this moment. And here I was, loving her fiercely anyway. And maybe, just maybe, she was learning what has taken me my whole life to understand: that she is loved before she does anything to deserve it.

She doesn’t know it yet, but through these moments, she’s receiving her first lesson in the curriculum. The same one I received. The same one humans have been receiving since the beginning.

And one day, if we do this right, if my wife and I can model healthy love, if we can show her that conflict doesn’t mean disconnection, that vulnerability is strength, that love accepts and transforms, she’ll pass it on. Not the anxiety. Not the performance. But the truth that love isn’t just an emotion or a choice or a commitment. It’s all of those things, yes, but it’s also a kind of participation in something larger. A way of being that reflects the heart of God Himself.

Each form of love I’ve experienced, childhood, siblings, friendship, romance, parenting, has been like a window into a different room of the same vast house. Each one showing me a new angle, a new colour of the spectrum. And together, they’re giving me a fuller picture of what love actually is.

Life itself seems to be one long education in love. Each stage, each relationship, each chapter revealing a new piece of the same design.

And maybe that’s the point. Maybe God keeps finding new ways to show love to us. Through parents, through siblings, through friends, through spouses, through children. Until one day, we finally recognise it for what it’s always been.

Not just something we feel or something we do.

But Someone we’re learning to know.

I understood exactly what she meant. That mix of longing and apprehension. Wanting to go and wanting to have already left. Missing home while wanting to keep the distance.

We talked for a long time that evening, circling around something we both knew but struggled to name. The conversation kept returning to the same uncomfortable truth: home doesn’t feel the same anymore. Not really. Not in the way we used to fit there, effortlessly, without thinking about it.

We love the place we come from: Bulawayo. I miss it in ways that surprise me, in the middle of ordinary days when I’m doing something completely unrelated and suddenly the longing hits like a physical thing in my chest. But loving a place and fitting in it aren’t the same thing. We’re learning that the hard way.

Maybe you know this feeling too. That pull toward home that sits alongside a quiet dread. The way you count down to a visit with genuine excitement and genuine anxiety living in the same breath. The strange guilt of missing a place while simultaneously knowing you can’t stay there long. If you’ve felt this, if you’ve tried to explain it to someone and watched your words fail to capture the complexity, this is for you. Not to fix the tension but to name it. To give you language for what you already know inside but can’t quite say out loud.

I love reading fantasy. Right now I’m working through The Wheel of Time by Robert Jordan. It’s a long series. Fourteen books. Epic in every sense of the word. While on a walk yesterday, I finished Book Five (I was listening to the audiobook) and as I was reflecting on what I had just experienced, that conversation with my wife came back to me and wouldn’t leave because I’d found something that explains the feelings we were having.

The story of the Wheel of Time follows a group of young people from a farming region called the Two Rivers. Small, quiet place. Everyone knows everyone. But they’re forced to leave the Two Rivers to go on an epic adventure. One of them, Rand, discovers he’s the prophesied Dragon Reborn. By Book Five, he’s learned to channel immense power that could level cities if he loses control. He’s seen wonders and horrors that no one from the Two Rivers could imagine. He’s made choices that ripple across nations, decisions that affect the lives of thousands of people he’ll never meet. He carries the weight of the world now. Literally.

As I reflected on the ending of book five, the thought that was stuck on my mind is that there’s no way Rand could go back to the Two Rivers and fit in anymore. He’s become too big for it. The shape of his life has changed so fundamentally that the old mould can’t hold him anymore.

While I haven’t quite gone on an epic adventure of world-changing proportions, I know that feeling. I live in it.

There’s a saying in isiNdebele. ‘Ukuhamba kuzal’ inkosi,’ which translates to ‘Traveling gives birth to kings.’ When I was a boy, I thought it meant wealth and status. Kings as men with big houses and German cars that never break down and people who never stand in line at the bank. Now I know it means something quieter and heavier and harder to explain to someone who hasn’t felt it. Travel enlarges you. It stretches the borders of who you are and what you can see and how you understand the world. And once you expand like that, you can’t shrink back to your old size. Not without incurring a cost, anyway. The box that used to hold you comfortably now feels too small.

Bulawayo raised me well. The city gave me a lot I needed to become who I am. It was a good childhood. A happy one. I have many fond memories.

During the week after school, I rode bikes with friends. We were a small gang of boys, and we ruled our little corner of the world with the absolute certainty of children who don’t know yet how small their kingdom is. We wandered the suburbs exploring. Down streets we weren’t supposed to go down. Into yards we weren’t supposed to enter. We walked kilometers and kilometers without thinking about it, without getting tired, just moving for the sake of moving and seeing what was around the next corner.

Then we had to rush back to be home by six. That was the rule. Six o’clock before parents returned from work. We came back with dust up to our knees. Thick white dust that got into everything. You had to wash your legs before getting into the house. Rinse off all that evidence of your adventures before you were allowed to sit on the sofas or walk on the clean floors.

If I was hanging out at a friend’s house around mealtime, I’d be counted in automatically. No one asked if you’d eaten or if you were hungry. You were there so you were fed. The same isitshwala and mbida at every table, part of the shared life.

Back then, every adult was your parent. In theory and in practice. If you were doing something you shouldn’t be doing, any adult could correct you, and you accepted it because that was just how things worked. You knew all your neighbors. Not just their names but their business, their struggles, their joys.

It was a small world. Homogeneous in ways I didn’t realise then. We were all black. Almost all Ndebele. We all went to the same types of schools and the same types of churches. Our parents were teachers or nurses or clerks or government workers. Solid middle class or aspiring to it. We had the same references, the same jokes, the same understanding of how the world worked. Everyone fit the same basic mold with only minor variations.

But it was the whole world. It was all I knew, and all I needed to know. The edges of that world felt far away, theoretical, not something I’d ever actually reach.

Then I left.

School finished. I worked for a few years. Opportunities appeared. I went to South Africa first. Then eventually moved to London. Each move feeling necessary at the time, practical, the obvious next step.

But those moves weren’t just geographic. They weren’t just about changing addresses or learning new streets. They changed something fundamental to how I saw the world and my place in it.

South Africa was the first crack in the homogeneity. Suddenly I was surrounded by people who weren’t like me. They spoke different languages, practiced different religions, came from different economic realities entirely. I met some who grew up so poor that my middle-class Bulawayo childhood looked like luxury to them. I met others who grew up so wealthy they genuinely didn’t understand what it meant to worry about money.

I remember the first time I met someone who’d never been to church, who hadn’t grown up with any religion at all. It broke something in my brain in a necessary way. In Bulawayo, you could assume everyone was Christian. Even people who didn’t go to church regularly, even people who weren’t particularly devout, still operated within a Christian framework. They knew the stories, the references, the basic moral architecture. But here was someone who didn’t. Who saw the world through a completely different lens. Who’d built their ethics and their understanding of meaning from completely different materials.

And there were people. A whole community of people who became our people for that season. We found a group of friends in South Africa who felt like our tribe. Like the kind of connection that happens once in a lifetime and surely lasts forever. We took trips together. Long road trips filled with singing and food and getting lost, but it didn’t matter because getting lost was part of the adventure. We sang together at different churches, our voices finding harmonies that felt like something bigger than any of us individually. Sunday afternoons that stretched into evenings, having a braai at someone’s house, talking about everything and nothing.

It felt permanent. That’s something you come to discover about these seasons. They feel permanent while you’re in them. You can’t imagine a version of your life where these people aren’t central to it. This is our community. These are our people. This beautiful thing we’ve built together, it’s going to last.

It didn’t.

When we visit South Africa now, we sometimes see them. The friends from that season. We meet for coffee or dinner, and the warmth is real. The love is still there. But something has shifted. They’ve moved on to new things, new communities, new versions of themselves. We have too. We talk about the old days with affection and nostalgia, but we can’t recreate them. Those people still exist, but that community doesn’t. It served its purpose for that time and then it dissolved, the way morning mist dissolves when the sun gets high enough.

That dissolution used to hurt more than it does now. The first time I really felt a community come apart, I fought it. I thought if we just tried harder, stayed more connected, made more effort, we could keep it alive. But communities aren’t just about effort. They’re about season and proximity and shared purpose and a thousand other factors that shift whether you want them to or not. Some relationships endure beyond the community. Those ones you carry with you, fold into the next chapter, hold on to across distance and time. But the community itself, that specific configuration of people in that specific place at that specific time, it has a lifespan.

Then London.

London has been something else entirely. A city so large and so diverse that you could live here for years and still only scratch the surface of it. On the Tube, you could hear ten different languages from five different countries between Baker Street and Paddington. At work, I collaborate with people from every continent, every background you can imagine. People who pray five times a day. People who have never prayed in their lives. People whose parents own businesses that span countries. People whose childhoods included winters that got to -40 degrees Celsius.

Each of these encounters did something to me. Stretched me. Challenged assumptions I didn’t know I was making. Showed me that the way I grew up wasn’t the only way, wasn’t the default, was just one option among infinite possibilities.

And once you see that, once you really internalize it, you can’t go back to thinking your small corner is the whole world. The box expands. The borders move. You become larger than you were.

And here too, in London, we found people. Different people. A new community. We’re part of something now that feels good and right and like it might last forever. Except we’ve been here before. We know how this goes. We can feel it already, the subtle shift. Not everyone at the same pace. Some people moving toward different things. The community is still beautiful, still real, but we’re not at the apex anymore. We’re on the other side of the hill. The slow, inevitable drift has begun. Now I’m learning to hold these dissolutions with more grace. To honor what was without demanding it last forever. To let the community be beautiful for its season and then let it go when the season ends. To trust that the next place will have its own people, its own version of belonging, its own sweet spot before it too shifts into something else.

When I visit Bulawayo now, I aim for a sweet spot. Two weeks maximum.

Week one is pure delight. Landing at the airport and stepping out into that heat that hits you like a wall. The heat in London is never like that. It’s never this specific, this thick, this full of dust and sun and something else I can’t name but would recognize anywhere. The air smells different. Feels different on your skin.

People light up when they see you. Literally, like you’re returning from war. Someone will say you look darker or lighter depending on their mood and the light. Someone will inspect you closely and declare you’ve gained weight or lost weight, both said with the same mix of concern and approval.

You greet everyone. That’s important. You have to get it right, or the elders will talk about how you’ve lost your manners overseas.

The first morning you wake up early. Not because you set an alarm but because your body hasn’t adjusted to the time and also because the sounds are different. Birds are singing in the trees at five in the morning. A rooster somewhere in the distance, because even in the city people rear their own chickens. The neighborhood waking up with its own particular rhythm.

You take the long way to buy bread. You don’t need to, but you do it anyway because you want to pass that corner where you used to meet up. You want to see if the tree’s still there, if the wall still has that crack in it, if the world has stayed the same in your absence. Mostly it has.

Friends come by. Friends you haven’t seen in years but who fall back into conversation with you like no time has passed. You laugh from the belly about stupid things you did as kids. Remember that time when. Remember when we. The stories get better each time you tell them, embellished with time and distance and affection.

For those first few days, it’s all warmth. All belonging. You fit into the spaces you left behind like a hand sliding into a familiar glove. You belong to this place, and this place belongs to you. You could live here again. Of course, you could. How did you ever leave?

Week two rolls in. There’s no clear boundary, no moment when you can point and say here, this is where it shifted. It creeps in at the edges.

At first, it’s just a small tug. A quiet discomfort you can’t quite name. The streets feel narrower somehow. Conversations start to loop back on themselves. The government, and power cuts, and the same stories about the same old people making the same choices. You’ve heard these stories before. You’ll hear them again tomorrow.

You still love the food. The braai meat, isitshwala, the texture of it in your fingers, the way it fills you differently than anything you eat in London. Smoke in your eyes. It’s perfect. It’s home.

But by midweek, something else is present too. You can feel the box. The box has walls. The walls are closer than they used to be. Topics you can’t discuss because they’re too far outside the shared frame of reference. Questions you don’t ask because you know the answer will just confirm the gap. You start to notice all the ways you’ve changed and they haven’t, or they’ve changed and you haven’t, or you’ve both changed but in different directions and now you’re standing on opposite sides of a distance that love can’t fully bridge.

You start counting days. Six more. Five more. By the weekend, the sweetness is gone entirely. If you stay longer, nostalgia curdles into something else. Ache. Then impatience. Then a version of yourself you don’t like. Complaining about everything. Feeling trapped in a place you’re choosing to be.

I’ve learned to leave before I sour. Before I start resenting the place I love. Before the people who love me start to see that restless part of me that can’t settle.

This is the pattern we’ve learned. Most times when that longing for home hits us, we go as far as South Africa instead of all the way to Zimbabwe. Not to meet family necessarily. That’s not the main driver. We go to satisfy the ache without fully committing. To dip our toes in the water of home without diving all the way in.

Because South Africa occupies this interesting middle space for us. It was the first place that loosened the homogeneity we grew up with. The first place where difference sat next to you on the taxi without anyone making a scene about it. People from everywhere. Accents from all over the continent and beyond stacking on top of each other. The people at the mall looking like a map of the world. Languages switching mid-sentence. Different ways of being existing side by side.

It’s bigger than Bulawayo. It breathes. It has room for multiplicity, for variation, for people who don’t fit the standard mold. We can taste home there, catch the flavor of it in the accents and the food and the mannerisms, without feeling the walls close in quite as fast. We can last longer. Three weeks. Sometimes a month. Before the sweet spot ends and the confinement begins again.

This is the part I struggle to explain to people back home. From their perspective, it can look like pride. Like we think we’re better because we live overseas now. You think you’re too good for us. That’s the unspoken accusation, sometimes the spoken one.

But it’s not that. I wish it were that simple because then I could just correct my attitude and everything would be fine. It’s not about better or worse. It’s about geometry. About shape and fit. The shape of my life has changed. The container that used to hold it comfortably can’t hold it anymore. Not because the container is bad or small or insufficient. Because I’m different. I’ve been poured into a larger mold and set there, and now I’ve hardened into a new shape.

How do you explain that to someone who hasn’t experienced it? There’s a song by Sara Groves called “Painting Pictures of Egypt.” She sings:

I feel that deeply. The places I long for most are the places where I’ve been. Bulawayo calls to me. South Africa calls to me. Not as they are now but as they were when I fit in them, when I belonged without question. Not just the places but the people. The communities that formed and felt permanent and then dissolved like they were never supposed to last at all.

The song goes on:

And there it is. The whole ache in two lines. I want to go back. The longing is real and deep and constant. But the places that used to fit me can’t hold the things I’ve learned. Can’t contain what I’ve seen. Can’t accommodate who I’ve become. And the communities that once held me can’t reform because we’ve all become different shapes, traveling different roads, even if we still carry affection for what we once had together.

And then this line, the one that really gets me:

Between the past and what’s coming. Between what was and what might be. Between the comfort of the known and the pull of the unknown. Between the place I came from and the person I’m becoming. Between the communities that were and the ones that might yet be.

That’s where I live now. In that caught-between space.

London is not home. Not yet. Maybe not ever in the way Bulawayo was home when I was a boy, and home meant the place where you belonged without having to think about it.

Some days it feels like it might become home. Days when the city reveals some new corner, some unexpected beauty. Other days, it feels completely foreign. Like you’re an actor playing a role, always slightly outside yourself.

I have small rituals that stitch a sense of belonging in it. A particular bench in a park where the light falls a certain way in the afternoon and I sit and listen to my book. The Turkish restaurant where I order the same thing every time. A church where the singing rises in a way that feels like worship, even if it’s not the four-part harmony I’m used to.

So, I pack Bulawayo into my pockets and carry it with me. A proverb that surfaces when I need it. A recipe I recreate in a kitchen thousands of miles away that never quite tastes right, but it’s close enough. The cadence that returns to my voice when I’m tired, the way I spoke when I was young, slipping through. I carry South Africa in my stride. That wider breath, that willingness to occupy space without apologizing. And I carry the people from there who still reach across distance, who check in, who remember. Not the whole community, but the threads that endured.

I’m learning to be in many places at once without being torn apart by it. To hold multiple identities without having them collapse. To accept that communities form and dissolve and that’s not failure, that’s just the rhythm of a life lived across many places. It’s exhausting. The constant negotiation, the code-switching, always standing at the border between worlds. Always saying goodbye to communities that felt permanent, always starting over with new people, always carrying the grief of what dissolved and the hope that this next thing might last. But it’s also rich. I see things people who’ve only lived in one place can’t see. I understand multiplicity in a way that only comes from living it.

Frodo saves the Shire in The Lord of the Rings. He endures everything to protect it, to make it possible for hobbits to keep living their simple comfortable lives. He succeeds. He returns. The Shire is saved.

But he can’t live there anymore. The hearth is warm, but he feels cold in a way that no fire can touch. His friends celebrate and feast and marry and settle into peace, and he can’t join them. Not really. He can be physically present, but he’s not there the way he used to be there. The journey has marked him too deeply. It has changed him in ways that can’t be undone.

So eventually he leaves. Gets on a ship and sails away to a place where the changed and the marked and the unbelonging go. It’s not defeat exactly. It’s just honesty. An acknowledgment that some transformations are irreversible.

I think about that a lot. About irreversible transformations. About the ways we save the places we love by becoming people who can no longer fully inhabit them. About how we form communities that feel eternal and then watch them dissolve, not because anyone did anything wrong but because that’s what communities do when the season changes.

This hits especially close to home for so many people I know. My friends who left Zimbabwe. My friends here in London. Most of us didn’t leave for adventure or curiosity. We left for survival. For opportunity. To earn enough to support families back home. To pay the black tax. The responsibility to send money home.

But here’s the cruel irony: the places that pay you enough to save home are the same places that change you so fundamentally you can’t fit back home anymore. You see different ways of life, meet people with different values, and form new reference points. Your frame of reference expands. Your assumptions shift. The way you think about time, about work, about what’s possible - it all changes. Until one day you go back and realise you can no longer inhabit the place you’re saving.

The tax isn’t just the money you send back. It’s the piece of belonging you trade away to earn that money. You can’t have both.

If traveling makes kings, it also makes exiles. That’s the part the proverb doesn’t say out loud, but it’s there in the subtext if you know how to look.

The crown is vision. The ability to see farther, to connect dots across greater distances, to understand complexity and multiplicity and nuance. That’s the gift. That’s what you gain.

The exile is the cost. You belong less easily. Home becomes complicated. The borders that used to feel solid and protecting now feel like walls that are too close, too rigid, too confining. Communities that felt permanent reveal themselves to be temporary. Relationships that seemed unshakeable shift when distance enters the equation. You can’t unknow what you know. You can’t unsee what you’ve seen. You can’t shrink back down to fit in the space that used to hold you perfectly.

That’s freedom in one sense. You’re not limited to one way of being, one way of seeing. The world is larger for you than it is for people who never left. It’s also grief. Deep and ongoing grief for the simpler version of yourself who fit so neatly, for the belonging you can never quite reclaim, for the communities that dissolved, leaving only the sweetness of memory.

I’m learning to let the freedom expand me and let the grief soften me and somehow keep both happening at the same time. It’s not easy. Some days I do it better than others.

I don’t aim to fit perfectly anywhere now. I think I’m done with that as a goal.

Could I go back if I had to? Yes. Humans are adaptable. Some people I know found middle grounds I didn’t - stayed closer to home while still expanding, or settled in nearer countries where the distance isn’t quite so far. Given enough time and necessity, I could reform myself to fit the old mould. But I’d have to make myself smaller. I’d have to let go of all those other places I’ve seen, those other ways of being or carry them silently, never speaking about them, living in permanent longing. Before circumstances force me to shrink back down, I’m choosing to honor the new shape I’ve become. To carry multiple homes instead of fitting completely in one.

Perfection was an illusion anyway. It only felt perfect because my world was small enough that I couldn’t see beyond its edges.

Now I want something different. I want to carry this expanded world faithfully. To let it make me kinder because I’ve met people unlike me and learned they’re still deserving of dignity. To make me more curious because every person might have a completely different map of reality. To make me less certain that my way is the only road. I want to keep space at my table for someone whose map looks nothing like mine, whose journey led them to conclusions I don’t understand. To listen more than I defend.

I want to honor the communities that form without demanding they last forever. To leave before I sour and return before I forget. To know my limits and respect them.

Home is not a single address for me anymore. It’s not a dot on a map. It’s a constellation. Multiple points spread across distance, all connected by invisible lines, all part of the same larger map.

Bulawayo lives in me, the dust on my legs after a long walk, kombis rattling past with bass thumping from speakers bigger than they should have, that comfortable embrace of familiarity. South Africa taught me difference doesn’t have to mean distance, that multiplicity is just reality when you zoom out far enough, that beautiful communities can form and then end and that’s fine. London is teaching me to be many things at once without apologizing, to build home from scratch in a place that doesn’t know my childhood and forces me to be myself in the present tense. To start over again, with new people in a new place, knowing it might not last but showing up anyway.

The constellation moves when I move. I carry it with me. Every place where I’ve stopped long enough to become a slightly different version of myself. Every person who walked alongside me for a time. Places and people. Enduring connections rather than permanent communities. Many ways of belonging rather than one.

The work is simple in concept, difficult in execution. One star at a time. One small ritual. One phone call. One visit before I sour. One return before I forget. One season with people who matter. One graceful goodbye when the season ends.

That’s the work I’m learning. And if you’re reading this, maybe it’s your work too. Find your sweet spot. Honor it. Respect it. Return before you forget. Leave before you sour.

And know that you’re not alone in this strange expanded world. Some of us are walking this too. Carrying constellations. Learning to belong partially in many places rather than completely in one. Building homes that move when we move.

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My biggest goal in life is to affect others positively, not just in small ways, but in transformative ones. I want people to say at my funeral that I altered the course of their lives and they’re better for it. To achieve this, I strive to think, work, and speak with others’ best interests in mind. Giving good advice and being serious when necessary are all part of that pursuit. But I’ve realised this drive can make me a boring person. There’s also value in being someone who’s enjoyable to be around, and who brings a refreshing atmosphere. Not someone who always has a lecture or a Bible study in tow. Those have their place, but so does creating a feel-good atmosphere, even in serious moments. Be serious, yes. Build a legacy, yes. Change people’s lives and change the world—but don’t be a buzzkill. Learn to enjoy the moment, to be free, and to bring joy when the time is right.

In his book Die with Zero, Bill Perkins introduces an idea that stuck with me. He argues that many people waste their life energy—not frivolously, but by spending it all on acquiring things and building for a future they may not fully enjoy. It’s good to prepare for the future, but it’s just as crucial to enjoy life’s experiences when they’re most meaningful to us.

Perkins paints a vivid picture of what people value most when they’re on their deathbeds. It’s not the money they saved or the possessions they accumulated; it’s the experiences they had, the memories they made, and the moments they shared with loved ones. This aligns perfectly with the idea of optimising for vibes—not recklessly, but thoughtfully, by valuing experiences at their most impactful moments.

For example, it’s not ideal to save all your money to travel in your 50s, only to find that by then, your energy and enthusiasm for exploration have waned. Instead, why not travel in your 20s and 30s when those experiences can shape your perspective and add richness to your life? It might look like you’re squandering your retirement, but in reality, you’re borrowing from your future self to live fully today.

This doesn’t mean spending money you don’t have or being reckless. Perkins advocates for financial wisdom, planning for retirement, and caring for loved ones. But he also emphasises ensuring resources create the most joy and fulfilment when it matters most. To look back on life with pride, we need to maximise meaningful experiences at the right time.

Have you ever noticed how different people watch movies? When I watch a film, I often want to catch every piece of dialogue, focus on every plot point, and understand every nuance. My wife, on the other hand, just needs the general plot and resolution. For her, as long as the vibe is right, everything else falls into place—the details aren’t as crucial.

Maybe there’s something to be learned from that perspective. Sometimes, it’s okay to let go of obsessing over every minor detail and just enjoy the experience. And to be clear, neither approach is better or worse; they’re just different ways of experiencing the same thing.

Patrick Willems has an interesting review of the movie Tenet by Christopher Nolan that hits on this point. He describes how complex and puzzling the movie can be, yet also how it captivates with its energy and spectacle. Eventually, Willems concludes that Tenet might be a "vibes movie," one where the experience is more about the feeling it creates than about perfect understanding.

Christopher McQuarrie, director of the Mission: Impossible movies, made a related observation:

"Build character through action, screw the plot. Plot is merely why things happen. Character is why I give a shit that it’s happening. Bond’s structure, generally speaking, is a study in the irrelevance of plot. I cannot recall a single Bond plot in any detail. But I know WHERE Bond is going and WHY at all times (reasons). When it’s working, I’m never confused as to his IMMEDIATE objective."

Optimising for vibes is also about optimising for this feeling—where, in any given moment, you’re clear about where you’re going in life and why. There’s no confusion about the immediate objective. For everything else, if the vibe is right, then it’s good. This isn't to say there is no plot; it's there, just like there are goals, plans, and other serious things in life. But this is about how we enjoy the movie, and in context, it's about how we enjoy life. We don’t enjoy life by focusing on the plot details, but by being fully present and enjoying the current moment. There’s a time to work on the plans and goals, but as we move through the moments, we optimise for good vibes.

The title of this article, "Optimise for Vibes," was inspired by Rich Harris at a Svelte London Meetup I attended early in 2024. It was a tech talk, of course, but the point he made about optimising for vibes stuck with me. He said:

"People use Svelte because they like Svelte. They like it because it aligns with their aesthetic sensibilities. Instead of striving to be the fastest or smallest or whateverest, we explicitly aim to be the framework with the best vibes."

He went on to say, “While Svelte is fast, it’s not the fastest; it’s small, but it’s not the smallest. It uses a compiler, but it doesn’t do this as much as other frameworks. Often, someone will write a long detailed article highlighting all the ways they believe Svelte is disastrous on a technical level, but when you scratch beneath the surface, what they really mean is that they don't like the vibes. And that's fine—we don't have to try and win those people over, because in trying to do that, we risk ruining the things that made us successful. Vibes are hard to define; we can't enumerate the determining factors because we don't know them. All we can do is make good vibes an explicit goal of the project.”

I think this is true for many parts of life. Often, when you see a passionate critique of a film, book, or popular subculture—especially where no objective right or wrong can be determined—at the core it is someone communicating that the thing just doesn’t match their vibes. If we understood this, we could significantly reduce the number of passionate disagreements and arguments we have with others.

Not that I don't believe in objective truth. I do. Sometimes it's not that their experience doesn't align with ours, it's that objectively we are wrong or they are wrong. I know that. But here I am accounting for the fact that there's a significant number of times when it's subjective but we think it's not, and we hold to our guns and we fight when the issue is just that the vibes aren't aligning.

I loved this idea. It’s not always about being the fastest or the most efficient. Sometimes, it’s about creating something that resonates with people on a deeper level—something that just feels good to use or be around. This is how we should aim to be in life. No matter how smart you try to be, someone will always be smarter. You can aim to be very knowledgeable, but you won’t be the most knowledgeable. You can aim to be very accomplished, but you won’t be the most accomplished. And that’s all fine. People don’t choose us because we’re the most anything. Often someone will have lots of words to say about why we’re not the best or how we can do things better or be better, but usually when you scratch beneath the surface, what they really mean is that they just don’t vibe with us. And that’s fine. We should optimise for the best vibes but also know that will not be everyone’s vibe.

People are often drawn to activities, products, and experiences that align with their aesthetic sensibilities and emotional resonance. The idea of optimising for vibes is about focusing on what feels right, what resonates, and what makes life enjoyable. In a world where we're constantly bombarded with metrics, goals, and objectives, it's refreshing to align ourselves with what truly feels good. However, this doesn't mean vibes should be the sole guiding principle. Vibes alone can be misleading and aren’t always the best metric for determining what to do or which direction to go.

The foundational elements—like planning, setting goals, and being efficient—are crucial. They give us structure, purpose, and a clear path forward. Without them, we may drift, moving from one good feeling to the next without making genuine progress. But once those elements are figured out, there is a place for optimising for vibes. Vibes make the journey enjoyable, help us build meaningful relationships, and ensure that we are not just living for some far-off goal but embracing the present.

Instead of striving to be the fastest, the smallest, or the most efficient, why not aim to have the best vibes? Why not focus on creating moments that resonate deeply with us and those around us? Journey before destination.

Life isn’t just about what we achieve; it’s about the quality of the journey and the connections we make along the way. By optimising for vibes, we become present, enjoy our experiences, and create meaningful memories. Goals and efficiency matter, but so do joy and fulfilment.

Ultimately, life is a delicate balancing act—between striving for meaningful achievements and savouring the experiences along the way. Serious goals and productivity are important, but they should never overshadow the joy, connections, and moments that make life worth living. Optimising for vibes means integrating purpose and presence—making the journey as enriching as the destination.

So let’s build lives that feel good, and that others enjoy sharing. Let’s create impact and leave legacies, but let’s also embrace the joy of being fully alive. When we align our actions with what resonates deeply, we find that life becomes not just a pursuit, but a profound and satisfying experience.

My favourite fantasy author, Brandon Sanderson, writes in The Stormlight Archive about the first ideal of the Knights Radiant: "Life before death, strength before weakness, journey before destination." This reminds us that the journey holds intrinsic value. The experiences we gather, the relationships we nurture, and the moments we cherish make it worth taking. In 2025 and beyond, let’s honour that ideal by living fully, embracing the path, and optimising for good vibes.

Life before death: don’t just survive—live fully.
Strength before weakness: overcome obstacles for yourself and others.
Journey before Destination: strive for goals but cherish the journey.

Happy New Year, everyone.

It’s been a while! First of all, let me say I’m sorry I haven’t written anything in months. Life has been full of twists and turns, and, like many of us, I’ve been navigating a lot. I’m fine; I'm just trying to find my centre amidst it all. And I wanted to reach out, even just to say I’m still here and will be back when things feel a bit more balanced.

In the meantime, I wanted to shamelessly share a project I’ve been working on that I’m quite proud of. It’s called CV Optimiser—and if you’ve ever been job hunting, you’ll know exactly why I created it.

For me, tailoring my CV for every individual job application has always been one of the most tedious parts of job hunting. It can really make the process feel like a slog, right? So, I built something to make it easier: CV Optimiser.

With CV Optimiser, all you have to do is:

• Upload your CV.

• Add the job description of the position you’re applying for,

• Add any specific instructions you’d like.

Within seconds, our platform will tailor your CV specifically for the job. It’ll even provide feedback on missing elements that could improve your chances, plus a score showing how well your CV aligns with the job description.

From there, you can generate a fully tailored cover letter if you want one. And when you’re ready, export everything as a PDF, Word document, or even share it as an online link!

Here’s where I’d love your help! We recently launched on Product Hunt, and if CV Optimiser sounds like something that would make job hunting a bit easier, I’d be grateful for your support with an upvote or a comment on Product Hunt. It would really help to spread the word about CV Optimiser, and every comment or upvote goes a long way!

Check out the launch on Product Hunt

This isn’t the usual type of content you signed up for, I know, but I hope you’ll check it out, give me any feedback you have, and share it if you think it could help others in your network.

And I promise—since I’m making this ask of you—I’ll make time to get back to regular writing soon. In fact, I’ll be sending out one of the usual articles next week.

Thanks for sticking with me, and here’s to catching up soon!

Warmly,

BK

"The family is the test of freedom; because the family is the only thing that the free man makes for himself and by himself." - Gilbert K. Chesterton

For decades, the idea of the nuclear family—a married couple and their 2.5 dependent children—has been held up as the paragon of Western society. This idealized image, enshrined in popular culture and public policy, portrays the nuclear family as a self-sufficient, emotionally fulfilling bastion of privacy and individual freedom. As someone raised in the African culture of close-knit extended families and community support systems, I've always found the Western romanticization of radical individualism and detached "private living" to be misguided at best, and destructive at worst.

In his thought-provoking article "The Nuclear Family Was a Mistake," published in The Atlantic, David Brooks presents a compelling case for why the Western idealization of the privatized nuclear family may be one of the most damaging ideas exported by the individualistic modern West. Brooks takes us on a journey through human history, revealing that for the majority of our existence, people lived in extended family clans and kinship networks that provided immense mutual support—from childcare and eldercare to relationships of belonging and resource sharing. It was only during the 1950s and 1960s that the insular nuclear family briefly became prevalent in the United States and parts of the West, an anomaly fueled by post-war economic prosperity and shifting cultural forces.

Interestingly, Brooks points out that even during this brief period of nuclear family dominance, these families were far more interconnected than they are today. He cites sociologist Eugene Litwak's concept of the "modified extended family"—"a coalition of nuclear families in a state of mutual dependence." In the 1950s, before television and air conditioning had fully caught on, people continued to live on one another's front porches and were part of each other's lives, notes Brooks. Friends felt free to discipline one another's children. This informal network of support and accountability helped mitigate some of the fragility of the nuclear family structure.

However, as industrialization and cultural shifts led people to prioritize individual privacy and mobility over extended family bonds, the fragility of the isolated nuclear family became increasingly apparent. Brooks argues persuasively that the nuclear family is too fragile and isolated to provide the resilience and support that people need to thrive in an increasingly complex and challenging world. The nuclear family model also romanticizes spousal bonds at the expense of extended family ties. The idea that your spouse is all you need, the "us against the world" mentality, is a recipe for perpetual fatigue, constant disagreement, and failed outcomes. It places an impossible burden on the marital relationship to meet all of one's emotional, practical, and social needs, without the support of a wider network of kin. This romantic ideal of the self-sufficient couple is not only unrealistic but also devalues the importance of intergenerational bonds and community ties.

The stark contrast between the fragility and isolation of the nuclear family model and the communal support I experienced growing up in Zimbabwe is exemplified by a poignant example from my childhood. When I was seven, I required intensive care for a serious eye condition. In the weeks leading up to my corneal transplant surgery, I needed eye drops administered every hour, day and night. It would have been an exhausting ordeal for my parents, who would have had to wake up hourly to give me the medicine. But they were not alone in this struggle. Several of my aunts and cousins moved in with us and took shifts tending to me, providing much-needed respite and support. They spent sleepless nights ensuring I received my medication on schedule, gently waking me and coaxing me to open my eyes for the drops. During the day, they still needed to juggle this with the demands of their own lives. Their presence brought comfort and reassurance during a frightening time, and their love and sacrifice weren't just a gift to me, but an investment in the collective well-being of our entire clan. To this day, their selfless actions exemplify for me the profound meaning of the African proverb, "It takes a village to raise a child."

Contrast that to life in London, where my wife and I are at the age where our peers either have young children or are seriously considering starting a family. We've seen the isolation and stress that many people experience trying to raise kids with minimal family nearby and little communal support. Despite this, I'd wager that the situation I just described would scarcely happen here. The thought of several "non-family members" cramming together and sleeping over in our little London apartments to help out is quite daunting for many, even if they need the help. On the other side, many people aren't too keen on having their lives "disturbed" or inconvenienced to go the extra mile for a friend in need; we've become a society that helps only when it's convenient for us.

As we grapple with the question of how to have and raise well-adjusted children amidst these challenges, it's becoming clear that we are part of a shrinking minority. Birth rates are plummeting across the developed world, as millennials and Gen Zs recoil from the daunting prospect of parenting. Those who do have kids are often stretched to the breaking point, as the exorbitant cost and the unending responsibility of raising children without kin support leave even middle-class families feeling perpetually strained. This new dynamic also means that people now have to pay for support that they once received freely from extended families. A listening ear from friends, help with childcare, counselling and discipline for children from the extended family—all of these vital forms of support now come with a price tag. The nuclear family model is only achievable for the affluent who can afford to pay for these services, while those in lower-income brackets are left to struggle alone.

Throughout human history, civilization has progressed by compounding our collective knowledge gained over millennia. However, with the rise of the nuclear family and hyper-individualism, we've discarded many hard-won lessons about the importance of communal living and interdependence. Like in many other spheres, we humans of the modern age have figured we know better, trying to reinvent the wheel with disastrous results. The West is now facing a pervasive and deeply entrenched loneliness epidemic.

The Covid-19 pandemic accelerated a reckoning with the fragility of our social ties. Confronted with the realities of isolation and mortality, many people sought refuge in intergenerational living arrangements. Adult children moved back in with their parents, and ageing parents moved in with their adult children—arrangements that were initially meant to be temporary, but have in many cases become permanent as people rediscovered the value of having family close by to share the load of life.

As people across the West grapple with the limitations of the nuclear family model, a new paradigm is emerging—that of the forged family. Brooks describes how, in response to the atomization and loneliness of modern life, people are creating new forms of kinship and community that transcend traditional bloodlines. These forged families take many forms, from co-housing communities where multiple generations live together under one roof, to "grandfamilies" where grandparents serve as primary caregivers for their grandchildren, to intentional communities of friends who commit to sharing life together. What unites them is a recognition that we need more than the nuclear family can provide—we need a web of relationships, a village to belong to.

While government policies to support extended and forged families are crucial, we can't rely on the government to solve this for us. Each of us needs to start shifting our mentality about the family model we want to build. We need to start getting comfortable with a less private life, recognizing that what we gain in ease and connection more than makes up for what we lose in privacy. It's not just an abstract ideal to appreciate, but a reality we must actively create, one intentional step at a time.

Interestingly, individual choices and cultural shifts are already beginning to drive broader societal changes, including in markets and policy. The real estate market in the United States provides a compelling example of this dynamic in action. Brooks notes that in 2016, a survey by a real-estate consulting firm found that 44% of home buyers were looking for a home that would accommodate their elderly parents, and 42% wanted one that would accommodate their returning adult children. In response to this growing demand for multigenerational living, home builders have started constructing houses designed specifically for extended families. These homes, which the construction firm Lennar calls "two homes under one roof," carefully balance privacy and togetherness, featuring shared common spaces but also separate entrances, kitchenettes, and living areas for grandparents and adult children.

This example illustrates how individual choices—in this case, the choice to live in extended family arrangements—can aggregate to shape market forces. As more and more people opt for intergenerational living, seeking the support, resilience, and connection it provides, the market responds to meet this demand. While these particular multigenerational homes currently cater to the affluent, the broader trend they represent is significant. It shows that the atomized nuclear family model is not inevitable—that as people rediscover the value of extended kinship networks, they can collectively shape the structures and institutions of society to better support this way of life. Just as the rise of the nuclear family in the mid-20th century was driven by a convergence of cultural, economic, and policy factors, so too can the revival of extended and forged families gain momentum as individual choices reshape the cultural and market landscape.

Of course, markets alone will not create an inclusive multigenerational family renaissance—public policy has a crucial role to play in supporting and enabling these shifts, particularly for lower and middle-income families. But examples like the changing real estate market show that we are not powerless in the face of a broken paradigm. By living out our values in our personal lives and forging new models of kinship and community, we can be part of a groundswell of change that reweaves the fabric of society.

In our own lives, my wife and I are striving to build this kind of intentional community within our friend group. Inspired by the African philosophy of "ubuntu"—"I am because we are"—we are cultivating a tight-knit network of friends committed to "doing life together" through regular spontaneous social meetups, childcare swaps, emotional support, and material aid. Ubuntu recognizes that our humanity is inextricably bound up with the humanity of others—that we are only truly human in relationship and community. It's a radically countercultural idea in the hyper-individualistic West, but one that I believe holds immense promise for healing our frayed social fabric. By practising ubuntu in our daily lives, we are attempting to recreate the "village" we grew up with and now sorely miss. It requires vulnerability, sacrifice, and a willingness to depend on others and let them into our lives. But we believe it's the only way to build a truly livable and flourishing family life in a fragmented and atomized society.

By reclaiming the wisdom of extended kinship networks and adapting it for the modern age, we can begin to repair the torn fabric of our societies. Rediscovering the power of these networks is not about returning to a premodern past, but about forging a more sustainable and nurturing future. By learning from the wisdom of the past and from cultures that have preserved communal family structures, and boldly experimenting with new forms of intentional community, we can begin to weave a social fabric that enables all to thrive.

Ultimately, we are not meant to bear the burdens of life alone. We are not meant to raise children in isolation, care for elders without support, or navigate the vicissitudes of life as solitary sojourners. We are meant to live in community, to share the joys and sorrows of existence with those who know us and love us best.

As Chesterton wisely observed, true freedom is not found in the pursuit of a detached, private life, but in the rich tapestry of relationships and responsibilities that we create for ourselves. It is only by embracing our fundamental interdependence, by weaving ourselves back into the web of community, that we can find the liberation and fulfilment we so desperately seek. The family, in all its messy, beautiful, extended glory, remains the crucible of our humanity—the space where we learn to love, to forgive, to sacrifice, to belong. In a world that exalts the private life, reclaiming the power of kinship is a revolutionary act.

These are just my reflections, which barely scratch the surface of the profound insights David Brooks offers in his original article. I encourage everyone to read his piece in full and grapple with the urgent questions it raises. The future of our families and communities hangs in the balance.

I believe the primary obstacle with writing is our tendency to fixate on the end product of writing, neglecting the actual process of writing. This issue is further compounded by the widespread belief that writing ability is an innate talent, which can serve as a significant deterrent.

My perspective on writing transformed after reading "Thinking On Paper" by V.A. Howard, PhD, and J.H. Barton, M.A. Their book introduced me to three key propositions about writing that have significantly demystified the process for me. These insights have not only helped me understand writing better, but also paved the way for me to hone my writing skills for a variety of practical purposes.

Three propositions about writing

In the following sections, I will delve into these three propositions: Writing as meaning-making, writing as a staged performance, and writing as a tool for understanding. These concepts have been instrumental in my journey towards mastering the art of writing.

Writing is meaning-making

At its core, writing is an act of thinking. It's a process where the writer creates meaning using words, and the reader, in turn, uses those words to reconstruct that meaning. Let's delve deeper into this concept.

It's crucial to understand that written communication is rarely perfect and seldom complete. When we write, we strive to create meaning with words, and readers attempt to use those words to recreate that meaning. However, words, even among speakers of the same language, don't always convey the full meaning. Our understanding is limited by our grasp of language, which is influenced by many factors, including context. For instance, the phrase "stand up" might seem straightforward, but its meaning can shift dramatically depending on the context. It could mean physically rising to your feet or metaphorically standing up against oppression. If the context isn't adequately conveyed in the writing, the intended meaning may not be fully transmitted. There's no guarantee that you'll be able to fully articulate your meaning or that your reader will fully comprehend it. The potential for success or failure exists on both ends.

This realization leads us to an important conclusion: the primary goal of writing is not communication, but meaning-making. We use words to translate our innate understanding into tangible meaning on a page. This perspective is liberating for two main reasons. First, it means that everyone can—and indeed should—write freely and often, without the pressure of intending to share our work with others. The act of writing serves to articulate our thoughts, giving them structure and clarity. Second, it relieves us of the pressure to produce perfect or complete writing. Our writing is merely a snapshot of our current understanding, representing our best attempt at creating meaning from that understanding. Initially, the goal isn't to communicate our ideas as clearly as possible, but to transfer our thoughts from our minds to the page.

This understanding underscores the importance of writing as a tool for personal growth and learning. Whether or not you intend to publish your work, writing can help you clarify your thoughts, structure your ideas, and learn to articulate them clearly and concisely for maximum impact. It's a process of self-discovery and self-improvement, a journey that evolves with each word you put down on paper.

Writing is a staged performance

Consider this scenario: if you were asked to chat with a friend at home about a topic that interests you for five minutes every week, you'd likely accomplish this with ease. Each week, you might have new insights to share or fresh perspectives on previous discussions. Now, imagine the same task, but instead of conversing with a friend, you're speaking with Oprah on her live TV show. Suddenly, the task seems daunting, and you become hypercritical of your words. The task becomes challenging, even though speaking is second nature to us and we know what we want to say. The difference lies in the awareness of an audience, particularly one that intimidates us. Writing follows a similar pattern.

As a writer, the moment you become conscious of a potential audience (including your future self), writing transforms into a staged performance. However, it's crucial not to view it as a performance until you're ready for it to be. Initially, writing should be a private activity, a means of articulating your thoughts on paper. The shift to performance mode occurs when you step back to analyze your work, scrutinizing its sound and the clarity of its message. Writing, therefore, involves two distinct stages: free-flowing, uninhibited articulation, and critical revision of initial thoughts. We oscillate between these two states of mind—the struggle to articulate and the struggle to communicate. However, it's essential to keep these stages separate; attempting to do both simultaneously will probably be counterproductive.

This understanding is liberating because it allows me to switch off my "audience awareness" during the early stages of writing and focus solely on my thoughts and ideas—the discovery phase. This stage encourages full exploration, speculation, intuition, and imagination. When the time is right, I transition into "communication mode," focusing on critiquing and reshaping my work for presentation. This separation is vital because the processes of discovery and criticism often disrupt each other. They have divergent objectives and require different mental attitudes. Notably, criticism, with its ruthless penchant for rejection, stands in stark contrast to the exploratory nature of discovery.

Writing is a tool for understanding

The primary aim of writing, much like reading, is to understand. It's only after gaining this understanding that we can share it with readers. In this context, writing serves as a tool for thinking. Once our thoughts are penned down, we have the opportunity to critically evaluate them and compare them with ideas from other sources, leading to a more robust and balanced understanding of the subject. Therefore, even if your private notes may seem unintelligible to others (or even to your future self), their value as thoughtful explorations should not be underestimated.

This perspective encourages us not to shy away from writing that may never see the light of publication. These seemingly throwaway writings play a crucial role in enhancing our understanding and serve as the foundation for successful writing.

This is not to downplay the importance of writing that communicates effectively. Instead, it underscores the idea that the act of writing itself can pave the way to producing content that communicates well. After all, editing requires a text to refine.

Writing is thinking

As I continue to develop in my writing journey, I've come to appreciate the profound interconnectedness of writing and cognitive processes. Writing, in essence, is an externalized form of thinking. It's a tool that allows us to articulate our thoughts, provide them with structure, and clarify them, regardless of whether we intend to share them publicly or not.

Once our thoughts are penned down, we can easily compare them with ideas from other sources, bypassing the limitations of our memory. This process fosters a deeper and more robust understanding of the subject at hand. It's only after this stage that we should consider writing as a performance, critiquing our work with the intention of presenting it to an audience.

The ability to articulate thoughts clearly and effectively is a potent tool. As Jordan Peterson says, “If you can think and speak and write, you are absolutely deadly. Nothing can get in your way.” Moreover, the ability to formulate coherent arguments and present them effectively can pave the way to success.

In the realm of career advice, we often encounter a ton of tips and tricks on how to land the perfect job. But what if we flipped the script? What if, instead, we explored the art of not getting a job? In this guide, I’ll give you nine easy strategies that can lead you down the path of perpetual unemployment. So, whether you're looking to maintain your blissful unemployment or you're an oddball who actually wants a job, this guide will provide you with a fresh perspective. Remember, sometimes knowing what not to do is just as important as knowing what to do.

The Art of Procrastination

Why rush to send out CVs when there's an entire world of procrastination to explore? Procrastination is often misunderstood and maligned, but it can be an intriguing journey of leisure and pleasure. It's not just about delaying tasks; it's about immersing yourself in activities that provide immediate gratification and pleasure.

So put away that CV and try diving into the depths of the internet, where an ocean of knowledge and entertainment awaits. You could spend hours, even days, exploring fascinating articles, engaging in online debates, or getting lost in the labyrinth of social media. The internet is a treasure trove of information and amusement that can keep you occupied indefinitely.

If that’s not your jam, you could binge-watch your favourite shows, an activity that has become a cultural phenomenon in the age of streaming services. TV series can offer an escape from reality and a chance to immerse yourself in different worlds. Why focus on your own boring life when you could spend hours, even days, following the more exciting lives of your favourite characters, experiencing their triumphs, tragedies, and transformations?

So, who needs a job when you can embrace a different way of life, one that values leisure and pleasure over productivity and efficiency? So, put away that CV and embrace the art of procrastination.

The Mystery of the Generic CV

When you finally decide to break away from the blissful world of procrastination and update your CV, it's important to remember one key rule: keep it as generic as possible. After all, who doesn't love a good mystery? You learnt that from the TV show, remember?

Instead of tailoring your resume to highlight your unique skills, experiences, and achievements, aim for ambiguity. This will perfectly optimise you for perpetual unemployment.

Don’t list specific technical skills or soft skills. Stick to vague, generic terms that don’t provide any specific information about your skills and experiences. Phrases like "hard worker", "detail-oriented", “problem-solver”, “strong communication skills”, or “results-driven” are perfect. These are meaningless fluff on a CV. They give absolutely no indication of what you're actually good at, leaving potential employers guessing. Make it a point not to provide examples of tasks where these skills were displayed, that might make you attractive. We don’t want that.

In the experience section, simply list your job titles and the dates you held them, but leave out any details about what you actually did in those roles. This will ensure that employers are left scratching their heads, trying to figure out what you actually bring to the table.

Remember, the goal here is to create a resume that is a riddle wrapped in a mystery inside an enigma. Employers love a good puzzle, right? And if they can't figure out what you're good at, they can't hire you. It's a win-win situation!

So, embrace the mystery of the generic CV, and watch as the job offers don't roll in.

The Non-Interview Technique

If you did your best on the last point but by some unfortunate twist of fate, you find yourself scheduled for an interview, it's time to deploy the Non-Interview Technique. This strategy is all about being as unprepared as possible to ensure you maintain your blissful state of unemployment.

First, don't research the company. By not knowing anything about the company, you'll effectively communicate your fabulous lack of interest and commitment, which is sure to send the right signal.

Second, don't let interview prep interfere with your regular online debates and doom-scrolling. You want to maintain the mystery and get surprised by all the questions during the interview and wing it. Rambling, off-topic, or nonsensical answers are sure to leave your interviewer scratching their head.

Third, punctuality is overrated. Arrive late. This not only shows a lack of respect for the interviewer's time but also suggests you're not particularly interested in the job.

Finally, a yawn or two during the interview can be a powerful tool in your arsenal. If you're feeling particularly daring, consider checking your watch or phone frequently during the interview to really drive home your lack of engagement.

The Non-Interview Technique is all about showing that you’d really rather be somewhere else and that there are other things that are more important to you than this interview. By following these steps, you're sure to leave your interviewer with a strong impression.

The Loner Lifestyle

Who needs connections when you've got solitude? If you interact with people too much you might uncover opportunities and get your foot in the door. You don’t want that. Embrace the hermit lifestyle and avoid networking opportunities like the plague.

Industry events are a no-go. These gatherings are typically filled with professionals in your field who are eager to exchange business cards, share insights, and discuss potential job opportunities. So, steer clear of industry conferences, seminars, and networking events. Instead, enjoy the comfort of your own home, far away from the hustle and bustle of the professional world.

Social media interactions should be kept to a minimum. To maintain your unemployment streak, it's best to avoid platforms like LinkedIn and Twitter or, at the very least, avoid any professional interactions on them. Stick to vibes.

Remember, the fewer people who know you don’t have a job, the fewer people there are to ruin your unemployment streak with job offers.

Choose the tranquillity of unemployment over the chaos of job hunting. Forget about networking and start enjoying the peace and quiet of solitude. After all, who needs connections when you've got the comfort of your own company?

The Art of Giving Up

In the rare case that you pass the first interview in some miraculous way, it’s important to master the Art of Giving Up. This is not about a lack of capability or potential, but rather a strategic move to maintain your blissful state of unemployment.

During the interview process, there are often several stages designed to assess your skills and suitability for the role. This could include a technical interview, a take-home task, or a series of problem-solving exercises. These stages are typically designed to challenge you, to push you out of your comfort zone, and to see how you perform under pressure. You don’t want that. You prefer the comfort zone and the warm embrace of the familiar.

So, don't hesitate to throw in the towel. If you ever feel stuck, give up. Don't try to work through the problem, don't ask for clarification, and definitely don't attempt to come up with a solution. Simply throw your hands up and admit defeat. This will not only end the interview process quickly but also leave a lasting impression of your commitment to unemployment.

Don't waste your precious free time. After all, they're not paying you for this time, right? And let's be honest, the actual job pay was probably going to be too low, anyway. Make up an excuse and abandon it. You could say you didn't understand the task, you didn't have time to complete it, or simply that you didn't feel like doing it.

The Art of Giving Up is all about choosing ease over effort, surrender over struggle. It's about recognizing when to step back and let go, rather than pushing forward and fighting on. So that you can return to your own super-interesting, stress-free life. Who needs the stress of a job when you can enjoy the tranquillity of unemployment?

The Leisure Life

Work is work, and leisure is leisure. They're two distinct aspects of life, and in our quest for perpetual unemployment, it's important to keep them separate. Your work is a job, a means to an end. It isn't a hobby, a passion, or a pastime. It's something you do to earn a living, not something you do for fun or fulfilment. So, when you're not working, it's crucial to use your free time for activities that don’t improve your professional skills.

Daydreaming about the future is a leisurely activity that requires little effort but offers a lot of enjoyment. It allows you to imagine different possibilities, explore various scenarios, and even plan your ideal life, all without the constraints of reality. Couple this with inaction and you have the perfect combo to burn away those extra hours.

Remember, you're going to work a lot in your future career anyway, so why bother now? Don't even try to contribute to your industry or take on extra tasks. You shouldn't do work for other people for free. If you're in a team, just use what the others have done and never contribute. This not only saves you effort but also ensures you don't stand out or attract attention, which might lead to job offers.

The Art of Ignoring Feedback

In our pursuit of the blissful state of unemployment, we must master the Art of Ignoring Feedback, a strategy that promotes stagnation over growth and comfort over change.

Whether it's constructive criticism from a potential employer or well-intentioned advice from a friend, feedback might provide insights into our strengths and weaknesses, offering a roadmap for personal and professional development, so we're going to ignore it. After all, who needs growth and improvement when you can remain blissfully stagnant?

Ignoring feedback is not just about dismissing others' opinions. It's about embracing a mindset of complacency, about choosing comfort over challenge. It's about rejecting the opportunity to learn and grow, and instead, maintaining the status quo. It's about keeping those blinders on, focusing on the present, and ignoring the possibilities of the future.

So, the next time you receive feedback, whether it's a critique of your resume, a suggestion for improving your interview skills, or advice on job-hunting strategies, be sure to ignore it. Dismiss it, forget it, and move on.

The Joy of Unreliability

In our goal of a life of unemployment, it's crucial to cultivate a reputation for unreliability. This counterintuitive strategy is all about embracing inconsistency and unpredictability, traits that are typically frowned upon in the professional world but are key to maintaining your blissful state of unemployment.

First, make a habit of showing up late. Whether it's for an interview, a meeting, or a casual catch-up, tardiness is a surefire way to communicate your lack of respect for other people's time. It sends a clear message that you're not committed or serious, traits that employers typically love to avoid.

Second, in the world of work, deadlines are sacred. They ensure projects move forward and that everyone is on the same page. But in our quest for unemployment, we're going to disregard them. By consistently missing deadlines, we will demonstrate a lack of responsibility and a disregard for the importance of time management, further solidifying our reputation for unreliability.

Third, forgetting about commitments is the cherry on top of your unreliability cake. Whether it's a promise to send an email, a commitment to complete a task, or an agreement to meet at a certain time, forget it. That is a sure way to show your lack of reliability. It suggests that you're disorganized and untrustworthy, traits that are sure to deter potential employers.

The Art of Unprofessionalism

Finally, if you really want to nail in your blissful unemployment, master the Art of Unprofessionalism. This strategy is all about rejecting the norms and expectations of the professional world and embracing a more casual, carefree approach.

Let's talk about attire. In the professional world, how you dress can say a lot about you. It can communicate respect, seriousness, and commitment. So, instead of dressing appropriately for interviews or meetings, opt for casual, inappropriate attire. Think flip-flops for a corporate interview, a t-shirt for a formal event, or even pyjamas for a video call.

Next, language is a powerful tool. In professional settings, always use slang, colloquialisms, and casual phrases in your interactions. This will not only show a lack of professionalism, but also suggest a lack of respect for the formalities of the business world.

So there you have it, my foolproof guide on how to never get a job. Follow these tips, and you'll be on the fast track to a lifetime of blissful unemployment. But remember, if you're one of those oddballs who actually wants to get a job, you might want to do the exact opposite of everything I've just suggested. Happy job hunting, or not!

I was too tired to complete this week’s article (again) over the weekend. I’ve got a draft written so I plan to put it out next week. For now, here are some interesting things I stumbled upon on the internet:

1. Did you know that there are people who don’t have an internal monologue?

2. I’ve really been enjoying Patience Xina’s YouTube videos and I recently learnt that her mother’s from Zimbabwe. Makes the videos a little more enjoyable, lol. Check out her channel: https://www.youtube.com/@PatienceXina

3. Are you interested in AI but think maybe you’re too old to start on it? The following article argues that you’re not. It also gives some pointers on how to keep up with the rapidly moving field of AI:

   Latent Space

   You Are Not Too Old (To Pivot Into AI)

   Translated into Chinese on InfoQ…

   Read more

   3 years ago · 57 likes · 6 comments · swyx

Enjoy!

Have you ever wondered why people continue to flock to art exhibitions, lining up just to catch a glimpse of artworks like the Mona Lisa, which they've seen many times in books or online? It's the same reason we love to rewatch our favorite movies or reread cherished books. It's not that the artwork, film, or book changes, but rather our interaction with it does.

Consider this: "There is one peculiarity that real works of art possess in common. At each fresh reading, one notices some change in them, as if the sap of life ran in their leaves, and with skies and plants, they had the power to alter their shape and color from season to season."

These profound words by Virginia Woolf encapsulate why art holds such a deep, revered place in my heart. Art has the power to evolve with us.

Art, much like life itself, is dynamic, alive, and constantly evolving. Each time we stand before a painting like the Mona Lisa, we don't just see the same old enigmatic smile. The artwork mirrors our own evolving experiences, perspectives, and understanding. It draws us into a reflective dialogue. Like a mirror, it reflects our own gaze back at us, intertwined with our growing life experiences. The Mona Lisa of today might feel different from the Mona Lisa of last year because we are different.

This continuous exchange between the observer and the art, the reader and the text, is what makes each encounter an exhilarating, fresh experience, no matter how many times it is revisited. Why is this important? Because art in all its forms—whether literature, visual, or performance art—invites us to a conversation. A conversation not just with the artist's work, but also with ourselves. It aids in our understanding of self and the world. It's a means of mapping our own evolution as individuals.

Take, for instance, my personal experience with George Orwell's Animal Farm. As a child, I found the story immensely intriguing. The thought of animals running a farm and the vivid imagery it evoked made it an enjoyable read. But as I've grown older, my appreciation for the book has taken on new depth. It isn't merely about the animals and their escapades for me anymore. It's about the complex nuances of life, politics, and the human condition—elements that I was oblivious to as a child. The words of the book haven't changed, but my understanding of them has. This shift in perspective is a testament to my own growth and transformation over the years.

Engaging with art isn't just about appreciating aesthetics or getting lost in an interesting narrative. It's about chronicling our journey and our growth as individuals. Our favorite art form becomes a canvas that bears the imprint of our growing consciousness and our maturing understanding of life.

And in that sense, every brushstroke we add through our experiences makes it an ongoing self-portrait, a living biography of our lives. Each interaction with a cherished piece of art is a new chapter in that biography. It's a tangible reflection of how we have matured and changed as people, making the art itself feel fresh each time.

The Bible is the ultimate embodiment of living art. Each of its verses seems to pulsate with a potent vitality, its teachings ever-evolving to adapt to our shifting life circumstances. Just like the changing seasons, the Bible mirrors our growth and evolution, echoing our deepening understanding of life.

Contemplating a passage like Psalm 23, year after year, is essentially an exercise in spiritual autobiography. It's like assembling a living testament of our journey, recording the progression of our spiritual comprehension.

But there is yet another purpose I believe it serves. God is a being of infinite complexity, unfathomable depth, and unimaginable breadth. His vastness is so great that there isn't a single human construct that could fully encapsulate His entire essence. However, in His divine wisdom, God has crafted an exquisite solution to the dilemma of making Himself accessible to us—one that leverages the dynamic, living nature of art. His chosen medium? The written word.

At its core, the Bible is the most exquisite work of God's artistry. It is a canvas onto which He has depicted His infinite complexity in a way that we, fallible humans, can begin to comprehend. It establishes a resilient bond between the divine and the human, forging new connections each day. It remains accessible and enlightening whether you're a humble commoner or an acclaimed scholar. The Bible is more than just a book; it is the grand narrative of God's boundless love for humanity. It is a flowing wellspring of wisdom, chronicling our unique journey with the divine. By engaging with it, we enter into a conversation with the divine, one that develops and deepens as we do.

The significance of engaging repeatedly with art goes beyond mere repetition; it serves a crucial purpose in the journey of every individual. By immersing ourselves in art on multiple occasions, we open doors to gaining a deeper understanding of ourselves and comprehending our own evolution. Through the transformative power of art, we can explore the depths of our emotions, thoughts, and experiences, ultimately leading to greater self-awareness and personal growth.

In line with this, I want to emphasize the importance of reading the Bible, regardless of one's religious affiliations. The Bible stands as a remarkable testament to the power of art in fostering self-understanding. It holds a unique position as the most influential artistic work in human history, transcending cultural and religious boundaries. Within its pages, profound narratives, teachings, and reflections are woven together, offering insightful perspectives into the human condition.

She was prepared to dismiss it outright the moment she realized it was animated. This is how many people react to animation. The story, characters, and art can far surpass any other movie, but people are put off simply because there are no live actors involved.

Animation deserves better!

There's this prevailing notion that animated movies or TV shows are just for children. A glaring example of this misconception occurred during the 2022 Academy Awards. And no, I don’t mean the infamous incident with Will Smith and Chris Rock. Other noteworthy things happened that night, you know. The award for the best-animated picture was presented by three people: Lily James, Halle Bailey, and Naomi Scott. They all share a commonality—they've each played Disney Princesses in live-action remakes of Disney classics. Lily James played Cinderella, Naomi Scott played Jasmine in Aladdin, and Hailey is set to portray Ariel in the upcoming Little Mermaid. But what grabbed my attention was not their shared history, but their shared words:

“All these characters hold such a special place in our hearts. Because animated films make up some of our most formative movie experiences as kids. So many kids watch these movies, so many kids watch these movies over and over … and over and over and over again. I see some parents out there know exactly what we’re talking about…”

This speech infuriated animation enthusiasts everywhere.

Animation is rarely recognized as high art or “cinema,” even at a platform as esteemed as the Oscars. One would expect more enlightenment here. Unironically, the presenters were not part of the original animated movies, but the live-action remakes. Animation is consistently overlooked and underrated. For many, it's merely cartoons, “ngoPopayi,” child's play. To those who harbour such thoughts, I challenge you to watch this analysis of the Leap of Faith scene from Spiderman: Into the Spiderverse and tell me if you still believe this is only kids’ stuff.

I’m not really waiting to hear your opinion on this, of course, because this is a multi-award-winning masterpiece of a movie. Not convinced? Here’s another one; an analysis of Arcane:

Still sceptical? Perhaps an hour-long video essay on the subject could sway your opinion.

Seriously though, these are some amazingly skillfully done analyses. Check them out. And I agree with Mason one hundred per cent:

“I have always considered animation to be the purest form of filmmaking. With complete and total control over every single frame put on screen, animators can transport you to worlds unimaginable, captivate you with fantastical and whimsical characters that defy the very laws of reality, show you jaw dropping acts of gravity defying action and absolutely devastate your heart with one carefully drawn facial expression. Whether they are layered on a film cell, digitally painted, painstakingly photographed or 3D rendered, these films, shorts or television series can reach the highest level of adoration and praise from the public just as anything made in live action. And they have.”

Last year, Invincible, one of the year's finest shows, slipped under the radar until it presented one of the best season finales in television history. Give "Invincible season finale" a Google, and you'll see the internet is ablaze with praise. Interestingly, it aired concurrently with Falcon and the Winter Soldier, another superhero show that, despite being part of Marvel's much-anticipated Phase Four, fell flat. Yet, audiences seemed more inclined to watch the live-action series over the so-called "cartoon."

Now, I can understand why people would think animation is just for kids. Numerous animated shows target a young audience, and many of us consumed these shows primarily in our childhood. However, categorizing a film like Up alongside Dora the Explorer simply because they share the same medium is fundamentally flawed. This comparison is akin to equating Ridley Scott's Alien with Sesame Street on the basis they both employ puppets. It's a simplistic, surface-level judgment that overlooks the nuances of each work.

What many miss is the intentional choice behind using animation as a medium for storytelling. Certain narratives cannot be fully conveyed or appreciated in any other form. Animation unlocks potential that is often unattainable in live-action unless one has the budget of Avatar. Animation can recreate the comic book-like aesthetic in a film such as Spiderman: Into the Spiderverse. It can also employ super realistic caricature as seen in Soul to delve into the complex journey of finding life's purpose. (I’m not even sure the phrase “super realistic caricature” makes sense, but animation made that possible.) Consider the epic narrative of The Prince of Egypt. Would it have been feasible to capture the grandeur of Moses' story in a live-action format?

On a side note, I have a deep appreciation for the fantastical genre. Creators of fantasy and science fiction showcase an exceptional degree of creativity. Beyond crafting a compelling narrative, they must build an entire world, often complete with its own unique history, culture, and politics. The world becomes a character in its own right, adding depth to the narrative. This is where animation shines; it allows for a seamless integration of reality and fantasy, thereby elevating the creative potential of these already rich genres.

Animation's public perception is somewhat skewed by the fact that many mainstream animated shows for adults are largely comedies. I honour the genius of The Simpsons, Futurama, Rick and Morty, and Family Guy, but understand that their humour doesn't resonate with everyone. Hence, I was thrilled by Invincible and Arcane. These mainstream animated shows, focusing on drama and action, brought a breath of fresh air to adult streaming platforms. DreamWorks has created several mature films, like Kung Fu Panda and Megamind, but they still incorporate whimsical elements and shy away from being wholly mature films.

The timing of the pandemic also provided a unique advantage for Arcane and Invincible to shine. They not only delivered but also held their own against non-animated counterparts. During my viewing of both Invincible and Arcane, there were moments when I had to pause, astounded at the masterpieces unfolding before my eyes. It's unfortunate that Disney and Pixar films typically garner most of the spotlight for animation. While I hold nothing against these powerhouses, their association with childhood viewing often leads people to pigeonhole all their productions as children's content.

Let me wrap this up with this quote from Alberto Mielgo, director of The Windshield Wiper:

“Animation is an art that includes every single art that you can imagine. Animation for adults is a fact, it’s happening, let’s call it cinema!”

I honestly want to give a huge shout-out to the animators and artists behind these shows and movies. Most of them are faceless and nameless to the audience, but they are the ones putting in hours and hours to create these masterpieces.

If this article has stirred your interest in exploring the rich world of animated shows, allow me to suggest a few recommendations:

• Arcane

• Spiderman: Into the Spiderverse

• Soul

• Love, Death, Robots

• Invincible

• Marvel’s What If

• Moana

• Encanto

• Megamind

• Rango

• Puss in Boots: The Last Wish

• Anomalisa

And here are some bangers that we wouldn’t have if it wasn’t for animation:

In fact, this article has got me hyped. I think I’ll go rewatch Akira now. Rant over. Okay, thanks, bye.

I hope everyone is well. I'm reaching out to let you know that, unfortunately, I won't be able to send out the newsletter this week. As you might know, I always strive to provide you with thoughtful and engaging content, but this time around, circumstances got in the way.

I've been travelling this week, and I have to admit, it's taken a toll on me. The exhaustion from the journey has left me needing some rest, and I don't want to create a subpar newsletter just for the sake of publishing. I believe you deserve the best content I can create, and right now, I just don't have the energy to do that.

I hope you understand and can give me a bit of grace as I take this week off to recuperate. I promise I'll be back in action soon, bringing you more ideas that challenge our thinking and stimulate interesting conversations. In the meantime, feel free to revisit some of our previous newsletters or explore the resources I've shared in the past.

Thank you for your support and understanding. I'll be back with more exciting content as soon as I'm back on my feet. If you have any thoughts, or questions, or just want to say hello, don't hesitate to reply to this email or leave a comment.

Take care!

As an introvert, I feel like I have this special superpower in observing and listening to people. You know, just hanging out in the background, soaking up all those little nuances that others might overlook in the heat of a conversation. It's like peeling back the layers of an onion and discovering more and more about what makes people tick.

So today, let's chat about love – or more specifically, the end of it. I want to dive into that tricky territory of knowing when to call it quits and break up, or when to keep fighting for the relationship.

Navigating the wild ride that is love, with all its ups, downs, and unexpected detours, can be quite the adventure. One of the toughest parts of being in a relationship is figuring out when to keep fighting for it or when it's time to gracefully bow out. In this article, I’ll dig into the intricacies of relationships, discussing a few crucial points that'll help you determine whether your love is worth salvaging or if it's time to move on. Keeping these key factors in mind will empower you to make a decision that's in line with your well-being and personal growth.

Whether your relationship is on the rocks or things are going fantastic, these are useful tools to have in your toolbox. So strap in, and let’s go!

1. Identify the Real Problem and Communicate Effectively.

All relationships come with their fair share of highs and lows, but it's essential to dive deeper when conflicts pop up. It's all too easy to get swept up in minor disagreements while overlooking the bigger issues at play. To truly grasp what's causing friction in your relationship, take a moment to step back and pinpoint the root of the problem. Reflect on any patterns or recurring themes in your arguments. Could it be that unresolved past issues, insecurities, excommunicated expectations, or unfulfilled emotional needs are feeding the conflict?

Once you've gained a clear insight into what's lurking beneath the surface, it's time to bring it up with your partner. Practising healthy communication is paramount for resolving disputes and keeping your connection solid. Focus on the matter at hand, steer clear of personal attacks, and don't fall into the trap of tallying past mistakes. This will sound a little corny, but it works; use “I” statements to share your feelings and experiences without casting blame. For instance, opt for “I feel overwhelmed when we argue about finances” instead of “You always stress me out about money.” By tackling the conversation with empathy and respect, you lay the groundwork for an open and honest dialogue that can pave the way to resolution.

2. Distinguish between Preferences and Core Values.

Navigating conflicts in your relationship can be quite the challenge, but it's essential to determine whether the disagreements stem from preferences or core values. Conflicts of preference, such as how to spend your leisure time, which brand of toothpaste to purchase, or even deciding where to dine out, can often be resolved through negotiation and compromise. After all, as Dr John Gottman, a renowned psychologist and relationship researcher, explains in his book “What Predicts Divorce? The Relationship Between Marital Processes and Marital Outcomes,” around 69% of relationship conflicts are perpetual, meaning they are rooted in fundamental differences in personality or lifestyle needs. You’ll never solve them, but you need to learn to live with them.

However, conflicts of core values, like your beliefs about marriage, religion, politics, or raising children, may be insurmountable. These differences can create significant friction in your relationship if left unaddressed, and they often require a higher level of reflection and self-awareness. Couples who share similar values and beliefs have a higher likelihood of long-term success.

It's crucial to discern where you can be flexible and where you must hold your ground. If you discover your core values clash, it may signal that the relationship isn't the right fit, despite the love and affection you feel for one another.

As you and your partner work through conflicts, it's essential to communicate openly and honestly, respect one another's boundaries, and remain committed to finding common ground. This process of compromise and collaboration can strengthen your bond and help you create a more harmonious, fulfilling partnership.

3. Set Boundaries and Enforce them.

Establishing healthy boundaries is a vital component of any successful relationship. Esther Perel in the book “Mating in Captivity: Reconciling the Erotic and the Domestic” notes that, “Boundaries are a way to take care of ourselves. They’re like a safety net. Without them, we may be taken advantage of, used, or exploited.” This sentiment is echoed by John Gottman, who writes, “The ability to set boundaries is one of the most critical skills we can learn for preserving our physical and emotional health.”

It's important to communicate your boundaries clearly and be willing to enforce them. If your partner repeatedly violates your boundaries or fails to respect your needs and concerns, it may be time to reassess the relationship.

I understand that breaking up is never easy, but it's important to be objective and make the tough decision to end a relationship if necessary. Sometimes we need to move on from relationships that are not good for us, in order to create space for new relationships that will be more supportive, nurturing, and growth-promoting.

4. Seek Outside Help and Perspectives

In the process of making a decision about whether to stay in a relationship or end it, it's challenging to maintain the perspective. Naturally, it’s personal for you. Seeking the opinions of trusted friends, family members, or a professional counsellor can provide a valuable outside perspective. But remember that while friends, family, and counsellors may help you see what you can’t, they don’t have to live with the consequences of your decision; you do. So, ultimately, the decision must be made by you, as everyone's opinion may be subjective.

In addition to seeking outside perspectives, fostering a culture of open communication with your partner is crucial for evaluating the relationship. John Gottman says, "Marriage is a conversation ... and all the conversations you have in a marriage are connected to each other." I think all relationships are the same. Engage in conversations with your partner about the relationship and its future, and be open to exploring alternative solutions together. This may involve attending couples' therapy, exploring new ways to connect emotionally, or addressing individual issues that are affecting the relationship.

Seeking outside perspectives and fostering open communication can help you gain the insights to evaluate whether your relationship is worth saving.

Maintaining a healthy and lasting relationship is a continuous process that requires effort and dedication from both partners. As relationships grow over time, it's essential to prioritize quality time together and find ways to keep the spark alive. Relationships require maintenance, and that's not a bad thing. We maintain our cars, our homes, and our jobs. Why wouldn't we maintain something as important as our relationships?

One way to maintain a strong connection is by engaging in shared hobbies or activities. Research shows that couples who participate in new and exciting activities together experience a surge of dopamine, a neurotransmitter associated with pleasure and reward. This surge of dopamine can create a sense of excitement and adventure, which can help keep the relationship fresh and exciting.

Finally, to maintain a strong and lasting relationship, it's crucial to prioritize emotional connection and continue nurturing the bond between you and your partner. This may involve expressing gratitude and support, regularly checking in on each other's feelings, and weathering life's ups and downs together. As Esther Perel states, "The quality of our relationships determines the quality of our lives. It's the single most important investment we can make." By investing time and effort into your emotional connection, you can create a safe and supportive environment that strengthens your bond and sets the foundation for a lasting partnership. However, it's important to remember that if the relationship no longer aligns with your well-being and personal growth, making the hard decision to break up may be necessary for everyone's sake.

This past Sabbath, I was immersed in a simple yet profound experience that echoed the power of storytelling and the beauty of human connection. Our community of friends in London had gathered for what is quickly becoming a cherished tradition: 'dombolo ministries.' Inspired by 'Jollof Ministries,' an event hosted by friends we met at Parkside Community Church in Reading, dombolo ministries is a potluck-style gathering where we share dishes from our respective home countries and connect with one another through our life stories.

Yesterday's gathering stood out as it was larger than our first and featured dedicated time for sharing personal stories. As we listened to each other's experiences, I was struck by the uncanny similarities between our individual journeys. Despite our different backgrounds, we had all faced similar struggles, victories, and divine interventions. This realization led me to three powerful insights.

First, we are all far more alike than we realize. We often feel alone in our struggles and believe that life is singling us out, while others seem to glide through unscathed. However, as we shared our stories, it became clear that each of us had faced similar challenges and triumphs. Life presents hardships and breakthroughs to all of us.

Second, storytelling is an incredibly powerful tool for revealing our shared humanity. As we connected through our shared experiences, we discovered that we were not alone, and our lives were intertwined in ways we never could have imagined. Storytelling also inspires more stories. Initially, some people were hesitant to share, but as others opened up, everyone began to see themselves in those stories and felt encouraged to contribute their own. By the end of the day, our problem was an abundance of stories, not a scarcity.

Third, storytelling has the power to overcome divisiveness. When we approach complex issues through personal narratives, we create a space for common ground and genuine listening. Stories break down barriers, establish connections, and shift the focus to similarities rather than differences.

As we reluctantly parted ways, I couldn't help but feel a sense of warmth and belonging. We had come together as a community and discovered our shared humanity through the power of storytelling. This realization strengthened and comforted me, especially considering that we, as a group of millennials, were able to be fully present and engaged without the distraction of technology. People pretty much forgot their phones the whole afternoon.

Looking ahead, I am excited to see how dombolo ministries will evolve in the coming months and years. Having experienced loneliness in London, especially during the pandemic, I am grateful for this safe haven that protects us from isolation. The magic of dombolo ministries lies not just in the amazing food we share, but in the connections we’re forging and the stories we tell. It's a safe space where we can be vulnerable, authentic, and truly understand our shared humanity, which brings us closer and empowers us to support each other through life's challenges and celebrate each other's successes.

If you have never experienced something like this, I encourage you to find your community or create your own 'pasta' or 'sushi' ministries. Something to be a safe space for connection, vulnerability, and storytelling. In doing so, you will discover the power of our shared humanity and the incredible bonds that form when we come together to share our lives with one another.

Allow me to conclude with this: The term "Ubudlelwano" in my language, Ndebele, refers to a relationship, fellowship, or connection between people. It signifies the bond and interaction that individuals share with one another, emphasizing the importance of social connections and unity within a community. Interestingly, this term is derived from the word "Ukudla," which means food. Thus, a loose direct translation of "ubudlewano" is eating together. Eating together fosters relationships, fellowship, and connection. My ancestors demonstrated remarkable wisdom when they crafted the language.

Hi friends,

I'm sorry to say that for the first time since starting this newsletter, I am too fatigued to write today. This week has been particularly busy, and I didn't get enough sleep.

However, there's another reason I'm taking a break. I've been a fan of The Moth for a long time and have attended several of their events and listened to many of their podcast episodes. I've always wanted to tell my own story but haven't had the courage to do it. So, I've decided to share it with you here in the newsletter. Unfortunately, I didn't have enough time this week to figure out the story I wanted to tell and how to tell it. I don't want to do a poor job, so I'll save it for next time.

That said, I don't want to leave you empty-handed. This newsletter's theme is "ideas that challenged my thinking," and so here are five things I've read over the last two weeks that have challenged my thinking. I hope they challenge yours too.

1. I read this really deep nugget about self-awareness in Mark Manson’s newsletter, The Breakthrough:

   “Albert Camus once said, “An intellectual is someone whose mind watches itself.”
   
   In psychology, “meta-cognition” is a person’s ability to be aware of their own thoughts and emotions and have thoughts/emotions about those thoughts and emotions in real-time.
   
   Meta-cognition is more casually known as “self-awareness” and is tied to all sorts of positive outcomes, from better emotional regulation to more focus and discipline and overall happiness and well-being.
   
   Self-awareness is at the root of all personal improvement. Until you’re aware of your problems, there is little you can do to improve them.

   We generally are good at recognizing certain thoughts and emotions within us and bad at others—i.e., we naturally recognize when we feel sad or guilty but get caught off guard by our anger or are in denial about our anxiety.
   
   So, ask yourself: In what circumstances are you good at knowing how you are thinking and feeling? What circumstances are you bad at it?
   
   Another way to think about it: What triggers you?”

2. Speaking of Mark Manson, he challenges the conventional wisdom of how to be successful in his YouTube video titled How to Get Ahead of 99% of People (Starting Today).

3. This is a bit of an old article about something called a "brag document, " which is a document that lists accomplishments and goals. She explains how to share the document with your managers and peer reviewers, and how to explain the big picture of your work. She also suggests using the brag document to reflect on your work and to encourage other people to list and celebrate their accomplishments. As a bonus, the article also includes a template for the document and advice for tracking accomplishments outside of work. Check it out.

4. I discovered the Relationship Theory YouTube channel this week. I don’t know how I haven’t known about this all this time. If, like me, you’ve never heard of it, here’s one of the first episodes I watched and enjoyed:

5. While we’re talking about podcasts, my favourite is Darknet Diaries. It explores the dark side of the internet and computer security through true stories of hackers, data breaches, and cybercrime. Each episode is an interesting and well-researched narrative that takes you on a journey through the underground world of hacking, cyber espionage, and online crime. Jack Rhysider, the host, is a cybersecurity professional himself, so he brings a wealth of knowledge and expertise to the podcast. It’s highly informative, but also engaging and entertaining. I think it’s a must-listen. He’s the latest episode I enjoyed.

Bonus: Since I’m already recommending other things to read, I might as well plug myself. I also write about tech now and then, mainly on my blog. If web development is something you’re interested in. I recently wrote this article for my company’s blog comparing React and Svelte.

PS: I now write the newsletter every two weeks. I’ve been thinking about using the week in between to write a short compilation (shorter than this one) of some interesting things I read/watch/listen to, with a short note on why I found it interesting. Would this be something you’d be interested in? Please let me know by replying to this email or leaving a comment.

Part of the reason for this is that when we first meet people, there's a wide range of possibilities of who they could be. We’re open to the possibility that they could be anyone, with all their likes and desires bundled in, seeing them as expansive and mysterious. But as we get to know them and build a life together, our perspective narrows, and we start to define them by their roles, like mother, husband, teacher, or lawyer. Seeing less of this big, broad person shapes how we interact with them. Suddenly, the mystery that once fascinated us disappears, and they become completely defined in our eyes. Even someone with the most fascinating spouse in the world could become jaded because they’re so well-defined, and the mystery is gone.

So, how do we open up again? How can we discuss things that over time are labelled as "you should know this" or assumed to be obvious? Is there a way to reignite that sense of wonder and mystery between two people who think they know everything about each other?

Here are four aids that can rekindle that lost mystery and turn you into giddy, impetuous teenagers again, constantly curious and continually excited about love.

Pay yourself first.

When we become more familiar, we stop giving each other the best of ourselves.

There’s a principle in personal finance commonly summarised as “pay yourself first.” This is the concept that when you get paid, prioritise your personal financial growth by paying into your savings first. This is contrary to the common practice where people will pay everyone else like the rent to the landlord, the utilities providers, the grocery store for food etc. before they pay themselves. Often there’s little to nothing left for savings after that. What’s that got to do with relationships?

When it comes to our time and attention, most of us treat our relationships the way we treat our personal finances. We give our most important relationship what’s left of our time and attention, and often there isn’t much left. We go out in the morning and as we meet colleagues and clients and friends, we’re super animated, well-dressed, engaged and attentive. By the time we get home, we’re spent and we just bring the leftovers. So at home, we throw on those “home clothes” and undo our hair. We talk very little, only to check on how the day was and coordinate the logistics. Did you pick up the kids on time? Remember, there’s a recital tomorrow. Were the groceries delivered? Did the dry cleaning people come to pick up the clothes?

Think about how much our relationships would change if we reversed the script and gave our partners the best of ourselves. If you’re a morning person, you wake up early and take a walk with them in the morning when your mind’s at its peak and you’re the most alert and attentive and curious.

You don’t need to search long to find research that shows that couples who have regular rituals together are happier and stay together longer. It could be anything; every Thursday at 6 pm we have a gaming night at home. Every Tuesday, we will both leave our offices and have lunch together, and every month we spend a night away from home. Whatever makes sense in your particular context. The key is that no matter what’s going on in our lives; we have a dedicated time that is ours where we check in with each other. A time that says we matter and everything else is secondary, then you’ll have a better shot at maintaining long-term intimacy.

Communication is not enough.

I first heard this on this tweet and it stuck with me. One of the highly hailed pieces of relationship advice is that communication is everything. Communication isn’t everything. There is such a thing as over-relying on communication.

Over-relying on communication can show up as outsourcing the work of really getting to know your partner to them communicating it to you. Expecting them to tell you exactly who they are and what’s going in their minds and line that up perfectly with their behaviour is trying to take a shortcut to put in the work of getting to know someone. Sure, they can try, but some things are much harder to put into words than they are to observe. This is worse because most times we don’t even know all the things about ourselves that external observers can pick up easily. We can only be as honest with each other as we are with ourselves and often, we need an honest, loving partner to help us be honest with ourselves.

We can’t outsource the work of really seeing someone.

Communication is only one tool that helps in getting to know someone. Another significant portion of it is just living life with them and being observant and paying attention. We can’t expect a person to translate to us in words all the complexities and nuances that come together to make them who they are. We learn about people by interacting with them, living with them, doing things with them, going through various experiences with them and paying attention. No amount of talking and communication will teach you as much about a person as just simply living life with them will.

Listen with your partner to other people having tough conversations.

Listening to other people having tough conversations is a sort of mirror to see yourselves through. It gives you some vocabulary and a pivot to start the same conversation about yourselves.

When you have a third entity that you’re both observing, it allows you to explore a subject with your partner through the thing you’ve just watched or listened to. Then you can ask questions relevant to you in relation to it. Things like; have you ever felt that kind of pressure? Is this something you would be interested in trying? Do you have those fantasies? Is that what you feel with me at times? Have you ever faked with me? Is this something you’ve also experienced? Have you ever wanted to try that for us?

This is much easier than out of the blue saying, “You know what? I was thinking that maybe one day we could try this.” If you listen to something together, it places what would have been impossible in the set of permitted conversations we can have as a couple. As I write this, the mini-series Scenes From a Marriage keeps popping into my mind. It’s an amazing show that will really get you thinking about some tough things. And if you really want to dial it up a notch, there’s this amazing app that my wife and I have been enjoying. It’s called Paired (iOS App Store and Google Play Store), and the concept is simple but brilliant; you join it with your partner and every day it asks you a question about something related to relationships. You won’t see your partner’s answer until you give your own. The questions are about many subjects and it’s great for getting the discussion going with your partner about subjects that may sometimes be hard to bring up directly.

Listening to people who have had tough conversations before can help you learn the right approach. You can learn how to approach the conversation, how to listen actively, and how to validate your partner's feelings.

Create a space where you can be your romantic selves to each other.

Creating a space where you can be your romantic selves to each other can be a powerful way to keep the intimacy in your relationship alive. This can be a separate email address, a discord server, a telegram group, or whatever works for you. The only requirement is that it shouldn’t be mixed in with your regular interactions.

In this space, you're not talking about the mundane things in life, but focusing on your romantic relationship. Send songs, jokes, pictures, and sweet thoughts to each other to keep the spark alive. This will cause a connection that goes beyond an obligation and still keeps the same passion as when you first began. It creates that erotic space where you see each other as lovers, not just life partners.

Romantic spaces can also be physical spaces. Create a space in your home that is dedicated to romance. This could be a cosy corner with comfortable chairs and soft lighting or a bedroom that is designed with relaxation and intimacy in mind. By creating a physical space you both like that is dedicated to your relationship, you'll be more likely to prioritize intimacy and make time for each other.

If you shed the notion that you have a full understanding of your partner, you will find that they are actually very mysterious and elusive and that there are many things about them that can be explored and uncovered if you take the time to be curious.

Psychologist Marisa Franco, author of “Platonic: How the Science of Attachment Can Help You Make—and Keep—Friends”, gave a Ted Talk in which she made a point that really stuck with me: The thing that’s particularly difficult about adult friendships is that, unlike in childhood, it doesn’t happen organically. It takes effort. We’re not used to this because our entire friendship paradigm is modelled around how we did it as kids. When you’re an adult, there are no occasions that create organic communities for you, you have to make that happen yourself by prioritising it. When you were a child, you had to go to school every day, and many things at school would force you to interact with other people, from group projects to sports and everything in between. As an adult, you can live completely disconnected from others. Sure many of us have to go to work, but you don’t have to talk to anyone at work and even if you do there’s no incentive or obligation to befriend anyone.

Since I’ve already shared a great guide and book on how to make and nurture friendships, I want to close the loop with the guide to losing all your friends. Then, equipped with all the knowledge, you’ll be better at making your own choices.

What if you were tired of all the friendships you have and you want to know how to lose friends instead? But you want to be so clinical about it that people choose to leave you of their own accord. The following is a non-exhaustive guide to driving everyone away.

Sidenote: With it being the end of February when most of us are falling off our new year’s resolutions, I don’t want to give you yet another difficult thing to do. Unlike many other how-to guides out there, you’ll find that you have to put very little effort into being good at many of these points. In fact, you’re probably already quite proficient at some of them.

Anyway, here’s how to make everyone you know and love slowly drift away from you.

1 Talk only about yourself.

The first thing you need to do is develop a strong tendency to steer any conversation back to the topic of yourself.

This shouldn’t be too difficult, you have lots of topics to choose from; what do you have going on in your life? Your dreams and aspirations? What are you excited about? What’s something terrible that happened to you last week? Why waste any time talking about anything else when you have all this about yourself you can talk to people about?

Get used to the idea of getting into monologues about yourself. If you’re really proficient, you’ll even master the art of steering every discussion topic to eventually be about you. Now that will really make talking to you an agonising experience. If the other person is not talking about you, then don’t pay attention to what they are saying. Use that time to think about the next thing you’ll say about yourself. If you’re listening do it only to spot cues where you can jump in with an interesting segue to the time when the same thing happened to you. When your friend is telling you about something going on in their life? Never miss the opportunity to bring up a relatable situation that happened to you and focus on that.

Don’t ask them questions either—unless they’re about you. Always be the one who answers questions. Do not, under any circumstances, give people the impression that you are interested in them or what they have going on.

2 Spill the tea on other people.

I know, I know. You obviously can’t talk about yourself the whole time, even you won’t enjoy that. So take breaks from it by talking about mutual friends and acquaintances. Not in the way you talk about yourself though. No! That would ruin your progress.

When you talk about other people, be sure to focus only on their most negative qualities. Never miss a chance to voice your dissatisfaction and disapproval of their behaviour, their life choices, their fashion sense, etc. you get the idea. When you know something wrong that someone did, spill the tea, even if it’s none of your business.

The key here is to make it clear to everyone that you’re not someone who roots for people who don’t deserve it, according to your standard. Then make sure to set that standard impossibly high. Bonus points if you can do this while clarifying that you’re highlighting their negatives because you want to see them do and be better.

You want to be known as someone who’s critical and generally disapproving of the people around you and you aren’t afraid to voice it.

3 Don’t be helpful.

Never extend your hand to help another person.

Don't waste your time lending a hand to those in need. Your own problems should always take precedence, and you should avoid contributing to your community of friends at all costs. Make sure to dodge any responsibility or labour, and let others do the heavy lifting while you take the credit.

Keep your talents to yourself and never share them with others. Imagine you're at a party and the music suddenly stops because there’s something wrong with the computer. As the resident computer expert, everyone turns to you for help. Don't be a hero - refuse their pleas and watch the party spiral into chaos. After all, you're not a plaything to be used and abused by those around you.

4 Be a pessimist

If you want to be the life of the party, make sure to bring your dark cloud of pessimism with you. It's the perfect accessory to make everyone around you feel like they're drowning in a sea of negativity.

When your friend is telling you about their promotion, don't celebrate with them. Instead, remind them that there's always a chance they'll get fired. When your sister is excited about her new haircut, make sure to tell her how much better she looked before. And when your co-worker presents a new idea, shoot it down immediately and tell them all the ways it could fail.

Pessimism is like a gift that keeps on giving. It's the ultimate buzzkill that ensures that everyone around you is constantly reminded of all the things that could go wrong. So the next time you're at a party, be sure to remind everyone that the world is a terrible place, and there's no hope for humanity.

And don't forget to add a healthy dose of complaining to your pessimism. Nothing says "I'm a joy to be around" like constantly whining about the temperature, the traffic, and the sorry state of your back.

Always find something to complain about. Call yourself a realist, even though in reality you’re a pessimist.

5 Be closed-minded

Be confident in your beliefs and don't be swayed by others' opinions.

Now that you have a strong dose of pessimism, assume that whatever information you have at the present moment is the gold standard. It’s better than whatever anyone else has been told. If someone tries to share their perspective on life with you, be default against it, even before you know what it is. It’s not what you think, so it’s probably wrong.

Whenever it turns out that you were right about something, make sure to make everyone know that you were right and they were wrong and they should listen to you next time.

Assume that because you read it in a book or heard it on the news, then it must be true. Never create a space for dialogue. Don’t talk about the nuances of a situation, but stay fixated on the negatives. Don’t let anyone influence you. Hold on with an iron grip on whatever you believe in right now and guard it with your life.

6 Forget humility - you're the best, and everyone should know it.

Maintain a constant facade that you are blameless and perfect. Refuse to acknowledge any potential shortcomings or mistakes, and instead focus solely on promoting your own virtues and talents. Allow your ego to consume you and bask in the glory of your own greatness.

Never look at a situation objectively and be blissfully unaware of your flaws. If you do find some flaws, hide them at all costs. You can’t let anyone realise that you’re not the most perfect human being. A great way to demonstrate to people that they can never get close to you is to never show any kind of weakness or vulnerability. This will help you to not be relatable whatsoever, again a perfect human being.

Then after that, all you have to do to keep it up, with reference to point number one, is to always build yourself up and talk very highly about yourself. And be very snappy and defensive immediately when anyone calls your perfection into question. Remember, modesty is overrated. Confidence is key, and you are the shining example of perfection that everyone should aspire to be.

Just as important as maintaining the perfection of your character is maintaining the perfection of your work. If you made something it’s the exemplar. If anyone criticises it, they’re wrong! No matter how valid or constructive their criticism is, if it’s directed at you it’s wrong. You’re the one who criticises.

7 Be flaky

Don’t be someone that people can rely on.

Keep people guessing about whether you’ll show up or not. A great way to develop this reputation is to always say yes when people invite you to things and reassure them you’ll be there, then cancel at the last minute possible.

It is important that you’re seen as someone who is always busy or overwhelmed and who is constantly plagued by unexpected obligations. So always have an excuse handy. You want to be the guy that always has something that comes up at the last second. Bonus points for the most creative excuses.

If you keep this up long enough, people will call you less and less until eventually, they leave you alone. You’ll grow distant from them—you’re not a pleasant person to be around anyway—and eventually, you won’t have any friends. Perfect!

8 Taking initiative is overrated.

Now that no one calls you anymore, we need to tie up the final loose end. Always wait around for people to come up with plans and things to invite you to. Never come up with your own ideas, never have your own things going on and never invite anyone to anything. Since you’re already a pretty unpleasant human and a bad friend, no one’s going to invite you to anything anyway.

Couple this with number seven well enough and people will eventually get the impression that you don’t want to spend time with them and they will move on to other people.

If you were just tired of having a thriving social life and you wanted everyone to just leave you alone and slowly drift away for the rest of your life. Then at this point my friend, you’re at the top of the mountain!

If you want more ideas on how to be miserable, check out Randy J. Paterson’s book “How To Be Miserable: 40 Strategies You Already Use” and Joey Schweitzer’s YouTube channel where most of these ideas were derived.

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Have you been in a situation where you needed to have a difficult conversation, but just couldn't bring yourself to do it? Whether it's a conversation with a family member, friend, or colleague, we've all been there. The fear of conflict and the unknown outcome can hold us back from having conversations that could change everything.

But what if I told you that one conversation could be the key to ending a long-standing feud, building new connections, or advancing your career? That's right, sometimes all it takes is one conversation to make an enormous impact on our lives.

And it's not just individuals who struggle with confrontational conversations, teams can also suffer when a difficult but important issue goes unaddressed. Tensions rise, trust decreases, and collaboration can grind to a halt. As part of teams that perform crucial functions, such as surgeries, running schools, or managing people's pensions, we can't afford to avoid tough conversations.

That’s why I’ve decided to face my fear of confrontational conversations and learn all I can about how to have them effectively. And, in this article, I'll share what I've learnt with you.

We'll explore the importance of having tough conversations and discuss practical tips and strategies for navigating tough conversations with grace and empathy. So let’s jump in and learn how to lead those conversations that could change everything.

First, why is this important?

Confrontation is an opportunity for growth

Facing difficult conversations head-on allows for a safer space in our relationships to grow and helps improve our communication skills. It allows us to live a more authentic life. We should choose to view confrontational situations as opportunities for growth, both personally and in relationships with others. Helping us to be more resilient, disciplined, and focused, and providing that strength to others.

While confrontational situations can be difficult, facing them head-on can teach us to communicate more effectively and find the right words to express ourselves without escalating the situation.

Empowering others

Embracing responsibility and facing confrontational situations head-on doesn’t just benefit you personally, it also empowers you to help and empower others. When you become comfortable with confrontation, you are better equipped to defend those who—like you before now—may be too afraid or powerless to speak up for themselves. In situations where there are power imbalances, having the confidence to confront the issue head-on can be the difference between perpetuating the imbalance and creating a more equitable and just environment.

For example, when a coworker is being mistreated or taken advantage of, it's easy to feel helpless and unsure of how to support them. However, if you have developed the skills and confidence to engage in confrontational conversations, you can step in and defend them, helping to restore balance and fairness. In this way, it not only benefits you as an individual but also has a ripple effect that positively impacts those around you.

Think about it, when we're honest and transparent about our thoughts and feelings, we give others permission to do the same. It's like we're the first domino that starts the chain reaction. And before we know it, others will start to open up as well, and the conversation will become more and more productive. So, don't be afraid to be the first domino. You never know what kind of positive impact it could have, not just for you but for everyone involved.

Three simple rules

Here are three simple rules I’ve learnt to follow to help me handle confrontation effectively, especially if I’m the one leading the conversation.

The first rule—also the toughest for me—is to move toward the conflict. Conflict likes to hide everywhere and is always looming in every interaction we have. If we continuously avoid it, it will pounce on us when we’re least prepared to deal with it. So the first step is to understand that conflict is not something to be feared or avoided, but it is information that should be approached with a positive mindset. It can actually provide an opportunity to better understand the situation and find a resolution that works for everyone involved. By moving toward the conflict, you can diffuse the tension and help to resolve the issue in a calm and effective manner.

The second rule is to remember that you don’t know as much as you think, and even if you do, it's best to pretend you don't. To truly understand the perspectives of others, you need to ask questions about their experiences and listen to what they have to say. This means truly focusing on what they are saying and avoiding the temptation to interrupt or offer your own opinions before they have finished speaking. By truly listening to what others have to say, you can gain a better understanding of the situation and the concerns of all parties involved. If you approach the conversation with pre-baked solutions, you might make things worse.

Finally, it's important to keep quiet and allow for pauses in the conversation. It may take a few seconds for people to respond, but it’s important not to panic in those moments of silence. Instead, use the pauses as opportunities to drive deeper thought and well-contemplated responses. Rushing in to rescue the conversation from the silence will only disrupt the flow and make it more difficult to achieve a resolution. By giving people time to think and respond, you can create a safe and supportive environment for everyone involved to share their thoughts and feelings.

By following these simple rules and approaching hard conversations with a positive mindset, you can lead productive and effective discussions that help to resolve issues and build stronger relationships.

But what if you dread taking that first step of moving towards the conflict? Here’s what I’ll be doing to ease myself into it.

Learning to “Move toward the conflict,”

Here are a few tips for someone looking to improve their ability to embrace responsibility and face confrontational situations:

• Start with small steps: Start by practising in low-stakes situations, like having a difficult conversation with a friend or family member on a subject that’s not about your relationship. This will help build confidence and prepare you for more challenging situations in the future.

• Identify your triggers: Take note of what makes you uncomfortable about confrontational situations. This could be the fear of conflict, the fear of hurting someone's feelings, or the fear of not being able to express yourself effectively. By identifying your triggers, you can develop strategies to overcome them.

• Prepare yourself: Take some time to think about what you want to say before engaging in a confrontational situation. Write down key points, practice them in your mind, and have a plan for how you want the conversation to go. This preparation will help you feel more confident and in control.

• Practice active listening: During confrontational situations, it's important to listen as much as you speak. This means giving the other person your full attention, asking clarifying questions, and repeating back what you've heard to show that you understand.

• Stay calm and focused: Confrontational situations can be emotional and stressful, but it's important to stay calm and focused. Take deep breaths, practice mindfulness, and stay present in the moment (my mind wonders a lot, even mid-conversation sometimes, so this is also hard for me). This will help you stay in control and communicate effectively.

• Seek support: Surround yourself with supportive people who can help you work through your fears and build your confidence. Consider seeking the guidance of a therapist or coach who can provide additional support and tools for overcoming your challenges.

• Practice: The more you practice, the more comfortable you will become with confrontational situations. Try to put yourself in these types of situations as often as you can, and learn from each experience. Over time, you will become more confident, assertive, and effective in handling confrontational situations.

Having the conversation is more important than doing it the “right” way

It's easy to get caught up in the thought of doing it the "right" way, and let's be honest, what even is the "right" way to have a tough conversation? Having the conversation itself is more important than doing it perfectly.

Sure, there are definitely guidelines and best practices to follow, but at the end of the day, the mere act of having the conversation is what truly matters. So, I'm choosing to let go of the fear of not doing it the "right" way and instead, embracing the opportunity to have the conversation at all, otherwise, I won’t do it. After all, it's better to try and potentially make mistakes than to let the fear of not doing it perfectly hold me back from making a difference.

And, who knows, maybe with enough practice, I'll even become a pro at having tough conversations. But, let's not get ahead of ourselves just yet!