There's something about days like "R U OK Day" that really put me offside. I was trying to explain it to a friend recently, that we have days which explicitly call out particular topics to remind us that they should be everyday things, but I'm not sure they are. I'm not convinced that it works either, that caring for one day resonates throughout the rest of the week, month, year in many cases. Maybe I'm just being overly cynical but if anything, I think we are reaching a point where the promotion of it is cringe, so we lose the important messaging, and then instead of raising awareness, people roll their eyes at the prospect or worse, don't show up even on that one day.
I really like the way my workplace handles something like R U OK day because the questions, the conversations the theme seem genuine each time. I learn more about my colleagues by wandering the grounds and answering thoughtful questions, and I especially love the vulnerability that we are comfortable with in a sport organisation. The only problem is, as a symptom of the event style and despite the broader theme of "ask every day", I don't think anyone did.
I mentioned at the end of the walk that being able to admit that I wasn't okay this time last year, when I moved to Perth, was a fundamental reason why the move was successful. Connecting with a peer supporter when I didn't know anyone else in the city apart from the people I share an office with every day made a huge difference. I knew that if I ever needed a hug or someone to talk to, I could find them around the ground and drop by. If anything, I loved connecting with them because they didn't ask me that dreaded question of 'are you okay' but rather knew that me being there probably meant I wasn't. I even tested my HR department early on with a surprise panic attack! Turns out moving 4-6000km away from everyone you love really takes a toll on you.
I've never really been the kind of person to talk to strangers. (This is connected, I promise.) I find interacting with people often leaves me feeling drained even when I know them, and although I'm getting better at consciously controlling that flow of energy and relinquishing the idea of a 'social battery' dying, I used to do my best to avoid even the smallest interactions. Now I foolishly thought that I would notice a shift in the way I interact with the world, but I surprised myself when I suddenly wouldn't shy away from small talk with a stranger on the street, a shared laugh over something funny at the park, going the extra step to say g'day instead of just smiling while walking past someone. You might read this and think "duh, what a small thing" but to me, it showcases a monumental shift. I went from trying to hide away from the world, and positioning myself in a way that would hope for invisibility, to openly engaging with it - and didn't even notice until recently!
The moment that surprised me the most happened on a walk that I do any time I've been cooped up in the office all day. I live along the Derbal Yerrigan (Swan River) in Boorloo (Perth), so I like to set off in one direction along the path with a podcast in my ears and just wander along. Two events changed the trajectory of this regular, casual walk. The first was when I passed someone who was bawling her eyes out crying as she walked. Instead of sharing a smile, I tried to convey a look of sympathy as we passed each other, but I couldn't let it go. About 100m down the path, I turned around and ran back after her. I approached gingerly, so as not to startle her, took my headphones off and asked that question: are you okay? "I'm just going through some things" came the reply, and I felt like I hadn't done anything to actually help so I offered something I would have loved in that moment: a hug. "Yeah fuck it, why not" came the reply, and I embraced this stranger until she was ready to let go. She dried her tears a little, and continued on her path.
It's moments like these that I'm reminded of the word sonder: a profound feeling of realising that everyone, including strangers passing by, has a life as complex as one's own, which they are constantly living despite one's personal lack of awareness of it. When you really stop to think about the complexity of your own life, and magnify it by the billions of people in the world, it's a difficult thing to comprehend. There's an album by Dermot Kennedy, one of my favourite artists, that captures this feeling so wonderfully that I can't listen to it while walking because it stops me in my tracks. You would think a profound moment like this, embracing a stranger, acknowledging the vastness of their life that I will never grasp, and then walking away like nothing happened would be more than enough for one night, but the plot thickens.
There are a few jetty's along the water that make for great thinking spots. I often take a book down and sit with the lapping water as my only company, occasionally closing my eyes just to listen along. As I approached the jetty, someone else was doing the same thing, laying comfortably with their legs off the end, staring up at the clouds as sunset rolled over. I continued my little stroll over to some logs to sit on instead and stare out over the water but I was restless so I decided to play. How often do you do that? Just play, like you did as a kid? I've been leaning into it more often lately, which means you'll often find me climbing things. This time, I was balancing along and jumping between the logs, keeping my body and brain active instead of sitting still. After risking a few splinters, I paused by podcast and just sat on the log, catching my breath. The man on the jetty had wandered over, and like most single young female/nonbinary people, I could feel myself heading into a threat response but I managed to hit pause. I'm so glad I did.
In the book Humankind, Rutger Bregman starts off the brilliant journey through the topic of human behaviour through a simple question about bias first posed by Professor Tom Postmes: imagine an airplane makes an emergency landing and breaks into three parts. As the cabin fills with smoke, everybody realises: we've got to get out of here. What happens? On Planet A, the passengers turn to their neighbours to ask if they're okay. Those needing assistance are helped out of the plane first. People are willing to give their lives, even for perfect strangers. On Planet B, everyone is left to fend for themselves. Panic breaks out. There's lots of pushing and shoving. Children, the elderly, and people with disabilities get trampled underfoot. Which planet do we live on?
Prof. Postmes estimates that 97% if people think we live on Planet B, but the truth is we live on Planet A. And if we treat the world as if we live on Planet B, then it's more likely to feel that way. More recently, I've been trying to find easier ways to share the notion of a self-fulfilling prophecy with others. I've been terming it "whatever you think, you're right". You believe you can't do something? You're right. Just the inkling that you can't do the thing might be the reason why you never get into a good position to do it. I tried to take this approach to an event that might seem objectively threatening (and as a very anxious person, it doesn't take much for something to feel like this). I remained open to the conversation, and what unfolded is something I never could have anticipated.
I got an insight into someone else's complex life and boy, was it a rollercoaster. I started small, with something along the lines of “what were you thinking of on the jetty?” His witty reply caught me off guard: “That’s between me and the jetty. You know they have a special kind of confidentiality”. Now that’s my type of humour.
I'm sometimes consciously aware that I don't always know what to say, and I can't always concentrate on a conversation, and I sometimes overlook the important things, and I don't need to help but my reflex is to try, and I haven't memorised the conversation RUOK conversation guide.... all ridiculous things to write out after the fact when it was a rich correspondence without those things. I listened intently, I remembered the names in the stories, I never once passed judgement and if anything, hated that there was an innate feeling that some of these moments were being judged by others, by societal labels and misunderstandings. I learned so much about a stranger that night, but I also learned about myself.
At one point, they stopped to say that the reason they came over was because they felt like I would be a nice person to talk to. What an incredible statement to unpack. I have heard my voice change of late, it's always been loud but now it fluctuates more and it starts deeper as a result of becoming more comfortable with not just being "she". I don't cover my mouth when I laugh anymore. I tell the uncomfortable stories etched on my skin and the things that have troubled me of late with more openness. My favourite line from our interaction was that I have this "aura of happiness, like (I) know who I am". Wow, I don't know if I've ever truly felt that, but that is the way I am perceived by some and I don't think I believed I would ever get to that point. It wasn't until someone else, through all the complexity of their lives, shared their perception of me, did it finally hit me.
I know this newsletter edition has been a bit like that wandering walk I sometimes find myself on, but I wanted to take you on the journey with me. Jumping between topics, finding random threads that under closer inspection are actually deeply entangled, and stories that I never thought I would tell because if you'd asked me a year ago whether I would talk to a stranger, I would have said hell no. So while I think the question is sometimes cheesy and doesn't always land, sometimes it's amazing to see how far a simple line like "are you okay" can take you. Ask the question. Today, tomorrow, whenever you feel the urge to. And don't shy away from what you might find when you do.