Cape Town - I’m usually an optimist. You’ll find it very difficult to get me down. You’ll rarely hear me complain. I’m of the opinion that no matter what life throws at you, you should grit your teeth and muscle through.
But yesterday, an overwhelming feeling of defeat befell me.
Load-shedding had just been announced. I had read an earlier piece by Yasmine Jacobs about the possibility of the fuel price hitting R40/litre. I had been ruminating on the state of the media industry and the threat of fake news. I’ve been keeping a close eye on the situation in Ukraine (my cousin lived in Ukraine and Russia and we’d been chatting about how complex the crisis can be, depending on who you speak to). I’ve been watching with a keen eye the criticism of my business, my platform...
It all just felt a bit much. I closed my laptop just after 2pm, packed up and drove home, fully intending to log back on when I got home and keep working.
But I just couldn’t.
Various minor crises could be handled with WhatsApp conversations and phone calls. My leadership team could handle the news of the day. I could take some time to myself, I rationalised.
But it wasn’t enough.
I was left marinating in my despair, and tweeted: “Do you ever just feel defeated? I think that’s how South Africans are feeling. Defeated.”
Do you ever just feel defeated? I think that's how South Africans are feeling rn. Defeated.
— Lance Witten (@LanceTheWitten) March 7, 2022
The response was overwhelming. Many, so many, agreed. Others offered messages of support and encouragement. Others still engaged in a little bit of whataboutism.
But I’m allowed to feel this way sometimes. That’s a hard thing to admit, and accept, and introspect as to how to pull myself out of this funk.
One comment really stood out for me: “SAns live in a permanent PTSD/ trauma environment and have done so for many generations...”
I saw another tweet, unrelated to my own, that when one lives in a constant state of chaos, peace can look and feel a lot like boredom. That’s exactly how I felt on a recent weekend away. Bored. Despite that being a necessary break.
So, what am I going to do about it? As a Christian, I need to start by counting my blessings. I am more privileged than most, and while things may not be hunky-dory across all the spheres of my life, I truly have much to be thankful for.
While the fuel price sky-rockets, I have a vehicle to complain about refuelling - many don’t have that. As load-shedding hits, I have a regular, safe supply of electricity to my home - many don’t have that. While the pressure at work builds, I have a job that I love doing - many don’t have that.
Incrementally, as I write this, I’m regaining some of that optimism for which South Africans are renowned. But, I’m not going to lie, it’s hard to hang onto my peace.
I was at Clovelly beach on Sunday and thought about this analogy, standing waist-deep in the ebb and flow, not quite far out enough to catch the waves, and not close enough to the shore for the breakers to have lost their oomph. So I stood there, shoulder-charging the breakers, seeing if I could stay on my feet without losing balance. Wave after wave I braced myself and leant into the swell, not often staying planted. At times I’d allow the swell to lift me off my feet, and feel the release of weightlessness, now immune to the force of the sea, no longer tempest tossed, but free.
Life is going to throw you curve balls. Life is going to deal you a bad hand. Life is unfair. Life is going to come at you like a raging bull. Life comes at you like a tsunami.
Sometimes you have to remain planted and muscle through, feet firm, leading shoulder into the onslaught.
Sometimes you need to let go, ride it out and wait for the calm before grounding yourself again.
After my little wobbly, I think I am ready to grit my teeth and knuckle down.
We are a resilient bunch, and we’re in this together.
I need to not forget that.
IOL