Lessons from the 2020s

The 2020’s have been unbelievable. At times they’ve been unlivable. They’ve made me disengage in a way I never thought I would. Because sometimes that’s just a safer space. There have been tremendous lessons which changed my trajectory. I wanted to write them down.* Mostly for me, but sometimes it helps me to write them for you too. Here they are.

1. Grief will change you

It will change you, and it will change the world you live in. It will wound you. Mortally. You will never be who you were before you lost them. That shade of you leaves with the departed. Their departure makes colours fade and it makes night-time last forever. It will interfere with your faith, if it doesn’t eradicate it entirely. It sharpens edges and it erodes humanity, and you never know when it will end. I don’t think it does.

Someone told me that grief is like the tide coming in; eventually it subsides. But they forgot that the tide keeps coming. Sometimes it’s springtide, and then you’re fucked. Don’t even try to survive; you won’t. But most times it’s not, and eventually you work out the rhythm. They say it becomes tolerable. About as tolerable as holding your breath under water for long periods of time. Maybe they mean that it doesn’t necessarily kill you, but you sometimes think that it will. You sometimes hope that it will. You understand how people die from a broken heart, and you wonder how to speed up the process. Somehow, something hooks you back. Something reminds you why it’s worth getting out of bed. Not every day, but that’s also fine. They say it takes a very, very long time. Forever, actually. I hope they’re wrong, but I don’t think they are.

2. Idolise attributes, not people. And hold everyone to account.

People are utterly, utterly disappointing. They lie, they cheat, they pretend, they posture. All of us. We are all deeply flawed. And the ones who refuse to show this, the ones who appear to have it together, the ones who like everyone, the ones who only fail in private, who cheer for everyone, who remain neutral in the face of chauvinism, bullying [insert whichever heinous behaviour you like] — these are the most profoundly flawed. And a society that rewards this neutrality — our society — is fundamentally broken.

“Yeah, but he’s brilliant.”

“Sure, but she built an empire.”

“I know, but they’re an excellent teacher.”

“But she’s just so hot.”

It’s all true. It’s the Rhodes scholar who openly speculates whether the waitress is wearing a bra. It’s the brilliant academic with a ‘misogyny problem.’ It’s the sultry beauty who leaves you on “read.” It’s the widely admired superior who openly mocks your accent. These are the ones that touched a nerve, but we’re all a complex collection of outstanding attributes and some pretty shitty ‘quirks.’ (We’ll call them quirks but let me be clear: they are absolutely not quirks.) Which is why we should “never meet our heroes.” We’ll discover that they’re more (or less?) than their shining attributes. Because — to our horror — they’re human.

Which is all good and well. My gripe is not that people are deeply flawed. No, the problem with idolising people is not that they’ll disappoint us (they will, and it will suck, but we’ll survive). The problem is that we justify bad behaviour because it’s packaged with something magical. We condone harmful tendencies because nobody’s perfect. We’ll look the other way because their goodness surely outweighs the bad. And that’s bullshit.

We also won’t find a version where absolutely everything shines. Of course, we won’t. But if we’re searching for perfection, we’ve misunderstood the quest. My message is to stop condoning harmful attributes because they exist alongside greatness. We don’t have to, and we shouldn’t. Admire attributes, not people. And hold people to account. All of them.

3. Self-deprecation is not an invitation for mockery

This is a big one. Self-deprecation or self-mockery is complex terrain. So many reasons why we do it; so many sore spots that it covers; so much fear that it masks. It’s a lifeline for me. It’s my life vest. “I’ll mock this before you can.”

What it DOESN’T say is, “I’ve mocked this. Now it’s your turn.” I know a guy who perpetually mocks the size of my quadriceps. He doesn’t require prompting. He’ll insert it into any conversation he can. He’ll send me pictures of someone who looks like me, with smaller quads, so that he can tell that he thought it was me, but he noticed the absence of quads. You know who you are. Stop your shit.

The correct response to this is, “Fuck right off.” And do not, for one second, entertain the idea that your self-deprecation gives anyone permission to mock you. Often, the self-deprecation-open-mockery cycle has gone on for so long that to change direction feels like a betrayal (more on this later). But draw the line and pronounce on the boundary. It’s scary as hell and your voice will shake. The guilt will be overwhelming. I often feel like it’s fatal to the relationship. And if I’m honest, sometimes it is. And when it is, it burns. It takes a long, long time to settle, but eventually it does. And eventually, you’re OK. Stay the course. I promise you, it’s worth it. I promise you, you’re worth it.

4. It’s all sexy. All of it. It really is.

I’ve spent the better part of 37 years hating my body. Sincerely hating it. Oscillating between covering all the mirrors and turning them to wall, and peering obsessively into them, searching for ways to fix the disaster. The same disaster that crossed finish lines on epic endeavours. The same disaster that carries me through the Atlantic whenever I want it to. The same disaster that withstands anything I throw at it (well, almost anything…)

I’ve written about this before, and I’ve written about the crisis that ensues when it all goes too far. And I think we’ve got it all wrong. Yes, skinny is sexy. Lean is desirable. But you know what else is? Strong. Round. Wobbly. Dimples (even on your bum). Warm. Tall. Short. Smart. Funny. Ditsy. Sombre. Freckles. Beards. Driven. Relaxed. Adventurous. Well-read. Introverted. Quiet. Loud. All of it. In different combinations. And there is absolutely no way to know what someone else values and how it shows up in you.

The solution? Forget about it. Laugh it off. Get curious about what your body can do. “But is it healthy?” FFS. You’ve missed the point. Yes, it’s healthy. And it’s sexy AF. To somebody. Make sure it’s sexy to you. And move the dial on what you think is sexy. You’ve got your whole life with this body. Best you fall in love with it, as it is, right now.

5. Swim in the goddam ocean

Or run in the mountain. Or walk on the rocks. Or sit in the garden. Or look at the sky. Whatever you need to do to remind you that life is so much bigger than deadlines, performance, progress, money, and points — do it often and with zest. I don’t think it’s true that life is short. For some people it’s way too long. The point is that we don’t know when it will be over. We spend our time doing arduous, stupid things, to prolong a life of doing arduous, stupid things. What an awful way to live.

[I realise that this is an immensely privileged stance to take. The luxury to choose is exactly that. Image we lived in a way that everyone’s right to “swim in the goddam ocean” was equally important, and entirely unrelated to our station in life. Just imagine…]

6. Tell people you love them

And I use “love” liberally here. Tell them you’re proud of them. Tell them you saw them do something incredibly brave, that you saw how much it scared them, but that you watched them see it through. Tell them that they mean something to you, or that you notice they mean something to someone else. Tell them they’ve done better than you thought you would.

And tell everyone. Tell your juniors. Tell your staff. Tell you family. Tell your friends. But also tell your superiors. Tell your leaders. Tell your seniors and your trainers. Tell the people who evaluate you. Don’t assume that people know how well they’re doing. We (white South Africans in particular) are pretty good at letting you know how far short you’ve fallen. We really suck at saying, “you done good.”

7. Give yourself time to change direction

If the 2020s taught us anything, it’s that everything is finite. We thought we had time. We don’t have time. And things will need to change. Boundaries will shift. Relationships will transform. Priorities will be re-ranked, and all of this will take time. We’ll need to slow momentum in one direction, before we build it another. Before things really change, they will stay the same. And it may grate us every second of every day.

We’ll still greet the bully with a smile and compliance. We’ll still giggle at the misogynistic jokes and the innuendo, because we haven’t figured out how to say, “Please don’t.” We’ll still entertain perfectionistic expectations because we don’t know how to be OK without them. And none of this erodes progress. Because yesterday, we didn’t know we were being bullied, and yesterday, we didn’t recognise misogyny. Yesterday, perfection reigned supreme. The momentum will slow, and you’ll turn it around. Building strength, conviction and self-respect takes time, but time is all it takes. You got this.

8. Failure is almost never fatal

On the contrary, it’s the only way to true success. And most of the time, nobody cares. Beware the crowd that want you to believe otherwise. Turn their volume down and leave their party. They’re assholes and they’re deeply insecure. Find better people. Find the people who fail openly and honestly. Forget the rest — they will steal your joy.

* I’m a white, cisgender, heterosexual female, born in South Africa in the 1980s, and I’m privileged AF. That’s the perspective from which I write this. Engage if I offend you. Educate me. Or help me educate myself.