When people move to Sydney, like I did three years ago, they are contractually obliged to maintain a continual air of “busyness.” Upon being asked, new residents must weave an elaborate narrative of personal occupation and achievement. At every available opportunity, you must advertise your work ethic to anyone who will listen - the more projects you have on the go, the better. Additionally, everyone’s levels of productivity must be spoken about in an overly optimistic air.
Whoever imposes this rule (enforced as if by mitosis) deserves to be sued.
I felt this almost immediately upon becoming an Adelaide expat - an inordinately slower city, with a much more relaxed attitude toward personal achievement. Pulled along by the momentum of the city known as Australia’s corporate centre, and of the new friends I made, I let myself be shaped in the city’s image. I became thirstier, more ambitious, more resourceful, sometimes because I had to. I told myself it was a necessity. In the process, though, I felt my values stretching. I became self-sacrificial, relentless, tireless in my pursuit of my goals, taking on way too many projects at once, and becoming frustrated when I felt my time and labour was being siphoned off into nothingness by missed opportunities and the endless exploitation of the creative industries.
It’s not news that Sydney is unlivable at the best of times. That feeling of resentment was compounded by seeing peers from upper class backgrounds move through industry doors with ease, bolstered by the type of privilege and connections that keeps the status quo in check. In order to keep up with them, I rationalised, I had to work five times as hard. Without realising, my health (physical, mental, sometimes spiritual) became totally compromised because of the bizarre and inhuman standards I began to place upon myself.
bell hooks touches on her own experiences in the academy in Where We Stand: Class matters “I, like most of my working class peers, were not prepared to face the class hierarchies present in academia,” she writes. “When I went to fancy colleges where money and status defined one’s place in the scheme of things, I found myself an object of curiosity, ridicule, and even contempt from my classmates because of my class background.” Often, the conceptualisation of hard work is vastly different.
The strange and religious emphasis on over-work and over-exaggerated needs has to be severely critiqued.
We are so often taunted by the images of those unlucky ones forced into poverty, as if out of nowhere, as if one wrong choice could pull the carpet out from under us and leave us desolate. It’s easy to catastrophise. Aspirational images and sentiments are impressed upon us with unyielding force. We begin to think the opposite of scarcity is plentifulness (ostensibly, hoarded and kept to ourselves) instead of what it could be: "I think abundance and scarcity are two sides of the same coin" says social researcher and writer Brene Brown. "The opposite of 'never enough' isn't abundance or 'more that you could ever imagine.' The opposite of scarcity, she argues, is “enough.”
At the start of this year I had made no conscious plans to meet any career goals. Exhausted by the previous year, it was difficult to envision pushing myself toward material accomplishments in the same way. In some psychotic way, this felt - almost - rebellious. Instead, I wanted to reconsider “success” - to reconnect with myself, build an exercise routine, try and read as many books as possible, to start meds and thinking about repairing my mental health, endeavouring to see as much of friends and family as I could.
I learned to say no to myself and to others, to prioritise the things that mattered, and to set boundaries. The excitement of instantaneous achievement began to vanish, but I found myself content in other ways. I slowly let myself feel my body again, to enjoy time as it passed rather than let it speed by me, enjoyed the process of slowing down and appreciating the quiet. When I would go out, people would comment that they hadn’t seen me for a while, would ask whether I was ok. I found this strange - especially because I’d felt the best I had in years.
Humans do not have overly complicated needs. Given the time to contribute to our communities (through work or otherwise), to enjoy time alone in a pleasant state of idleness, to appreciate the company of friends and loved ones, and with a little extra time to focus on creativity, life can become purposeful and satisfying. But according to social norms, we need to be continually grinding for the benefit of self-interested companies and institutions that will never return the favour - then go ahead and spend our money on useless commodities to further signal our wealth. It’s a fruitless climb upward; and even if we do end up advancing, it’s lonely at the top.
It’s tough to resist this constant conditioning. I’m continually made to feel like I’m dispensable, uninteresting, or inefficacious in the eyes of my acquaintances because I’m not continually performing my business to them, and entertaining others by cultivating some kind of hyper-contemporary, consumable visual identity. But if I don’t have a healthy relationship with myself, I don’t know whether I will necessarily be able to have the same with others. Now that I’m more centred, I feel more able to connect with my loved ones in an authentic way, and to dispense my energy without exhausting myself beyond belief.
