Sharing and taking up space in the world – how do we move past a scarcity mindset?

There are 8.3 billion people in the world, and several perspectives on whether this rock is big enough for all of us. If we zoom out, we may have to reckon with a correlation between population growth and the destruction of our home planet, though that might tell us at least as much about a capitalist approach to extracting, creating or sharing resources as it does about an inherent relationship between people and planet. Closer to home, we’re living through a turbulent political time where there is widespread encouragement to view the ways in which we share space and resources with fellow humans through a lens of scarcity and fear. Far-right narratives encourage fear and exclusion of those positioned as ‘other’, prompting many to shrink themselves for the benefit of a wealthy minority intent on claiming more space. I’m interested in exploring the ways that we share and take up our space in the world, and how we might begin to protect against a scarcity mindset in relation to this. Join me on a meander through considerations of sharing space and migration, gender roles, wealth and status, and how social change can begin with looking at things from different angles.

‘There’s not enough for everyone’ is a political choice, not a material reality

There are enough resources globally to meet everyone’s needs. The real issue is distribution - a fact that’s widely accepted but rarely sparks outrage or calls for change. In a predictable ‘tale as old as time’, attention has been diverted away from the few who have amassed enough wealth to eradicate global poverty, and pointed squarely at those who are already marginalised and navigating extreme danger in hopes of eventually reaching safety. The anger and fear being directed at asylum seekers and refugees may not be new, but the context in which it currently exists is. What’s new is the amount of money being thrown at anti-immigration campaigns from domestic and international sources, the technology available to support the rapid spread of disinformation, and the implosion of clearly defined political positioning (see for example, the Labour Party in the UK rushing to make policies that were further to the right on immigration than their Conservative predecessors). Counter-messaging may need to up its game in order to be heard above the well funded and emotive cacophony of hate.

At the risk of entering into a political diatribe about the policing of borders, I feel it’s probably worth addressing the question of how we know when a country is ‘full’, and what decisions are made on the basis of this. There tends to be a dearth of factual information about levels of migration into and out of a country, birth rates, ageing populations, and investment in infrastructure when arguments are being made for further restricting immigration. The intention is to engage people on an emotional level, and it works because of a sense of there not being enough to go around. That seems like an obvious assumption to make when people are choosing between heating and eating, struggling to find work and living in poor housing conditions. When people express fears of overcrowding, it’s almost always an expression of a sense of scarcity regarding public services, job and housing. There may be another conversation to be had about the uneven pressure on services and economies, with more urban areas often experiencing more poverty and issues with infrastructure, alongside a bid to protect what remains of a country’s green spaces from the impact of high human population. There are also inconsistencies around which communities and areas are invested in or neglected. But, ultimately, this issue boils down to economics and political decision making about what is invested in and what is cut.

The UK’s housing crisis persists, even as nearly a million homes in England stand empty or serve as second residences. A ‘lack of social housing stock’ is an expression of political will, not a material reality – social housing stock will exist if the government of the day invests in it. While there may be ‘no magic money tree’, there is an abundance of funding available for things that may be less popular with the voting public, yet more attractive to key political allies (the most obvious and controversial being contributions to wars and illegal occupations elsewhere in the world).

We’re served a sense of inevitability about this system, which likely makes us feel powerless. The people making political and economic choices are too powerful to be stopped – the mega-rich can get away with anything if they throw enough money at the problem. So, where does that leave us? Perhaps in search of someone else to take the fight to – someone we can win against. This is how despots have used scapegoating to redirect anger towards a vulnerable minority throughout history, and apparently, it still works.

If we feel confident that it’s possible to fairly distribute resources and access to public services (which are disproportionately staffed by ‘immigrants’) among all those who need them, we have no reason to fear losing what we have to anyone newly arrived. What reframing would it take to believe, and behave as if, there is actually enough space and resource for all of us? This is a conversation I’d like to hear in political spaces.

Taking up your space – how we embody or resist our assigned roles

I’ll be honest – this piece began in my head as a rant about ‘manspreaders’, and later morphed into something a little loftier about how humans negotiate sharing space in the world. London commutes in recent years have seen me choosing passive aggressive sighing over potential confrontation (or having to touch the offending manspreader). For the uninitiated, the term ‘manspreading’ refers to men taking up more than their allocated amount of space in public by sitting with legs spread wide in what seems reasonably interpreted as a show of casual dominance. It’s a minor issue on the face of it, but I’m interested in the ways in which we embody the roles we’ve been given in life via the accident of birth, and the interplay between how much space we feel entitled to take up and social hierarchy. This is not a new concept - feminist and anti-racist discourse has had much to offer about the idea of shrinking ourselves to avoid appearing threatening to those who hold a kind of social power that, on some level, they know is fragile. That fragility can be dangerous, and so those of us in female, Black, Brown, queer, trans, disabled and other marginalised bodies often learn – consciously or unconsciously – to make those bodies as small and convenient as possible when faced with potentially dangerous situations. And of course, there has been a tennis match of backlash in response to this – one notable example being the game of ‘patriarchy chicken’ that some women have documented as a way to test how often they would collide with men while walking in public if they didn’t give way to them (spoiler – the answer is ‘very often’).

I’m concerned and curious about the ways in which social divisions and a return to restrictive ideas about gender might calcify some of these embodied expressions of role and power, and the potential for violence as a response to non-conforming self-expression and claiming of space. This policing of norms, bodies and entitlement to space in the world comes straight from the fascist playbook. And while I don’t want to advocate for anyone to put themselves at risk of harm, I feel that we must continue to work on taking up our space in the world, letting others take theirs, expressing ourselves authentically, and pushing back on archaic roles and power dynamics.

Lawns, legroom and lobbies - social hierarchy in measurable terms

Literal space in the world, in the form of land, has been available to acquire through purchase or invasion throughout most of human history. This is a concept that might feel inevitable, in spite of its absurdity when we zoom out from it. We exchange our labour for currency, a human construct that (in contemporary times) fluctuates in value according to the whims and anxieties of professional gamblers. We hope that this exchange of labour and currency will allow us to say that a slice of the planet we live on belongs to us to do with as we please (local planning regulations permitting). The more value our labour is deemed to be worth by mysterious market forces and the social structures that influence them, the more space we are permitted to occupy. The value assigned to specific forms of labour doesn’t necessarily bear any relation to its social or environmental impact – what’s valued most is potential for further economic growth. So, taking up a lot of space in the world may be considered to be a reward for contributing to companies’ profits and the overall profits made on of a larger patch of land.

In contemporary society, buying a space to call home is increasingly inaccessible. For many of us, the aim is to take up the space that we need in order to live a comfortable and peaceful life. But the number of square feet we can call our ‘own’, and other forms of entitlement to space have also been status symbols throughout history. Take, for example, the humble suburban lawn. This patch of trimmed grass isn’t traditionally designed to support biodiversity, to grow food, or even necessarily to be occupied by its owners. It’s often an extension of the home that is maintained and observed, but doesn’t offer much functionality. Lawns originated as status symbols among the upper classes and, even today, modest lawns serve as displays of wealth—often in climates ill-suited for them. The point of this example is not to berate anyone who meticulously maintains a small patch of grass, but to step back from social norms and markers of status and look at them with curiosity. Disentangling ourselves from the idea of inevitability in the ways we organise our lives (both in private and in community) offers an opportunity to start imagining how things could be different, and what we might want that to look like.

Another example of this ‘space as status symbol’ phenomenon is the hotel or corporate office lobby. These are spaces whose practical function doesn’t necessarily tally with their square footage or their grandeur. They exist to let people know immediately that they are entering a prestigious, important and/or expensive space. The impact of this may be a sense of importance, power and belonging, or a feeling of exclusion (if not, in some cases, a more literal experience of exclusion). We can communicate a lot about who is or isn’t welcome in a space, and how we would like them to feel, through the ways in which we present and organise that space. This is not news to designers, architects, or city planners, but may be a consideration to bear in mind for those of us creating spaces that we wish to be welcoming and inclusive, often on a far more modest budget than a luxury hotel owner.

And now, to air travel… Each time I’ve flown over the last few years, I’ve found myself expressing the same frustration. I’m a pretty small person, but I’m convinced that the amount of space available to me on economy flights is reducing a little with every trip (no, it’s not me expanding). The shift of functional services and relative comfort from standard to premium is a common feature of life in the 2020s. This reminds me of ‘enshittification’ - a corporate tactic of initially offering quality before degrading it and raising prices, while pushing competitors out of the market. A version of this applies to leg room and seat space on flights. I remember complaining about having splashed out for ‘economy plus’ on a flight and apparently being put in a cramped economy seat. When the actual economy seats in the back half of the plane were pointed out, I was reluctantly glad not to be a six foot person who’d spent upwards of £1000 to be crammed into a child sized seat for eight hours. This was an airline I’d flown with a few years previously, and the difference was jarring. What’s interesting about this is the sense of scarcity and acceptance of declining standards around access to space and comfort. In a struggling economy, companies will take whatever action they deem necessary in order to stay afloat, including packing people into spaces like sardines. I’m curious to see how far we will go in accepting the widening division between those who can afford comfort, space and functional services (both commercial and public), and those who have their access to experiences cut off or limited by miserable conditions, long waits and increasing inconvenience. Since my expertise lies in the social, rather than the economic field, it’s difficult to imagine an effective solution for this. But I’m interested in what progressive and creative experts have to say on the matter, and I’m aiming to stay curious about what’s possible, rather than let my lack of knowledge lead me back to a sense of powerlessness and inevitability.

Abundance mindset – what looks different through this lens?

With all of these weighty social issues in mind, it might feel overwhelming to tackle questions of what’s possible as an alternative to a competitive, fear based approach to sharing the world with other humans. We’re not going to revolutionise embedded systems and perspectives easily, quickly or singlehandedly. But if we zoom all the way back in to our own thought processes (and how we communicate them to others), there is a starting point that could be both achievable and encouraging.

I’m using the concepts of ‘scarcity mindset’ and ‘abundance mindset’ here as a way to frame different ways of looking at the world. But I don’t use them uncritically – these are ideas that might lend themselves to over-simplification and stigmatising people for their experiences of structural inequality, so it’s important that they’re offered and considered with nuance and an acknowledgement of the two way relationship between how we think and the systems and cultures we are living in.

A scarcity mindset tells us that there is not enough to go around – this may be about physical space, housing, food, public services, jobs, money etc., but also may be applied to more relational concepts like power, love, being seen and heard, time and attention. If our baseline is a sense of scarcity, an obvious survival response may be to fiercely guard our resources, shut others out and compete for more. We might need to tell ourselves or be told various stories in order to position this as ‘fair’ and maintain our sense of ourselves as ‘good people’. Even though we’ve evolved to survive through cooperation, the amygdala-driven instinct to narrow our focus for our own survival can be powerful, hence populists successfully connecting with this response in disillusioned people, no matter how many times we say ‘never again’.

Conversely, an abundance mindset is similar to a growth mindset, in that it assumes that there is enough to go around and that we have the capacity to access the resources we need. It’s a focus on the possible, which tends to encourage us towards action because it positions us as powerful. It’s easy to see why economic crises, oppression and deteriorating living conditions make it harder to cultivate an abundance mindset – in these situations, evidence, experience and exhaustion tell us that we’re not powerful, and that resources are scarce and inaccessible. Spending the time and energy on reflecting and cultivating an abundance mindset might feel like a luxury when we’re in survival mode. But perhaps it’s a good, preventative practice to get into before we hit survival focused tunnel vision. Change starting with a belief in what’s possible is a cliché, but also an important aspect of human psychology. One of my favourite coaching questions is ‘what would you do if you did believe [insert relevant growth focused belief]?’ Imagining and outlining the steps towards a goal doesn’t guarantee success, but it’s a good starting point from which to look for ways around barriers, keep motivation alive and catalyse change. I’m not advocating for some bootstrap capitalist approach (no doubt, that’s obvious from the mini manifesto above) – it’s not about the power of the individual to improve things for themselves. It’s about taking the time, space and energy to reimagine what sharing the world with others could look like, even when time, space and energy feel scarce. And sharing ideas and imaginings with others may be another step towards changing things for the better – as interdependent creatures, we have so much capacity to make apparently impossible things happen when we tackle them together.

Reclaiming wellbeing – from ‘nice to haves’ and magic wands to essential tools for surviving and thriving

In recent years, the concept of wellbeing has become ubiquitous and yet undervalued. For professionals and leaders in socially conscious organisations, the stakes are especially high. As financial pressures mount and crises become more frequent, funders and decision makers are increasingly cutting wellbeing related programmes, viewing them as expendable luxuries rather than essential investments. This trend is potentially damaging to organisations and communities, especially at a time when living and working conditions, and over-exposure to distressing information, are adversely affecting so many of us.

The false economy of cutting wellbeing

When budgets tighten, wellbeing initiatives are often the first to go. The rationale is straightforward enough - in times of crisis, only the “essentials” survive. But what if we’ve misunderstood what is truly essential? Workforce wellbeing is not a peripheral concern – done well, it is foundational and preventative. Contributing to positive wellbeing is the bedrock upon which sustainable, effective, and compassionate organisations are built.

Neglecting or cutting corners with wellbeing is a false economy. The costs of burnout, absenteeism, turnover, and diminished performance far outweigh the investment required to support staff meaningfully. In sectors where professionals routinely support people through distressing or traumatic experiences (often while being underpaid and overworked), the risks of neglect are even greater. In this case, wellbeing isn’t a “nice to have” – it’s a matter of survival. I’ve seen too many examples of organisations in crisis because of a lack of effective support for their teams. This often comes as a shock when fed back by disillusioned staff at exit interviews, because the people at the top are working hard to protect and support their workforce, but they may have failed to join the dots between working conditions, structural issues in the organisation, meaningful opportunities for people to be heard, and workplace wellbeing.

Beyond sticking plasters: the limits of superficial solutions

Too often, wellbeing programmes are reduced to a handful of token gestures: morning meditation sessions, discounted gym memberships, or access to mindfulness apps. While these can be helpful, they are not solutions to complex, systemic issues. Our wellbeing cannot be separated from our living and working conditions, and the impact of events in the wider world. What each of us needs to thrive will be different, and meaningful support requires careful thought, genuine investment, and a willingness to address root causes. It’s understandable that capacity for all of this may be limited in times of crisis, but it may be a case of allocating time and resources now to prevent disaster further down the line.

A “sticking plaster” approach risks trivialising wellbeing, offering temporary relief without addressing underlying problems. It’s not enough to encourage self-care in isolation; we must also create environments where people are safe, valued, and empowered. There is a shift in many sectors and communities from a focus on self-care to self and collective care. This, too, needs to be backed up with investment and resources.

Reclaiming the language of wellbeing

Part of the challenge lies in the language we use. “Wellbeing” has become associated with the sprawling, unregulated “wellness” industry—heavily filtered influencer videos, expensive retreats, and miracle solutions promised by social media ads. For many, the term now evokes images of hyper-individualist self-improvement, rather than a more nuanced, systemic approach.

Perhaps it’s time to reclaim the concept of wellbeing, or even to find new language that better reflects its true meaning. Wellbeing should not be about chasing perfection or subscribing to the latest trend. It should be about placing humans in all their complex, imperfect glory at the centre of our organisations, communities, and societies. It should evoke a vision of shared effort, learning, and mutual support - tools that are essential for surviving and thriving, not “fluffy” extras.

Wellbeing as a community effort

A meaningful approach to wellbeing recognises that no single solution fits all. There is room in the world for whatever form of support works for each of us - no one approach is inherently better than another. But when late-stage capitalism co-opts the concept of health and wellbeing, we are bombarded with an overwhelming array of simple, siloed solutions to complex, structural problems. This might lead some of us to feel dismissive of the whole field, undermining genuine efforts to support people.

Instead, we need to foster a culture of shared responsibility for wellbeing, which means investing in environments where people can learn from one another, share tools and strategies, and build resilience together. This might involve a slow burn and a non-linear process, which is perhaps a less exciting prospect for those who want to see the results of their investment as soon and as clearly as possible. But the likelihood of this leading to real, sustainable change seems to me to be worth it.

The risks of deprioritising wellbeing

When those holding the purse strings deprioritise wellbeing, the consequences can be far-reaching. Staff morale declines, turnover increases, and the quality of support offered to those in need suffers. In the long term, organisations risk losing their most dedicated and compassionate people—those who are drawn to socially conscious work precisely because they care deeply.

Moreover, the ripple effects extend beyond the workforce. When professionals are supported to thrive, they are better equipped to help others do the same. In sectors where the work is emotionally demanding, this is essential.

Investing in meaningful wellbeing

Meaningful investment in wellbeing starts with listening. Leaders actively listening to their teams to understand their needs, challenges, and aspirations. A commitment to addressing structural issues such as workload, pay, job security, and organisational culture, rather than relying solely on individual interventions.

It also means recognising the diversity of needs within any workforce. Some may benefit from flexible working arrangements, others from peer support networks, and others from opportunities for professional development. The key is to offer a range of options, grounded in empathy and respect. The best approaches to this I’ve seen and experienced involved trusting individuals to know what will work best for them and to find ways to accommodate them where possible (or support them to work out what will help if they’re not sure).

A call to action

For decision makers with responsibility for workplace and community wellbeing, there is a strong, evidence based case to be made: effective wellbeing support is not a luxury, a magic wand, or a a sticking plaster. It is a set of essential tools for surviving and thriving, both individually and collectively. By reclaiming the concept from the clutches of the wellness industry and investing in meaningful, systemic support, we can build organisations that are resilient, compassionate, and successful.

The benefits of doing so are clear, and so are the risks of failing to act. In times of crisis and scarcity, it is more important than ever to prioritise the wellbeing of those who do the vital work of supporting others.

Community as an anchor – staying connected to self, others and reality during turbulent times

This weekend, I met a friend for lunch and a stroll through the park. As we shared our news, lamented the price of a coffee in a central London café and promised to meet for wholesome Sunday walks more often, I felt a familiar sense of being re-resourced by taking time to relax, reconnect and enjoy some time out in nature. This was briefly disrupted by unexpectedly passing a far-right rally in the park – suddenly, the two of us seemed significantly outnumbered by people who would likely wish harm on us and many others. We moved on and inevitably spent a long time discussing the state of the world and how we might respond to an increasing sense of division and uncertainty. I reflected on what helps me to keep things in perspective and feel safe when things feel scary and hopeless, and immediately thought of various communities that I’m part of, and the concepts of mutual support and safety in numbers. I also remembered some tools from trauma therapy, like Babette Rothschild’s oases, anchors and safe places[1], which are helpful in addressing feelings of overwhelm and detachment. Bringing the therapeutic concepts and the idea of community together, I’ve been considering community as a form of anchor, which might serve to keep us grounded and connected.

What are oases, anchors and safe places?
An oasis is an activity that you enjoy, and that you need to concentrate on (such as knitting, playing an instrument, learning a language, or cooking from a recipe). If you can carry out the activity on ‘autopilot’ without really thinking, it won’t function as an oasis unless you incorporate something new or challenging into the activity (such as learning a new piece of music or trying a new knitting pattern). This serves to give your conscious mind a break from potentially spiralling, as well as using the positive associations with the activity to signal to you that it’s time to relax and recover from stress responses.

An anchor, is something or someone external that exists in material reality (rather than something that you can imagine or draw upon from within yourself), and that you find supportive in some way. Anchors can be objects, places or people that create a sense of calm in your mind and body when you are in contact with them or when you think about them. Anchors can be identified and used in therapeutic settings when a client becomes overwhelmed and needs support with getting grounded. The therapist might ask a question about the anchor in order to take a break from distressing content and to offer a nervous system reset.

A safe place is, as the name suggests, a place where you feel or have previously felt safe and relaxed, and it’s a specific type of anchor. Ideally, this should be a real place that you can call to mind, in order to make use of somatic markers (or memories of colours, sounds, smells, textures, body sensations etc.) associated with it. This safe place can be called to mind during times of high stress or overwhelm, and may also be used in modalities such as hypnotherapy.

The aim with all of the above is grounding and re-connection (to self, to here-and-now reality, to safety). While this might be directly applied in situations where people are experiencing post traumatic stress, they can also be helpful concepts for anyone at a time when we may be feeling overwhelmed, unsafe, disconnected or powerless in response to what’s happening in the world.

How might community become an anchor?

Maintaining wellbeing and being safe requires a balance of self and collective care. Exploring and finding this balance of looking after ourselves and others (while allowing ourselves to receive support when we need it) feels especially important in a context of widespread unrest and a social structure set up to benefit profit over people, as we’re increasingly sold the idea that our wellbeing is entirely our own responsibility. Hyper-individualistic society necessitates a ‘one up/one down’ structure and competition over collaboration; while highly collectivist societies may sideline the needs of individuals in favour of the needs of the group, potentially leading to aspects of a person’s identity or choices being suppressed. Community that respects the autonomy of all of its members, and offers space where people feel supported and equally valued can be part of recovery, personal development and social change processes. It can also be a means of safety, with looking out for and protecting each other being part of the remit during times when there are significant threats or a lack of institutional resources and safeguarding.

Community can become a form of ‘anchor’ by offering a real-world experience of human connection, support and collective power. If a community feels safe and grounding, it’s something we can call to mind to anchor ourselves in moments of disconnection (either through recalling our experiences of being together, or by reaching out to the community in a bid for connection). There are so many distressing things in the world that we’re being relentlessly exposed to, and that lead to a sense of instability, powerlessness and disconnect. In a world of quick and cheap dopamine hits and algorithmically driven content, my first instinct when I feel overwhelmed by distressing news and doomscrolling is often to seek connection and people expressing shared values through online platforms. I’m not advocating for throwing the baby out with the bath water and getting rid of this. But there’s something important about the embodied, real-time, and relatively uncurated nature of connecting with people in person that offers a good foundation for developing authentic and strong connections and alliances, away from the profit driven influence of most online platforms. In-person interaction, community and movement can offer solid ways out of the stuckness. Supportive and robust relationships with others can also allow them to fulfil the role of anchor, which becomes one of the resources supporting us to re-regulate our nervous systems and reconnect with our Adult capacity when we start to drift.

What might building communities that serve as anchors and places of safety look like?

The older I get, the more I notice how difficult it can be to carve out space and time to get a group of adults together, given the responsibilities and pressures of work, family, and all the various tasks involved in living in a fast paced society during an economic crisis. Slowing down and protecting time to nurture multiple relationships can be a challenge at the best of times. And finding the energy to engage in the often messy business of being in community with people with different and potentially competing needs, ideas and ways of communicating might be an even bigger challenge. So, we need leverage – what is the shared set of values, goals, interests or needs that makes it worth the cat-herding efforts, social contracting, miscommunication and conflicting ideas that will likely arise as we attempt to build inclusive and powerful communities? It might be addressing a social issue or injustice, sharing an activity we’re passionate about, being together in a space that allows us to unmask, feel seen and give/receive support. It might be a space where we can allow ourselves to be vulnerable and connect with ourselves and each other on a deeper level, or it might be a space for playfulness, levity and a break from the heaviness of the world. At different times, it might be all of the above. As I write this, I’m thinking about a couple of examples of groups and communities that fulfil all of these needs for me, and as I do so, I notice the impact on my breathing, which in turn, allows me to let go of some of the tension I’ve been carrying around. And that’s an example of community as anchor.

I’ll admit that it’s not always been easy to get to a place where a community gives me more nourishment and energy than it asks of me (sometimes it’s remarkably easy, but I think there’s an element of luck in that). I’ve been part of many developing groups and communities in different contexts, often with challenges arising when something functioned well in the context of a small group of friends building a group activity or supportive space together; and then struggled to keep up with expectations, access needs and the need for more formalised agreements when it grew into something bigger. In order to become the safe anchor, there has to be something worth persisting through the ‘storming’ phase for, clarity of purpose and communication, and a desire to work together to overcome obstacles. We can never be all things to all people, and my own and others’ experiences demonstrate the unfortunate reality that someone may feel shortchanged no matter how much effort we put into creating safe, accessible, welcoming and compassionate spaces. We may need to manage expectations about what can be offered and how we will need to work together to address challenges (as opposed to organisers providing a service for people showing up in ‘customer’, rather than ‘contributor’ mode).

There is also an edge to the concept of safety in terms of community building – in any given group, people can work together to agree and implement a social contract that aims to address any barriers to people feeling welcome, valued and as psychologically safe as possible. But we can’t eliminate risk, conflict, competing needs and being in community with people we may not get on with (even if we share common goals or values). There’s a limit to the promise of safety and comfort; and yet, within these boundaries, it’s still possible to create the conditions for healthy challenge, disagreement and overcoming obstacles without compromising an overall sense of safety. If we each take responsibility for developing and practising the self-awareness and communication skills necessary to navigate this, we’ve already done most of the work required to build communities that keep each other safe, grounded, connected and hopeful.

Having shared goals and values, and a sense of our collective power can help us to address feelings of helplessness, dissociation and overwhelm, which feels like something that’s desperately needed right now. In the midst of so many storms, it’s important to be able to pause and put anchors in place, and to find places of safety in which we can rest and recover before braving the elements again.  

[1] Rothschild, Babette, 2000; The Body Remembers

Reframing resilience – collective care, ‘staggered breathing’ and permission to be vulnerable

The word ‘resilience’ has become one of the ubiquitous buzzwords that has been favoured in fields from education, to workplace wellbeing, to psychology (in both pop and clinical forms) for quite some time. While I’m in favour of finding ways to pick ourselves back up when we’ve been knocked down – and occasionally even partial to a Kelly Clarkson karaoke moment – I find myself asking questions whenever the concept of resilience comes up. I might wonder whether it’s the most helpful word to use in the given context, and how it’s being understood. For example, I used to offer wellbeing support to a woman who had been through an extraordinary amount of adversity and trauma in her life. When I met her, she still faced some significant challenges, but the way she had turned things around and overcome massive obstacles was remarkable. Any time people heard her story, they would comment on how unusually resilient she was. There’s no denying the truth of that, but she internalised the message that she was ‘a resilient person’, and struggled to reconcile this with her experience on days when she felt overwhelmed and less able to cope. We worked on reframing the idea of resilience, reflecting on the idea that it’s not something we are, but a part of us that we might feel more or less in touch with at different times. We also considered the potential confusion between resilience and stoicism, since she would say things like ‘I know I’m supposed to be resilient but some days I don’t feel strong and I just want to hide from the world’. Sometimes, when people think about resilience, they might place it at odds with vulnerability. We might conflate the old ‘bootstrap’ mentality (where painful experiences are ‘character building’) with the idea that adversity can lead to more ability to bounce back in future. But of course, it’s not a given that experiencing more difficult or traumatic experiences leads to greater resilience – it’s true that humans are masters of adapting and adjusting to our circumstances, but getting used to difficult experiences is not the same as becoming more skilled at coping with, and growing through them. That depends on a number of factors, such as what support and resources are available to help us to rest, reflect, make sense of things, safely connect with others and express emotions. If anything, developing greater resilience requires us to have permission to be vulnerable enough to let ourselves fall, be caught and learn, as well as the courage to get back up and try again.

The connection between resilience and supportive human relationships feels crucial to me, and I’ve also spent a lot of time recently thinking about how the idea of resilience is used in workplace contexts, especially where wellbeing and working conditions are concerned. There are so many challenges we’re all facing right now, from economic crises and funding cuts, to political unrest, law and policy changes, and widespread health issues. Most of us are being asked to do more with less, and the helping professions are seeing higher levels of need and crisis. It’s not all bleak, but there’s no doubt that this is a context that requires practically superhuman levels of resilience. It seems like a big ask for each individual to build up enough proverbial muscle to carry more and more cognitive, emotional, physical or other labour – not for the first time, I find myself asking how much responsibility lies at the level of the individual, workplace, community or government. I’ve seen organisations struggling with dramatic funding cuts and getting into disputes with employees over increasing workloads, staff sickness and a lack of time and space to process traumatic events. Senior leaders with responsibility for preventing service closures and protecting staff from as best they could from the worst effects of sector wide challenges were at their edges, and responded defensively to staff concerns. The top-down messaging in these situations was often simply, ‘you need to be more resilient’. Sometimes, this was delivered along with a checklist of the wellbeing support on offer to those who felt they needed more support, but reminding traumatised and burned out frontline workers and managers that lunchtime yoga was available did not tend to go down well. Intentionally or otherwise, this is the sort of situation in which the concept of resilience can be weaponised, and used to locate problems at the level of the individual. Given the importance of relational support and connection in terms of resilience building, this is unlikely to be a winning strategy. It’s also a way to avoid taking on the daunting task of considering the systemic issues that might be causing or contributing to challenges. This in itself requires a level of resilience and robustness that it can be difficult to get in touch with when we’re in survival mode and under-resourced. This, for me, highlights the importance of protecting space to take some time out to really reflect, create the conditions for genuinely reflective, vulnerable, honest and challenging conversations (with outside support if necessary). Developing strategies that will lead to more organisational or collective resilience needs to start with this level of listening and honest reflection.

I’m pondering the idea of collective resilience, and how this might be a helpful goal in workplaces and communities. What might collective resilience look like, and how do we develop it? Firstly, there’s a sense of shared responsibility. This means not over-relying on one person (distributed responsibility, collaboration and transparent information sharing come into play here). It balances the rights and responsibilities of each individual with the needs and responsibilities of the collective. We’re not individually let off the hook here – each person needs to uphold their end of the bargain as best they can. There’s an acknowledgment of our flawed, vulnerable, diverse and brilliant humanity in this. Teams and communities that benefit from a range of different perspectives, skill sets and experiences are demonstrably stronger. And in a group of humans, it’s a guarantee that people will get sick, experience traumatic life events, have bad days or become overwhelmed with their responsibilities at some point. A resilient collective would have enough resources to make contingency plans and to let people step up and support each other when needed. If everyone is at their edges, it’s very difficult to shoulder the extra responsibility needed to keep things running smoothly when one person finds themselves in crisis. As a lifelong choral singer, I was delighted to come across ‘staggered breathing’ as an analogy for this recently. Staggered breathing is a technique that choirs employ in order to be able to sustain long notes and phrases far beyond what one person could manage on their own. People take breaths at different times, knowing that the group will keep singing when they need to refuel, and the audience experiences this as an uninterrupted sound. Skilled choral singers pay close attention to the breathing patterns of their neighbours, in order to create a more staggered effect and ensure that if the person next to them is breathing, they are singing and vice versa. Maybe it's the choir nerd in me, but I find this to be a perfect analogy for the ways that communities can support each other. It’s well established in grassroots organising spaces, where burnout is common and expected. Being aware of, and responsive to each other’s needs lets the community as a whole sustain its work more effectively.

I also connect collective resilience with the ability to disagree, withstand conflict and learn from relational challenges. Rupture and repair is a well rehearsed idea in the therapy world – this means that successfully navigating and repairing after conflict leads to a stronger foundation in relationships. This concept is closely related to the idea of resilience, with the experience of not only surviving, but also learning from a difficult experience building a sense of confidence that future challenges will also be manageable. This feels especially pertinent in situations where teams and groups are under pressure and different views, communication styles and needs potentially lead to getting stuck. And learning the skills to be in community with people in spite of difference and disagreement feels more necessary than ever, in the wider political context. This is something I struggle with personally at times – my neurodivergent justice sensitivity and experience of being ‘othered’ can make it tricky to let go of a desire to stick with those who align most closely with my values at all costs. But in the context of algorithmic echo chambers and purity politics, the chances of minds being changed or short term compromise for long term gain are low. Being able to humanise and hear each other when we disagree seems to offer the best shot of developing nuance, reducing othering and building resilience. Having said this, I’ve heard this argument used to pressurise oppressed groups into arguing for their rights with those who wish them harm. I admire people who feel able and willing to take on this kind of risky emotional labour, but it shouldn’t be an expectation. It’s easy for calls for building bridges to spill over into platforming human rights violations and hate speech – whether a group of people deserves to be considered to be fully human and treated equitably is not something I am willing to debate or ‘agree to disagree’ on. So, there is a need for boundaries and clear social contracts, within which, rupture, repair and different perspectives can lead to growth. And I have to hope that it’s possible (though no doubt relatively rare) that, with enough resilience and connection, prejudicial beliefs might be changed. My idealised vision of a resilient community involves having enough resources, time, space and will to meet everyone’s needs and value each member equally (even when we’re frustrated with each other). Under these circumstances, the chances of dehumanising, scapegoating or weaponising ‘resilience’ as a demand for people to withstand increasingly difficult conditions, are pretty low. As utopian as this might sound, the business of creating these conditions is hard and messy work. But in my experience, the move from prioritising individual resilience (or stoicism) to collective care is very much worth the effort.

Navigating personal and political grief in a time of chaos and change

‘I don’t know if we were meant to carry so much grief in one body… Yet, we are not alone’ (Alexandra/Ahlay Blakely)

-These are the lyrics of a song that I’ve sung with others at song circles, protests and other events where groups have assembled to process and express grief (alongside other emotions) and to share the experience of trying to make sense of things that feel big, scary and unfathomable. The song also contains a part that is essentially a tuneful wail, in a bid to reconnect us to the embodied, messy, loud and cathartic nature of expressing grief. Right now, I’m struck by the ways in which reclaiming ritual, authentic expression and communal grieving can be forms of resistance to the legacy of colonial, Victorian Britain, where emotional repression and sanitised grief processes became the only socially acceptable options.

I’m thinking – and feeling – a lot about grief at the moment for two reasons. Firstly, because I recently experienced an important loss in my own life. My family has always been small and very well versed in grief and generational trauma. For the last twenty years, my Gran was my last living close relative. She died two weeks ago, at the age of ninety five. The loss process was a slow one, with so many of our ‘lasts’ taking place over a period of months, years and even decades. It’s been a long time since the last of our trips to the garden centre for coffee, cake and unnecessary purchases of hand cream and silly ornaments. It’s been a few months since we had a real, two-way conversation that I could be fairly sure was understood. It’s been six years since I cleared out the last of my childhood homes, which contained three generations worth of photo albums, favourite mugs, books, school reports and the like. And so, this particular grief process has been less of a crash landing and more of a slow glide than others I’ve experienced, although it also feels even more significant in some ways. My main regret is that she died while I was on my way to say goodbye and support her transition. But I’m relieved that she was not alone at the end, and that we’d had a conversation about dying while she was still able to communicate. When I finally made it to the nursing home, I had a first experience of witnessing death up close, and I reflected on how odd it was to have never done this before. I sat beside Gran, still in her bed, and chatted with a relative and the local minister in a way that felt strange and surreal, yet somehow, also normal and natural. We played one of her favourite songs as she was taken to the funeral home, and the nursing home staff lined up to say goodbye and send her on her way. At the funeral, although I felt safe, held and not especially overwhelmed, I was struck by a familiar sense of disconnect between what my body wanted and what felt possible and acceptable in the relatively formal environment of a crematorium and church service. I feel sure that I wouldn’t have been judged for a loud or physical expression of grief, and I didn’t especially feel the need to wail or collapse in that moment; and yet, something in my body said ‘this feels too distant and mysterious – how am I supposed to be present in this space?’

All of this has made me think about the need for more open conversation, ritual and encouragement of authentic emotional expression in the culture I’m part of. Social media and public health campaigns are awash with messaging about the importance of sharing our feelings through talking and other forms of expression. That’s a step in the right direction, though it might sometimes feel like a bit of a platitude. But what about the impact of bracing against and repressing our expressions of grief in order to stay acceptable and ‘sane’? And what might happen when a person’s expression of grief becomes too noisy, inconvenient or disturbing to be considered healthy? Like most people I know, I’m a passionate advocate for accessible, free and de-stigmatised mental health care, but I also feel I need to acknowledge the ways that psychology and psychiatry have been used as forms of social control, and have pathologised responses to grief and trauma that may be culturally specific or entirely rational in the face of irrational and intolerable circumstances. What might happen if we allowed ourselves and others to reconnect with the full experience of being human - the moments of irrationality and madness; going through and holding each other in moments of despair, rage, exhaustion, guilt, hope and new growth; witnessing the full cycle of life in all of its magical and sometimes horrifying glory? It feels like something that we need to explore further if we  want to stay well both individually and societally. And I say this as someone who often has a hard time expressing vulnerability and big emotions. I feel things deeply, but I’ve always tended to save them up and channel them through singing and other forms of creative expression. Embodied practices, especially if they involve music, have always cut right through my defences, and I find them incredibly powerful when I need to process big or sticky emotions (hence why I coach others in finding embodied tools that work for them). I’m hopeful in general about change in relation to how we sit with, process and express difficult feelings. But a move towards widespread emotional intelligence is in direct opposition to the global rise of the far right and backslide on gender equity – fascism venerates the ‘strong man’ and seeks to shut down forms of self-awareness and communication that might lead to cooperation, inclusion and collective power. And so, we’re seeing disenfranchised communities and lost young people being encouraged to shut down any expressions of vulnerability, grief or fear in favour of turning the discomfort outwards into rage at women, at refugees, at trans people, or whoever the latest scapegoat might be. It’s depressingly familiar, in that we all learned about a similar political climate in the run up to the war that was supposed to remind us to never let this happen again. That took place in living memory for some people – it’s certainly something that profoundly affected my Jewish immigrant Gran, who was brought to Scotland at the age of four in the 1930s. She was an avid follower of world news, and I’m glad that she wasn’t able to see and understand the direction things seem to be heading in the final part of her life.

This leads me to the second reason I’ve been thinking about grief, which is the experience of collective grief over witnessing a genocide that seems to be never ending, and the criminalising of that grief in several countries, including the UK. This also feels consistent with the colonial project of shutting down communities’ own forms of expression in favour of whatever presents the least threat to the people in power. I think it’s fair to say that protesting genocide is an expression of grief. I’ve cried at almost every national march I’ve attended in the last nearly-two-years, and each time felt disbelief about needing to ask for our elected representatives to stop participating in acts that contribute to an unfathomable number of deaths. I’ve also bowed out of protests at times when it’s been too much for various reasons, and felt guilty, since showing up seems to be the very least I could do in the face of such atrocity. But this is where community becomes important – we let each other take breaks and remind ourselves that our power is in being in it together. This is something that we can apply to grief more generally too, since it can feel like such an intensely isolating experience. At this point in ‘late stage capitalism’, division is lucrative, because we’re more vulnerable and malleable when we’re isolated, and because rage creates engagement, which turns into profit. So, our resistance and our healing needs to happen in community. That’s not a particularly new or radical idea, but it feels like the sort of thing I need to remind myself of frequently in this time of chaos. And while nobody can process my grief for me, the power of being witnessed in a moment of full, messy humanity feels like it could be pretty transformative.

Preventing burnout: Coping Strategies for Witnessing Atrocities

Understanding the Impact of Witnessing Atrocities

The world feels like a scarily inhumane place to live right now. Just when I think I can’t be any more shocked by the cruelty of another act of internationally sanctioned violence, a heartless national policy closer to home or a story I’m told by a client, friend or stranger, something new appears and ups the ante. I was hesitant to write about how those of us fortunate enough to be observing tragedy and brutality from a safe distance might be feeling. But, if we’re deeply impacted by what we’re observing in the world and moved to try to be part of the change, we must have opportunities to pause, process and get back out there in any way we can. The same is true whether we’re campaigning against systemic violence, leading a project that poses a risk of vicarious trauma or considering how we engage with and communicate about the information we’re able to access round the clock via social and traditional media. Let’s explore how we might prevent burnout, overwhelm, normalising what may once have shocked us, and feeling frozen with guilt or shame.

The most pertinent example of this for me right now is my response to witnessing seven months of genocide. I feel a sense of obscenity about the fact that, for me, life goes on more or less as normal when I’m not engaging with this horror. Many professionals working in frontline services and people who have lived through ongoing traumatic events can attest to how quickly the unthinkable can start to feel normal. We’re an incredibly adaptable species, with a need to make sense of our environments and the capacity to do what needs to be done in order to survive. Our brains are wired for energy saving wherever possible, and there’s a finite amount of energy available to stay in a place of shock, fear, anger, disgust and so on. And so, we may start to become numb, to distance ourselves from the costly business of feeling. If we’re very lucky, we may also be able to look away, and to avoid engaging with things that are happening to ‘others’. It’s an understandable response, and none of us should be put in a situation where we’re forced to reckon with the horrific choices made by fellow humans on a day to day basis. But something I look out for in my emotional world is a sense that the unfathomably awful images I’m seeing each day online might be starting to feel normal. It’s a sign that I’m reaching capacity and need to clear some space to process my emotions before I re-engage. Yes, that’s a privilege in itself – for anyone in literal survival mode, this is not an available luxury. But as allies, we’re of limited use to those we want to support if we’re burned out, numb or stuck. Using the resources we have and leaning on community to step in when we need to step away is crucial.

Compassion fatigue and vicarious trauma can be rife in systems that are under-funded, under-appreciated and over-subscribed. Taking on responsibility for too many people and too many projects can mean dangerously high stress levels for all, and a sense of distancing that starts to threaten empathy, mentalisation[1] and the capacity to see others as fellow, flawed humans who are probably doing their best. There are obvious structural solutions to this problem in the form of well funded public services including high quality training and support. So, when we’re not applying political pressure on this issue, what can we do about burnout and vicarious trauma prevention for leaders, campaigners and anyone who feels called to do something about the horrific events they’re witnessing?

COPING STRATEGIES for change and resilience

Firstly, some form of pressure valve can be invaluable. This can take many forms, from reflective practice spaces, to grief circles, embodied practices and space to share our thoughts, feelings and experiences with others who ‘get it’. It’s also important that these opportunities to let go, feel, express and reflect are contained and limited. We can’t get stuck in grief, despair, hopelessness, fear or anger, though it’s important to acknowledge, rather than suppress them. Knowing that there’s a specific time and space to let off some steam can help us to get through the day. In my experience, a well held space with a managed transition back into day-to-day activities is very much worth the required resources. That transition from engaging and expressing back to a more contained place might involve activities and tools that intentionally change the energy in the space and reconnect us with our capable, Adult selves before we dive back into whatever needs to be done. The timing, frequency and format of pressure valve activities deserve some careful consideration. And crucially (especially in a workplace environment), all involved need to feel safe enough to show up authentically and express what they need to express. If this doesn’t feel possible, there may be wider cultural issues to address within the team or group.

Perhaps that sounds easier said than done, especially if what people are processing involves deeply divisive and potentially traumatic themes. What do we do about competing needs? There are no magic wands here, sadly. It’s crucial that people are able to set and maintain their own boundaries, rather than feeling coerced into participating in something that doesn’t feel right for them – feeling ‘done to’ can often be a contributing aspect to the onset of burnout. One organisation that I work with offers separate (optional) reflective spaces for people of different identities, as well as spaces open to all – this may be a helpful approach to potential divisions and concerns about psychological safety in some cases. In any situation where discussions of sensitive topics might be encouraged, it’s advisable to have a strong and compassionate group agreement or shared set of values that everyone signs up to. How challenge and conflict might be met is a helpful consideration here.

‘We fight, we rest and we rise’ - taking breaks and re-engaging

(Jenny Moore)

When it comes to engaging with disturbing news, images and first hand accounts of violent and traumatic events, what’s the ‘right’ level of engagement? The potentially negative impact of excessively consuming social media isn’t a new or radical concept. I believe it might often be oversimplified or overstated, but I’m also aware of what my own experience tells me. It’s important to step away, to try to avoid the ubiquitous doomscrolling habit, and to give our eyes and brains a break from the never ending stream of new information and artificial blue light. We must apply the usual ‘put your own oxygen mask on first’ advice and look after our own health, listen to our bodies and let our minds rest. And yet, this is balanced with regular calls on those of us watching atrocities from a distance to ‘not look away’. Daily access to video footage, pictures and first hand accounts of horrific cruelty is a new concept, and brings an additional sense of responsibility, since we can’t claim to have been unaware. We’re being asked to witness, to mobilise, to see people’s humanity and recognise the value of their lives. For many of us, what we witness will feel like too much to bear or believe, and what we can offer will feel woefully inadequate. But we can witness to the best of our ability and capacity, taking space to re-energise where we need to and then re-engaging. Sometimes we need to look away for a moment, while perhaps connecting with gratitude that we are fortunate enough to do so. There’s an important distinction here between gratitude and guilt or shame. Sometimes, what we feel grateful for is an unearned privilege – something we’re lucky to experience or avoid due to the accidents of birth, time and place. Acknowledging that luck doesn’t necessarily have to lead to feeling guilty about it, though that’s an obvious next step (as is defensiveness, at times). The thing that’s so difficult to face is that occupation, war, famine, pandemics and so on could happen to any of us at any time. We may hope that, if it happened to us, that those not directly affected might step in and help. We’d probably want them to be as well resourced as possible, to be compassionate, informed and ready to roll up their sleeves and take any action, big or small, that might contribute to our survival and eventual return to thriving. We probably wouldn’t want them to be burned out, numb, paralysed with guilt or fear of doing the wrong thing or so overwhelmed and in denial that they refuse to acknowledge what they’re seeing.

building community support networks

When we’re feeling powerless, one of the solutions may once again be found in community. Creating spaces to decompress and share our experiences with others can help to relieve some of the heaviness of witnessing trauma, and in turn, can re-energise us for the onward journey. And when we’re feeling powerless, we can celebrate the small moments of shared humanity where we find them. We can remind each other of times that unbearable cruelty and oppression were forced to come to an end through political and financial pressure that millions of people came together to contribute to in their own ways, however small.

Resources & references

If you are feeling overwhelmed or experiencing burnout/vicarious trauma, please seek support:

Contact me to find out if I can help

Visit https://www.mind.org.uk/

 Self-care resources by TARSHI

Support for Palestine:

Gaza Emergency Fund

Medical Aid Palestine

Palestine Solidarity Campaign

‘We Fight, We Rest, We Rise’ (Jenny Moore/F Choir)

[1] Mentalisation is the ability to imagine what another person may be thinking and feeling