Just Reflections Podcast

Impactful ideas that challenge my thinking. I hope they'll challenge yours too.
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Impactful ideas that challenge my thinking. I hope they'll challenge yours too. justreflections.bhekani.com

  1. Mar 14

    Nobody wants to be the villager

    Today, on the way to church, I saw two men walking on the side of the road. They weren’t rushing. They didn’t look like they were heading somewhere urgent. They were just walking together, slowly, like they were taking a stroll. It hit me harder than I expected. It was just two men walking. But the image felt strangely rare, almost foreign. And as I watched them I found myself asking: when was the last time I had taken a walk with a friend? Not to go to the shops. Not as part of exercise. Not on the way to some other thing. Just a walk. Just time together. Just movement and conversation without an agenda. I couldn’t remember. I’ve been sitting with that all day. Because it put words to a feeling I’ve been carrying for a while, one I didn’t quite know how to name until I saw those two men doing something so ordinary that it looked almost strange. Every week, I meet my friends at church, people I genuinely love. But often, when we see each other, there’s this awkwardness at the start. It feels like we have to do a full life update before we can settle into each other’s company. Summarize the week. Sometimes the last two weeks. Work, family, stress, random developments, whatever happened since we last saw each other. And there’s this subtle distance underneath it all, because where do you even start? I don’t think that awkwardness comes from a lack of love. I think it comes from a lack of overlap. We still care about each other, but we’re no longer inside enough of each other’s ordinary lives. We know the headlines, but not the texture. We know what happened, but we weren’t there when it happened. So every reunion begins with reporting. And I think I know why. Everyone wants the village, but no one wants to be the villager. The village is built out of small inconveniences Think about something as simple as moving house. You can hire a moving company. They arrive, they carry the boxes, they do the work, and that’s that. The problem is solved. Everyone moves on. Or you can ask your friends to help. If you ask your friends, you’re inconveniencing them. They have to block out a day. They have to reorder their plans around your need. They have to lift your stuff and drive home tired and dusty, feeling like they spent their Sunday afternoon in somebody else’s problem. And yet, something richer has happened. You’ve shared an experience. There’s conversation between the boxes. There are jokes. There’s frustration. There’s pizza at the end. There’s the feeling, however ordinary, that your life touched theirs and theirs touched yours. The move is no longer just an event that happened to you. It becomes part of the story your friendship carries. The same thing is true of something as small as a lift from the airport. I can order an Uber. It’s easy. I don’t need to ask anyone. I don’t need to impose. I don’t need to make myself someone else’s responsibility. But if a friend picks me up, there’s the catch-up in the car, the small ritual of arrival. I re-enter home not through a transaction but through a relationship. The modern world is very good at helping us complete tasks without needing each other. That’s often a good thing. But when it becomes the default shape of life, we solve the practical problem and eliminate the relational opportunity in the same stroke. The inconvenience wasn’t a bug. It was the mechanism. We’ve confused updates with overlap A lot of what we call friendship now is really the exchange of updates rather than the sharing of life. There’s a difference between knowing what happened to your friend and having some firsthand connection to the thing that happened. There’s a difference between hearing that someone had a stressful week and having been one of the people who helped carry some part of that week. There’s a difference between hearing about someone’s child’s football match and having stood on the sidelines with them, even though you don’t care about football. There’s a difference between hearing that someone moved house and having been one of the people sweating through the move with them. There’s a difference between hearing that someone got back from a trip and having been the one who picked them up from the airport. The more life is lived in private lanes, self-managed and app-mediated, the more our relationships are forced to survive on narration. We tell each other what happened after the fact. We perform catch-up. That’s better than nothing. But it’s not the same thing as overlap. And without overlap, relationships begin to feel strangely thin even when the affection is still real. I think that’s the feeling I’ve been sensing at church. It’s not that my friends and I have stopped loving each other. It’s that too much of our lives now happens offstage from one another. So when we meet, we’re left trying to compress days of living into a few minutes of reporting. We’re trying to recreate in speech what might have been built through shared presence. It’s very hard to feel deeply connected to people whose lives you only access through summaries. Friendship needs time that has no purpose That image of the two men walking stayed with me because it pointed to another part of the problem. Those men weren’t solving anything. They weren’t doing a favour. They weren’t completing an errand. They were just together. That looked rare to me because it has become rare. We live in a world that trains us to justify our time constantly. Even our friendships become structured around events. We meet for church, for dinner, for coffee because we haven’t seen each other in a while. Always around a reason. Around an occasion. But when do we just walk? When do we sit around long enough for conversation to unfold without a plan? A lot of real closeness is built in exactly the kind of time that looks wasteful to the productive mind. Slow time. Meandering time. Time with enough slack for random thoughts, dumb jokes, silences, little detours, memories that surface unexpectedly. The kind of time that doesn’t produce an obvious output but leaves you feeling like you actually know someone. Friendship grows in the walk that had no destination. In the extra hour after the thing. In hanging around and tagging along. In being near each other without needing a reason impressive enough to justify the time. We say we want connection, but we increasingly reserve our lives for efficiency. We still make time for each other, but often only in formats too tight, too structured, or too occasional to hold the weight of actual friendship. So when we meet, we’re left asking, “Where do we even start?” Prosperity makes this worse And here’s the uncomfortable part: a lot of us are choosing this. I’m choosing this. Not consciously, not maliciously, but structurally. As your means increase, your ability to avoid needing people increases with it. You can pay for delivery. You can hire help. You can solve privately what previous generations solved communally. On one level, that’s a gift. But one of the hidden temptations of having more means is that you can begin to structure your life so that you never need anyone. That looks like freedom. It looks like adulthood done properly. If you’re not careful, it also hollows out the ordinary give-and-take from which community is built. Our parents often relied on other people because they had to. Not because they were more enlightened. But because life forced a level of human entanglement that many of us can now pay to avoid. If you didn’t have the money, the services, the spare capacity, then you asked someone. You borrowed something. You made do through human beings. Now many of us have enough means to opt out of all of that. And that’s the danger. The better off you are, the easier it becomes to build a life where no ordinary person ever has any real claim on your time. No one needs to be asked. No one needs to be leaned on. And if nobody is ever leaned on, nobody is ever bound. What earlier generations practiced by constraint, we may now have to practice by conviction. Not because independence is wrong, but because unchecked independence has a way of quietly becoming isolation. The moral vocabulary of avoidance There’s another layer to this that I find hard to ignore, partly because I’ve felt its pull myself. We live in a moment saturated with a certain kind of therapeutic language. Protect your peace. Set boundaries. You don’t owe anyone anything. Cut people off. Prioritize yourself. Do what’s best for you. Some of these ideas, in the right setting, are real and important. But once they get flattened into internet slogans, they start doing something else entirely. They become a moral vocabulary for avoiding ordinary human obligation. And the scary part is how reasonable it sounds. Who would argue against protecting your peace? Every inconvenience begins to feel suspect. Every request starts sounding like a threat to your peace. Every uncomfortable act of care begins to look like poor boundaries. What gets lost is a simple truth: a meaningful human life involves being claimed by people. It involves caring about things that wouldn’t matter to you except that they matter to someone you love. There’s a difference between being harmed by others and being needed by others. There’s a difference between exploitation and obligation. A healthy life has to know that difference, because once you collapse those categories, every form of community starts to feel dangerous. And once community feels dangerous, the village is finished. What being a villager actually looks like To be a villager is to care about what matters to your people. It’s going to your friend’s child’s football match even though you don’t care about football. It’s helping carry things you didn’t ask to carry. It’s showing up at an inconvenient time. It’s taking a call when you were planning

    16 min
  2. She's been nothing but needy. And that's taught me a lot about love

    11/17/2025

    She's been nothing but needy. And that's taught me a lot about love

    I thought I understood love before I became a father. I’d loved deeply; my wife, my friends, my siblings, my parents. I’d read about it, prayed about it, written about it. Love was something I knew well, or so I believed. But there are levels to understanding something as complex as love. And my understanding before had missing elements. The love I have for my wife began the way most romantic love does: with choice. I noticed her; the way she laughed, the sharpness of her mind, how she moved through the world with this quiet confidence that I found magnetic. She had qualities I admired, values that aligned with mine, a way of seeing things that made me want to build a life alongside her. I chose her. And in choosing her, I was also choosing myself. Choosing the kind of life I wanted, the kind of person I wanted to become. There’s nothing cynical about that. I think that’s how most of us love. We meet someone, and something in them calls to something in us. They fit. They make sense. They have to, in some way, earn our affection. Not through performance exactly, but by being the kind of person who draws love out of us. That’s natural. It’s healthy, even. Over time, of course, that love deepens. It becomes less about the qualities that first attracted you and more about the person themselves, flaws and all. The conditions soften. The love becomes unconditional, or at least it moves in that direction. You forgive things you wouldn’t have tolerated at the beginning. You stay through hard seasons. You learn that real love isn’t just attraction; it’s commitment to someone even when they’re not at their best. I thought that was the highest expression of love I’d ever experience. Two people who chose to reveal their most vulnerable parts to each other and do life with each other, no matter what. Then, my daughter was born. The first time I held her, this two-kilogram, wrinkled creature with eyes that couldn’t quite focus yet and limbs that wriggled aimlessly, I felt something crack open in my heart. It wasn’t gentle. It was overwhelming, almost violent in its intensity. Here was this tiny person who couldn’t do anything for me. She couldn’t charm me. She couldn’t impress me. She couldn’t even look at me and smile. In those first weeks, she cried. My God, did she cry! The kind of crying where she’s absolutely inconsolable as if she’s in heart-wrenching pain, that makes you question everything about your competence as a parent. She kept us up through nights that felt endless, where I’d pace the passageway with her on my shoulder, her small body rigid with whatever discomfort she couldn’t articulate, and I’d feel this bone-deep exhaustion settling into me. If you’re a parent, you know this peculiar chemistry, where exhaustion and frustration somehow transform into fiercer devotion. Where the very thing that’s breaking you is also remaking you. Where you discover reserves of patience you didn’t know existed, even as you’re running on empty. If I’d applied the same criteria to her that I’d applied to my wife, if I’d evaluated her based on the qualities she brought to my life, I wouldn’t have loved her. She gave us nothing but need. She disrupted everything. She made our lives objectively harder. Especially my wife’s life; she took all the time and attention and energy and affection of the woman I love the most in the whole world. And yet. She drew love out of me with a fierceness that kept growing. Not because of who she was, she wasn’t anyone yet, really. But simply because she was. Because she was mine. Because when I looked at her sleeping in my arms, her tiny fist curled around my finger, something in me recognised something in her. This wasn’t love I’d chosen. This wasn’t love I’d earned or that she’d earned from me. This was love that just... existed. Fully formed. Unconditional from the very first breath. That’s when I realised: I’d been thinking about love all wrong. Or at least my picture was incomplete. Suddenly, all the theology I’d preached for years about grace didn’t feel theoretical anymore. I’d always known, intellectually, about unconditional love. I’m a Christian. I’ve preached about grace, about how God loves us not because of what we do but because of who He is. I could quote the verses, explain the theology. I understood the concept. But understanding and experiencing are two different things. Before my daughter, I had no framework for practicing that kind of love. Every love I’d experienced before had an element of reciprocity built into it. My friends chose to be my friends. My wife chose me. Even my relationship with God, as one-sided as His love is, involved my response, my faith, my actions. But my daughter? She didn’t choose me. She couldn’t respond. She couldn’t reciprocate. And yet I would have, and still would, do anything for her. I’d sacrifice sleep, money, comfort, my own needs. I’d put myself between her and any harm without thinking twice. Not because she earned it, but because loving her is woven into the fabric of who I am now. Parenting didn’t teach me a new concept. It thrust me into a new position. For the first time in my life, I was in God’s shoes, or the closest a human can get. I was the one loving first. The one loving despite. The one loving toward a vision of who this person could become, even though right now she’s just beginning to exist in the world. But this revelation didn’t settle things. It unsettled them. If this was what love really was, this unconditional, unearned, fierce devotion, then are all the other loves lesser or incomplete or practice runs? Here’s what I think: parental love isn’t just unconditional. It’s transformational. When I hold my daughter, I don’t just accept her as she is, though I do, completely. I also see who she could be. I have this vision of her: full of potential, full of possibility. I see the woman she might become: confident, kind, capable of deep thought and deep love. And every decision I make now, every way I interact with her, is aimed at helping her become that person. If you’re a parent you’ve probably felt this, looking at your child and experiencing time collapse. Seeing simultaneously who they are and who they’re becoming. Feeling the sacred weight of being the bridge between those two realities. Feeling like you’re holding potential itself in your arms. But it’s also terrifying. What if I get this wrong? This transformational quality of love is about having hopes for your child, sure, but it’s also about being an active participant in their becoming. Every interaction is formative. When I soothe her cries, I’m teaching her the world is safe. When I delight in her babbling, I’m teaching her that her voice matters. When I maintain consistency even when I’m exhausted, I’m building her capacity to trust. And it’s not just my individual interactions with her. She’s watching everything. The way my wife and I speak to each other. How we handle disagreement. Whether we show contempt or compassion when we’re frustrated. Whether we stonewall or stay engaged when things get hard. Every pattern she observes is writing code in her developing mind about what love looks like. If we model anxious attachment, she’ll learn that love is uncertain. If we can’t handle conflict well, she’ll learn that disagreement means disconnection. If we show each other contempt, she’ll learn that love includes cruelty. The weight of this hit me one night when my wife and I were having a tense conversation, and I saw my daughter watching us intently. She couldn’t understand our words, but it really seemed like she could feel the energy. And that made it real to me that we’re not just living our marriage. We’re teaching her what marriage is. So in these ways, love is a creative force. Not creating from nothing, as God does, but partnering with Him in the sacred work of shaping a life. And the stakes couldn’t be higher. With my wife, I can hope for who she might become, but my influence on that is limited. She’s an adult making her own choices. But my daughter’s completely impressionable. Frighteningly so. My wife and I are her world right now. Individual moments might not matter much. But the cumulative pattern of how we love her will shape who she becomes. I think about it like erosion. Each individual abrasion is subtle, almost imperceptible. But over time, it shapes the landscape. Except we’re not just wearing away at something. We’re also building. Every loving interaction deposits something: security, worth, capability. It’s erosion and accretion happening simultaneously. We’re both carving channels and laying down sediment that will become the bedrock of who she becomes. So transformational love operates on two levels simultaneously. First, it accepts completely: ‘You are enough, right now, exactly as you are.’ Then it calls forward: ‘And I see who you could be, and I’m here to help you get there.’ This isn’t conditional love masquerading as unconditional. The acceptance is real and complete. But real love doesn’t leave us where we are. It sees our potential and labours toward it. Unconditional doesn’t mean static. It means ‘I love you at every stage of your becoming.’ That’s what real love does. It accepts first. Then it transforms. I couldn’t help but wonder: if love shapes us this profoundly, if every interaction is writing code in my daughter’s developing mind, then how was I shaped? What loves formed me? What code was written into my own understanding? Looking back, I can see a pattern. Each form of love I’ve experienced hasn’t been random. They’ve been sequential, building on each other. Each one teaching me something I needed to know for the next. When you’re a child, you receive love before you can do anything to deserve it. Your parents love you s

    20 min
  3. Traveling Makes Kings (and Exiles)

    10/07/2025

    Traveling Makes Kings (and Exiles)

    Before my wife traveled to Zimbabwe recently, we sat at the dinner table one night chatting, and she said she felt some type of way about going home. Not dread exactly. Not simple excitement either. Something more tangled. Love and distance sitting next to each other, both equally true, both equally present. I understood exactly what she meant. That mix of longing and apprehension. Wanting to go and wanting to have already left. Missing home while wanting to keep the distance. We talked for a long time that evening, circling around something we both knew but struggled to name. The conversation kept returning to the same uncomfortable truth: home doesn’t feel the same anymore. Not really. Not in the way we used to fit there, effortlessly, without thinking about it. We love the place we come from: Bulawayo. I miss it in ways that surprise me, in the middle of ordinary days when I’m doing something completely unrelated and suddenly the longing hits like a physical thing in my chest. But loving a place and fitting in it aren’t the same thing. We’re learning that the hard way. Maybe you know this feeling too. That pull toward home that sits alongside a quiet dread. The way you count down to a visit with genuine excitement and genuine anxiety living in the same breath. The strange guilt of missing a place while simultaneously knowing you can’t stay there long. If you’ve felt this, if you’ve tried to explain it to someone and watched your words fail to capture the complexity, this is for you. Not to fix the tension but to name it. To give you language for what you already know inside but can’t quite say out loud. I love reading fantasy. Right now I’m working through The Wheel of Time by Robert Jordan. It’s a long series. Fourteen books. Epic in every sense of the word. While on a walk yesterday, I finished Book Five (I was listening to the audiobook) and as I was reflecting on what I had just experienced, that conversation with my wife came back to me and wouldn’t leave because I’d found something that explains the feelings we were having. The story of the Wheel of Time follows a group of young people from a farming region called the Two Rivers. Small, quiet place. Everyone knows everyone. But they’re forced to leave the Two Rivers to go on an epic adventure. One of them, Rand, discovers he’s the prophesied Dragon Reborn. By Book Five, he’s learned to channel immense power that could level cities if he loses control. He’s seen wonders and horrors that no one from the Two Rivers could imagine. He’s made choices that ripple across nations, decisions that affect the lives of thousands of people he’ll never meet. He carries the weight of the world now. Literally. As I reflected on the ending of book five, the thought that was stuck on my mind is that there’s no way Rand could go back to the Two Rivers and fit in anymore. He’s become too big for it. The shape of his life has changed so fundamentally that the old mould can’t hold him anymore. While I haven’t quite gone on an epic adventure of world-changing proportions, I know that feeling. I live in it. There’s a saying in isiNdebele. ‘Ukuhamba kuzal’ inkosi,’ which translates to ‘Traveling gives birth to kings.’ When I was a boy, I thought it meant wealth and status. Kings as men with big houses and German cars that never break down and people who never stand in line at the bank. Now I know it means something quieter and heavier and harder to explain to someone who hasn’t felt it. Travel enlarges you. It stretches the borders of who you are and what you can see and how you understand the world. And once you expand like that, you can’t shrink back to your old size. Not without incurring a cost, anyway. The box that used to hold you comfortably now feels too small. Bulawayo raised me well. The city gave me a lot I needed to become who I am. It was a good childhood. A happy one. I have many fond memories. During the week after school, I rode bikes with friends. We were a small gang of boys, and we ruled our little corner of the world with the absolute certainty of children who don’t know yet how small their kingdom is. We wandered the suburbs exploring. Down streets we weren’t supposed to go down. Into yards we weren’t supposed to enter. We walked kilometers and kilometers without thinking about it, without getting tired, just moving for the sake of moving and seeing what was around the next corner. Then we had to rush back to be home by six. That was the rule. Six o’clock before parents returned from work. We came back with dust up to our knees. Thick white dust that got into everything. You had to wash your legs before getting into the house. Rinse off all that evidence of your adventures before you were allowed to sit on the sofas or walk on the clean floors. If I was hanging out at a friend’s house around mealtime, I’d be counted in automatically. No one asked if you’d eaten or if you were hungry. You were there so you were fed. The same isitshwala and mbida at every table, part of the shared life. Back then, every adult was your parent. In theory and in practice. If you were doing something you shouldn’t be doing, any adult could correct you, and you accepted it because that was just how things worked. You knew all your neighbors. Not just their names but their business, their struggles, their joys. It was a small world. Homogeneous in ways I didn’t realise then. We were all black. Almost all Ndebele. We all went to the same types of schools and the same types of churches. Our parents were teachers or nurses or clerks or government workers. Solid middle class or aspiring to it. We had the same references, the same jokes, the same understanding of how the world worked. Everyone fit the same basic mold with only minor variations. But it was the whole world. It was all I knew, and all I needed to know. The edges of that world felt far away, theoretical, not something I’d ever actually reach. Then I left. School finished. I worked for a few years. Opportunities appeared. I went to South Africa first. Then eventually moved to London. Each move feeling necessary at the time, practical, the obvious next step. But those moves weren’t just geographic. They weren’t just about changing addresses or learning new streets. They changed something fundamental to how I saw the world and my place in it. South Africa was the first crack in the homogeneity. Suddenly I was surrounded by people who weren’t like me. They spoke different languages, practiced different religions, came from different economic realities entirely. I met some who grew up so poor that my middle-class Bulawayo childhood looked like luxury to them. I met others who grew up so wealthy they genuinely didn’t understand what it meant to worry about money. I remember the first time I met someone who’d never been to church, who hadn’t grown up with any religion at all. It broke something in my brain in a necessary way. In Bulawayo, you could assume everyone was Christian. Even people who didn’t go to church regularly, even people who weren’t particularly devout, still operated within a Christian framework. They knew the stories, the references, the basic moral architecture. But here was someone who didn’t. Who saw the world through a completely different lens. Who’d built their ethics and their understanding of meaning from completely different materials. And there were people. A whole community of people who became our people for that season. We found a group of friends in South Africa who felt like our tribe. Like the kind of connection that happens once in a lifetime and surely lasts forever. We took trips together. Long road trips filled with singing and food and getting lost, but it didn’t matter because getting lost was part of the adventure. We sang together at different churches, our voices finding harmonies that felt like something bigger than any of us individually. Sunday afternoons that stretched into evenings, having a braai at someone’s house, talking about everything and nothing. It felt permanent. That’s something you come to discover about these seasons. They feel permanent while you’re in them. You can’t imagine a version of your life where these people aren’t central to it. This is our community. These are our people. This beautiful thing we’ve built together, it’s going to last. It didn’t. When we visit South Africa now, we sometimes see them. The friends from that season. We meet for coffee or dinner, and the warmth is real. The love is still there. But something has shifted. They’ve moved on to new things, new communities, new versions of themselves. We have too. We talk about the old days with affection and nostalgia, but we can’t recreate them. Those people still exist, but that community doesn’t. It served its purpose for that time and then it dissolved, the way morning mist dissolves when the sun gets high enough. That dissolution used to hurt more than it does now. The first time I really felt a community come apart, I fought it. I thought if we just tried harder, stayed more connected, made more effort, we could keep it alive. But communities aren’t just about effort. They’re about season and proximity and shared purpose and a thousand other factors that shift whether you want them to or not. Some relationships endure beyond the community. Those ones you carry with you, fold into the next chapter, hold on to across distance and time. But the community itself, that specific configuration of people in that specific place at that specific time, it has a lifespan. Then London. London has been something else entirely. A city so large and so diverse that you could live here for years and still only scratch the surface of it. On the Tube, you could hear ten different languages from five different countries between Baker Street and Paddington. At work, I collaborate with

    29 min

  4. 07/19/2023

    Writing Is Thinking

    When faced with the task of writing, many of us are quick to admit, "I have a wealth of ideas, but I struggle to find the right words to express them," or "I'm well-versed in my subject, but I can't organise my thoughts in a clear and interesting way." If you resonate with this, you’ve come to the right place. My consistent writing journey over the past two years has taught me that writing isn't as enigmatic as it seems. In reality, it's about mastering certain skills, many of which you already possess. Don't misunderstand me; writing is indeed challenging, but it's not unique in that regard. Many aspects of life are difficult, yet we learn to navigate them proficiently. I believe the primary obstacle with writing is our tendency to fixate on the end product of writing, neglecting the actual process of writing. This issue is further compounded by the widespread belief that writing ability is an innate talent, which can serve as a significant deterrent. My perspective on writing transformed after reading "Thinking On Paper" by V.A. Howard, PhD, and J.H. Barton, M.A. Their book introduced me to three key propositions about writing that have significantly demystified the process for me. These insights have not only helped me understand writing better, but also paved the way for me to hone my writing skills for a variety of practical purposes. Three propositions about writing In the following sections, I will delve into these three propositions: Writing as meaning-making, writing as a staged performance, and writing as a tool for understanding. These concepts have been instrumental in my journey towards mastering the art of writing. Writing is meaning-making At its core, writing is an act of thinking. It's a process where the writer creates meaning using words, and the reader, in turn, uses those words to reconstruct that meaning. Let's delve deeper into this concept. It's crucial to understand that written communication is rarely perfect and seldom complete. When we write, we strive to create meaning with words, and readers attempt to use those words to recreate that meaning. However, words, even among speakers of the same language, don't always convey the full meaning. Our understanding is limited by our grasp of language, which is influenced by many factors, including context. For instance, the phrase "stand up" might seem straightforward, but its meaning can shift dramatically depending on the context. It could mean physically rising to your feet or metaphorically standing up against oppression. If the context isn't adequately conveyed in the writing, the intended meaning may not be fully transmitted. There's no guarantee that you'll be able to fully articulate your meaning or that your reader will fully comprehend it. The potential for success or failure exists on both ends. This realization leads us to an important conclusion: the primary goal of writing is not communication, but meaning-making. We use words to translate our innate understanding into tangible meaning on a page. This perspective is liberating for two main reasons. First, it means that everyone can—and indeed should—write freely and often, without the pressure of intending to share our work with others. The act of writing serves to articulate our thoughts, giving them structure and clarity. Second, it relieves us of the pressure to produce perfect or complete writing. Our writing is merely a snapshot of our current understanding, representing our best attempt at creating meaning from that understanding. Initially, the goal isn't to communicate our ideas as clearly as possible, but to transfer our thoughts from our minds to the page. This understanding underscores the importance of writing as a tool for personal growth and learning. Whether or not you intend to publish your work, writing can help you clarify your thoughts, structure your ideas, and learn to articulate them clearly and concisely for maximum impact. It's a process of self-discovery and self-improvement, a journey that evolves with each word you put down on paper. Writing is a staged performance Consider this scenario: if you were asked to chat with a friend at home about a topic that interests you for five minutes every week, you'd likely accomplish this with ease. Each week, you might have new insights to share or fresh perspectives on previous discussions. Now, imagine the same task, but instead of conversing with a friend, you're speaking with Oprah on her live TV show. Suddenly, the task seems daunting, and you become hypercritical of your words. The task becomes challenging, even though speaking is second nature to us and we know what we want to say. The difference lies in the awareness of an audience, particularly one that intimidates us. Writing follows a similar pattern. As a writer, the moment you become conscious of a potential audience (including your future self), writing transforms into a staged performance. However, it's crucial not to view it as a performance until you're ready for it to be. Initially, writing should be a private activity, a means of articulating your thoughts on paper. The shift to performance mode occurs when you step back to analyze your work, scrutinizing its sound and the clarity of its message. Writing, therefore, involves two distinct stages: free-flowing, uninhibited articulation, and critical revision of initial thoughts. We oscillate between these two states of mind—the struggle to articulate and the struggle to communicate. However, it's essential to keep these stages separate; attempting to do both simultaneously will probably be counterproductive. This understanding is liberating because it allows me to switch off my "audience awareness" during the early stages of writing and focus solely on my thoughts and ideas—the discovery phase. This stage encourages full exploration, speculation, intuition, and imagination. When the time is right, I transition into "communication mode," focusing on critiquing and reshaping my work for presentation. This separation is vital because the processes of discovery and criticism often disrupt each other. They have divergent objectives and require different mental attitudes. Notably, criticism, with its ruthless penchant for rejection, stands in stark contrast to the exploratory nature of discovery. Writing is a tool for understanding The primary aim of writing, much like reading, is to understand. It's only after gaining this understanding that we can share it with readers. In this context, writing serves as a tool for thinking. Once our thoughts are penned down, we have the opportunity to critically evaluate them and compare them with ideas from other sources, leading to a more robust and balanced understanding of the subject. Therefore, even if your private notes may seem unintelligible to others (or even to your future self), their value as thoughtful explorations should not be underestimated. This perspective encourages us not to shy away from writing that may never see the light of publication. These seemingly throwaway writings play a crucial role in enhancing our understanding and serve as the foundation for successful writing. This is not to downplay the importance of writing that communicates effectively. Instead, it underscores the idea that the act of writing itself can pave the way to producing content that communicates well. After all, editing requires a text to refine. “Putting articulation before communication also reminds us that whether thinking silently, aloud, or in writing, we do not so much send our thoughts in pursuit of words as use words to pursue our thoughts. Later, by revising the words that first snared our thoughts, we may succeed in capturing the understanding of others.” — V.A. Howard, PhD and J.H. Barton, M.A, Thinking On Paper: Refine, Express and Actually Generate Ideas by Understanding the Processes of the Mind Writing is thinking As I continue to develop in my writing journey, I've come to appreciate the profound interconnectedness of writing and cognitive processes. Writing, in essence, is an externalized form of thinking. It's a tool that allows us to articulate our thoughts, provide them with structure, and clarify them, regardless of whether we intend to share them publicly or not. Once our thoughts are penned down, we can easily compare them with ideas from other sources, bypassing the limitations of our memory. This process fosters a deeper and more robust understanding of the subject at hand. It's only after this stage that we should consider writing as a performance, critiquing our work with the intention of presenting it to an audience. The ability to articulate thoughts clearly and effectively is a potent tool. As Jordan Peterson says, “If you can think and speak and write, you are absolutely deadly. Nothing can get in your way.” Moreover, the ability to formulate coherent arguments and present them effectively can pave the way to success. This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit justreflections.bhekani.com

    10 min

  5. 07/05/2023

    How to Never Get a Job: A Comprehensive Guide to Lifelong Leisure

    Today’s piece was inspired by (and borrows from) Erik Davtyan’s insightful medium post. His is specifically for Software Engineers so I figured I’d expand it for a more general audience. Without further ado, let’s go. In the realm of career advice, we often encounter a ton of tips and tricks on how to land the perfect job. But what if we flipped the script? What if, instead, we explored the art of not getting a job? In this guide, I’ll give you nine easy strategies that can lead you down the path of perpetual unemployment. So, whether you're looking to maintain your blissful unemployment or you're an oddball who actually wants a job, this guide will provide you with a fresh perspective. Remember, sometimes knowing what not to do is just as important as knowing what to do. The Art of Procrastination Why rush to send out CVs when there's an entire world of procrastination to explore? Procrastination is often misunderstood and maligned, but it can be an intriguing journey of leisure and pleasure. It's not just about delaying tasks; it's about immersing yourself in activities that provide immediate gratification and pleasure. So put away that CV and try diving into the depths of the internet, where an ocean of knowledge and entertainment awaits. You could spend hours, even days, exploring fascinating articles, engaging in online debates, or getting lost in the labyrinth of social media. The internet is a treasure trove of information and amusement that can keep you occupied indefinitely. If that’s not your jam, you could binge-watch your favourite shows, an activity that has become a cultural phenomenon in the age of streaming services. TV series can offer an escape from reality and a chance to immerse yourself in different worlds. Why focus on your own boring life when you could spend hours, even days, following the more exciting lives of your favourite characters, experiencing their triumphs, tragedies, and transformations? So, who needs a job when you can embrace a different way of life, one that values leisure and pleasure over productivity and efficiency? So, put away that CV and embrace the art of procrastination. The Mystery of the Generic CV When you finally decide to break away from the blissful world of procrastination and update your CV, it's important to remember one key rule: keep it as generic as possible. After all, who doesn't love a good mystery? You learnt that from the TV show, remember? Instead of tailoring your resume to highlight your unique skills, experiences, and achievements, aim for ambiguity. This will perfectly optimise you for perpetual unemployment. Don’t list specific technical skills or soft skills. Stick to vague, generic terms that don’t provide any specific information about your skills and experiences. Phrases like "hard worker", "detail-oriented", “problem-solver”, “strong communication skills”, or “results-driven” are perfect. These are meaningless fluff on a CV. They give absolutely no indication of what you're actually good at, leaving potential employers guessing. Make it a point not to provide examples of tasks where these skills were displayed, that might make you attractive. We don’t want that. In the experience section, simply list your job titles and the dates you held them, but leave out any details about what you actually did in those roles. This will ensure that employers are left scratching their heads, trying to figure out what you actually bring to the table. Remember, the goal here is to create a resume that is a riddle wrapped in a mystery inside an enigma. Employers love a good puzzle, right? And if they can't figure out what you're good at, they can't hire you. It's a win-win situation! So, embrace the mystery of the generic CV, and watch as the job offers don't roll in. The Non-Interview Technique If you did your best on the last point but by some unfortunate twist of fate, you find yourself scheduled for an interview, it's time to deploy the Non-Interview Technique. This strategy is all about being as unprepared as possible to ensure you maintain your blissful state of unemployment. First, don't research the company. By not knowing anything about the company, you'll effectively communicate your fabulous lack of interest and commitment, which is sure to send the right signal. Second, don't let interview prep interfere with your regular online debates and doom-scrolling. You want to maintain the mystery and get surprised by all the questions during the interview and wing it. Rambling, off-topic, or nonsensical answers are sure to leave your interviewer scratching their head. Third, punctuality is overrated. Arrive late. This not only shows a lack of respect for the interviewer's time but also suggests you're not particularly interested in the job. Finally, a yawn or two during the interview can be a powerful tool in your arsenal. If you're feeling particularly daring, consider checking your watch or phone frequently during the interview to really drive home your lack of engagement. The Non-Interview Technique is all about showing that you’d really rather be somewhere else and that there are other things that are more important to you than this interview. By following these steps, you're sure to leave your interviewer with a strong impression. The Loner Lifestyle Who needs connections when you've got solitude? If you interact with people too much you might uncover opportunities and get your foot in the door. You don’t want that. Embrace the hermit lifestyle and avoid networking opportunities like the plague. Industry events are a no-go. These gatherings are typically filled with professionals in your field who are eager to exchange business cards, share insights, and discuss potential job opportunities. So, steer clear of industry conferences, seminars, and networking events. Instead, enjoy the comfort of your own home, far away from the hustle and bustle of the professional world. Social media interactions should be kept to a minimum. To maintain your unemployment streak, it's best to avoid platforms like LinkedIn and Twitter or, at the very least, avoid any professional interactions on them. Stick to vibes. Remember, the fewer people who know you don’t have a job, the fewer people there are to ruin your unemployment streak with job offers. Choose the tranquillity of unemployment over the chaos of job hunting. Forget about networking and start enjoying the peace and quiet of solitude. After all, who needs connections when you've got the comfort of your own company? The Art of Giving Up In the rare case that you pass the first interview in some miraculous way, it’s important to master the Art of Giving Up. This is not about a lack of capability or potential, but rather a strategic move to maintain your blissful state of unemployment. During the interview process, there are often several stages designed to assess your skills and suitability for the role. This could include a technical interview, a take-home task, or a series of problem-solving exercises. These stages are typically designed to challenge you, to push you out of your comfort zone, and to see how you perform under pressure. You don’t want that. You prefer the comfort zone and the warm embrace of the familiar. So, don't hesitate to throw in the towel. If you ever feel stuck, give up. Don't try to work through the problem, don't ask for clarification, and definitely don't attempt to come up with a solution. Simply throw your hands up and admit defeat. This will not only end the interview process quickly but also leave a lasting impression of your commitment to unemployment. Don't waste your precious free time. After all, they're not paying you for this time, right? And let's be honest, the actual job pay was probably going to be too low, anyway. Make up an excuse and abandon it. You could say you didn't understand the task, you didn't have time to complete it, or simply that you didn't feel like doing it. The Art of Giving Up is all about choosing ease over effort, surrender over struggle. It's about recognizing when to step back and let go, rather than pushing forward and fighting on. So that you can return to your own super-interesting, stress-free life. Who needs the stress of a job when you can enjoy the tranquillity of unemployment? The Leisure Life Work is work, and leisure is leisure. They're two distinct aspects of life, and in our quest for perpetual unemployment, it's important to keep them separate. Your work is a job, a means to an end. It isn't a hobby, a passion, or a pastime. It's something you do to earn a living, not something you do for fun or fulfilment. So, when you're not working, it's crucial to use your free time for activities that don’t improve your professional skills. Daydreaming about the future is a leisurely activity that requires little effort but offers a lot of enjoyment. It allows you to imagine different possibilities, explore various scenarios, and even plan your ideal life, all without the constraints of reality. Couple this with inaction and you have the perfect combo to burn away those extra hours. Remember, you're going to work a lot in your future career anyway, so why bother now? Don't even try to contribute to your industry or take on extra tasks. You shouldn't do work for other people for free. If you're in a team, just use what the others have done and never contribute. This not only saves you effort but also ensures you don't stand out or attract attention, which might lead to job offers. The Art of Ignoring Feedback In our pursuit of the blissful state of unemployment, we must master the Art of Ignoring Feedback, a strategy that promotes stagnation over growth and comfort over change. Whether it's constructive criticism from a potential employer or well-intentioned advice from a friend, feedback might provide insights into our strengths and weaknesses, offering a roadmap for personal and professional

    13 min

  6. 06/05/2023

    The Transformative Power of Art: Gaining Insight into Ourselves and the World

    Art is a curious thing. Have you ever wondered why people continue to flock to art exhibitions, lining up just to catch a glimpse of artworks like the Mona Lisa, which they've seen many times in books or online? It's the same reason we love to rewatch our favorite movies or reread cherished books. It's not that the artwork, film, or book changes, but rather our interaction with it does. Consider this: "There is one peculiarity that real works of art possess in common. At each fresh reading, one notices some change in them, as if the sap of life ran in their leaves, and with skies and plants, they had the power to alter their shape and color from season to season." These profound words by Virginia Woolf encapsulate why art holds such a deep, revered place in my heart. Art has the power to evolve with us. Art, much like life itself, is dynamic, alive, and constantly evolving. Each time we stand before a painting like the Mona Lisa, we don't just see the same old enigmatic smile. The artwork mirrors our own evolving experiences, perspectives, and understanding. It draws us into a reflective dialogue. Like a mirror, it reflects our own gaze back at us, intertwined with our growing life experiences. The Mona Lisa of today might feel different from the Mona Lisa of last year because we are different. This continuous exchange between the observer and the art, the reader and the text, is what makes each encounter an exhilarating, fresh experience, no matter how many times it is revisited. Why is this important? Because art in all its forms—whether literature, visual, or performance art—invites us to a conversation. A conversation not just with the artist's work, but also with ourselves. It aids in our understanding of self and the world. It's a means of mapping our own evolution as individuals. Take, for instance, my personal experience with George Orwell's Animal Farm. As a child, I found the story immensely intriguing. The thought of animals running a farm and the vivid imagery it evoked made it an enjoyable read. But as I've grown older, my appreciation for the book has taken on new depth. It isn't merely about the animals and their escapades for me anymore. It's about the complex nuances of life, politics, and the human condition—elements that I was oblivious to as a child. The words of the book haven't changed, but my understanding of them has. This shift in perspective is a testament to my own growth and transformation over the years. Engaging with art isn't just about appreciating aesthetics or getting lost in an interesting narrative. It's about chronicling our journey and our growth as individuals. Our favorite art form becomes a canvas that bears the imprint of our growing consciousness and our maturing understanding of life. And in that sense, every brushstroke we add through our experiences makes it an ongoing self-portrait, a living biography of our lives. Each interaction with a cherished piece of art is a new chapter in that biography. It's a tangible reflection of how we have matured and changed as people, making the art itself feel fresh each time. The Bible is the ultimate embodiment of living art. Each of its verses seems to pulsate with a potent vitality, its teachings ever-evolving to adapt to our shifting life circumstances. Just like the changing seasons, the Bible mirrors our growth and evolution, echoing our deepening understanding of life. Contemplating a passage like Psalm 23, year after year, is essentially an exercise in spiritual autobiography. It's like assembling a living testament of our journey, recording the progression of our spiritual comprehension. But there is yet another purpose I believe it serves. God is a being of infinite complexity, unfathomable depth, and unimaginable breadth. His vastness is so great that there isn't a single human construct that could fully encapsulate His entire essence. However, in His divine wisdom, God has crafted an exquisite solution to the dilemma of making Himself accessible to us—one that leverages the dynamic, living nature of art. His chosen medium? The written word. At its core, the Bible is the most exquisite work of God's artistry. It is a canvas onto which He has depicted His infinite complexity in a way that we, fallible humans, can begin to comprehend. It establishes a resilient bond between the divine and the human, forging new connections each day. It remains accessible and enlightening whether you're a humble commoner or an acclaimed scholar. The Bible is more than just a book; it is the grand narrative of God's boundless love for humanity. It is a flowing wellspring of wisdom, chronicling our unique journey with the divine. By engaging with it, we enter into a conversation with the divine, one that develops and deepens as we do. The significance of engaging repeatedly with art goes beyond mere repetition; it serves a crucial purpose in the journey of every individual. By immersing ourselves in art on multiple occasions, we open doors to gaining a deeper understanding of ourselves and comprehending our own evolution. Through the transformative power of art, we can explore the depths of our emotions, thoughts, and experiences, ultimately leading to greater self-awareness and personal growth. In line with this, I want to emphasize the importance of reading the Bible, regardless of one's religious affiliations. The Bible stands as a remarkable testament to the power of art in fostering self-understanding. It holds a unique position as the most influential artistic work in human history, transcending cultural and religious boundaries. Within its pages, profound narratives, teachings, and reflections are woven together, offering insightful perspectives into the human condition. This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit justreflections.bhekani.com

    6 min

  7. 05/22/2023

    Animation Is Under Appreciated

    This weekend, I went to a movie with my wife and some friends. We arrived a little early and, having secured our tickets, we decided to wait in the lobby. As we waited, a discussion started about an upcoming film I'm eagerly anticipating: Spiderman: Across the Spiderverse. If you know me, you're aware that I can become quite passionate when discussing movies like this. We were all talking animatedly about the excitement of seeing a black Spiderman again, when my wife, intrigued by our enthusiasm, wanted to know what film had us so thrilled. I promptly searched for it on Google and handed my phone to her. Her reaction is the reason for this rant article. She exclaimed, “Agh! Kanti ngoPopayi”, meaning “Agh, it’s a cartoon!” She was prepared to dismiss it outright the moment she realized it was animated. This is how many people react to animation. The story, characters, and art can far surpass any other movie, but people are put off simply because there are no live actors involved. Animation deserves better! There's this prevailing notion that animated movies or TV shows are just for children. A glaring example of this misconception occurred during the 2022 Academy Awards. And no, I don’t mean the infamous incident with Will Smith and Chris Rock. Other noteworthy things happened that night, you know. The award for the best-animated picture was presented by three people: Lily James, Halle Bailey, and Naomi Scott. They all share a commonality—they've each played Disney Princesses in live-action remakes of Disney classics. Lily James played Cinderella, Naomi Scott played Jasmine in Aladdin, and Hailey is set to portray Ariel in the upcoming Little Mermaid. But what grabbed my attention was not their shared history, but their shared words: “All these characters hold such a special place in our hearts. Because animated films make up some of our most formative movie experiences as kids. So many kids watch these movies, so many kids watch these movies over and over … and over and over and over again. I see some parents out there know exactly what we’re talking about…” This speech infuriated animation enthusiasts everywhere. Animation is rarely recognized as high art or “cinema,” even at a platform as esteemed as the Oscars. One would expect more enlightenment here. Unironically, the presenters were not part of the original animated movies, but the live-action remakes. Animation is consistently overlooked and underrated. For many, it's merely cartoons, “ngoPopayi,” child's play. To those who harbour such thoughts, I challenge you to watch this analysis of the Leap of Faith scene from Spiderman: Into the Spiderverse and tell me if you still believe this is only kids’ stuff. I’m not really waiting to hear your opinion on this, of course, because this is a multi-award-winning masterpiece of a movie. Not convinced? Here’s another one; an analysis of Arcane: Still sceptical? Perhaps an hour-long video essay on the subject could sway your opinion. Seriously though, these are some amazingly skillfully done analyses. Check them out. And I agree with Mason one hundred per cent: “I have always considered animation to be the purest form of filmmaking. With complete and total control over every single frame put on screen, animators can transport you to worlds unimaginable, captivate you with fantastical and whimsical characters that defy the very laws of reality, show you jaw dropping acts of gravity defying action and absolutely devastate your heart with one carefully drawn facial expression. Whether they are layered on a film cell, digitally painted, painstakingly photographed or 3D rendered, these films, shorts or television series can reach the highest level of adoration and praise from the public just as anything made in live action. And they have.” Last year, Invincible, one of the year's finest shows, slipped under the radar until it presented one of the best season finales in television history. Give "Invincible season finale" a Google, and you'll see the internet is ablaze with praise. Interestingly, it aired concurrently with Falcon and the Winter Soldier, another superhero show that, despite being part of Marvel's much-anticipated Phase Four, fell flat. Yet, audiences seemed more inclined to watch the live-action series over the so-called "cartoon." Now, I can understand why people would think animation is just for kids. Numerous animated shows target a young audience, and many of us consumed these shows primarily in our childhood. However, categorizing a film like Up alongside Dora the Explorer simply because they share the same medium is fundamentally flawed. This comparison is akin to equating Ridley Scott's Alien with Sesame Street on the basis they both employ puppets. It's a simplistic, surface-level judgment that overlooks the nuances of each work. What many miss is the intentional choice behind using animation as a medium for storytelling. Certain narratives cannot be fully conveyed or appreciated in any other form. Animation unlocks potential that is often unattainable in live-action unless one has the budget of Avatar. Animation can recreate the comic book-like aesthetic in a film such as Spiderman: Into the Spiderverse. It can also employ super realistic caricature as seen in Soul to delve into the complex journey of finding life's purpose. (I’m not even sure the phrase “super realistic caricature” makes sense, but animation made that possible.) Consider the epic narrative of The Prince of Egypt. Would it have been feasible to capture the grandeur of Moses' story in a live-action format? On a side note, I have a deep appreciation for the fantastical genre. Creators of fantasy and science fiction showcase an exceptional degree of creativity. Beyond crafting a compelling narrative, they must build an entire world, often complete with its own unique history, culture, and politics. The world becomes a character in its own right, adding depth to the narrative. This is where animation shines; it allows for a seamless integration of reality and fantasy, thereby elevating the creative potential of these already rich genres. Animation's public perception is somewhat skewed by the fact that many mainstream animated shows for adults are largely comedies. I honour the genius of The Simpsons, Futurama, Rick and Morty, and Family Guy, but understand that their humour doesn't resonate with everyone. Hence, I was thrilled by Invincible and Arcane. These mainstream animated shows, focusing on drama and action, brought a breath of fresh air to adult streaming platforms. DreamWorks has created several mature films, like Kung Fu Panda and Megamind, but they still incorporate whimsical elements and shy away from being wholly mature films. The timing of the pandemic also provided a unique advantage for Arcane and Invincible to shine. They not only delivered but also held their own against non-animated counterparts. During my viewing of both Invincible and Arcane, there were moments when I had to pause, astounded at the masterpieces unfolding before my eyes. It's unfortunate that Disney and Pixar films typically garner most of the spotlight for animation. While I hold nothing against these powerhouses, their association with childhood viewing often leads people to pigeonhole all their productions as children's content. Let me wrap this up with this quote from Alberto Mielgo, director of The Windshield Wiper: “Animation is an art that includes every single art that you can imagine. Animation for adults is a fact, it’s happening, let’s call it cinema!” I honestly want to give a huge shout-out to the animators and artists behind these shows and movies. Most of them are faceless and nameless to the audience, but they are the ones putting in hours and hours to create these masterpieces. If this article has stirred your interest in exploring the rich world of animated shows, allow me to suggest a few recommendations: * Arcane * Spiderman: Into the Spiderverse * Soul * Love, Death, Robots * Invincible * Marvel’s What If * Moana * Encanto * Megamind * Rango * Puss in Boots: The Last Wish * Anomalisa And here are some bangers that we wouldn’t have if it wasn’t for animation: In fact, this article has got me hyped. I think I’ll go rewatch Akira now. Rant over. Okay, thanks, bye. This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit justreflections.bhekani.com

    9 min

  8. 04/24/2023

    To Stay or Go: A Guide to Making Tough Relationship Choices

    You all probably know by now that I'm super passionate about relationships and understanding people. There's just something about diving into the minds of others, learning about their likes, dislikes, dreams, and everything in between that just hooks me. And when it comes to the connections we forge with others, like friendships and romantic relationships, my curiosity just skyrockets. As an introvert, I feel like I have this special superpower in observing and listening to people. You know, just hanging out in the background, soaking up all those little nuances that others might overlook in the heat of a conversation. It's like peeling back the layers of an onion and discovering more and more about what makes people tick. So today, let's chat about love – or more specifically, the end of it. I want to dive into that tricky territory of knowing when to call it quits and break up, or when to keep fighting for the relationship. Navigating the wild ride that is love, with all its ups, downs, and unexpected detours, can be quite the adventure. One of the toughest parts of being in a relationship is figuring out when to keep fighting for it or when it's time to gracefully bow out. In this article, I’ll dig into the intricacies of relationships, discussing a few crucial points that'll help you determine whether your love is worth salvaging or if it's time to move on. Keeping these key factors in mind will empower you to make a decision that's in line with your well-being and personal growth. Whether your relationship is on the rocks or things are going fantastic, these are useful tools to have in your toolbox. So strap in, and let’s go! 1. Identify the Real Problem and Communicate Effectively. All relationships come with their fair share of highs and lows, but it's essential to dive deeper when conflicts pop up. It's all too easy to get swept up in minor disagreements while overlooking the bigger issues at play. To truly grasp what's causing friction in your relationship, take a moment to step back and pinpoint the root of the problem. Reflect on any patterns or recurring themes in your arguments. Could it be that unresolved past issues, insecurities, excommunicated expectations, or unfulfilled emotional needs are feeding the conflict? Once you've gained a clear insight into what's lurking beneath the surface, it's time to bring it up with your partner. Practising healthy communication is paramount for resolving disputes and keeping your connection solid. Focus on the matter at hand, steer clear of personal attacks, and don't fall into the trap of tallying past mistakes. This will sound a little corny, but it works; use “I” statements to share your feelings and experiences without casting blame. For instance, opt for “I feel overwhelmed when we argue about finances” instead of “You always stress me out about money.” By tackling the conversation with empathy and respect, you lay the groundwork for an open and honest dialogue that can pave the way to resolution. 2. Distinguish between Preferences and Core Values. Navigating conflicts in your relationship can be quite the challenge, but it's essential to determine whether the disagreements stem from preferences or core values. Conflicts of preference, such as how to spend your leisure time, which brand of toothpaste to purchase, or even deciding where to dine out, can often be resolved through negotiation and compromise. After all, as Dr John Gottman, a renowned psychologist and relationship researcher, explains in his book “What Predicts Divorce? The Relationship Between Marital Processes and Marital Outcomes,” around 69% of relationship conflicts are perpetual, meaning they are rooted in fundamental differences in personality or lifestyle needs. You’ll never solve them, but you need to learn to live with them. However, conflicts of core values, like your beliefs about marriage, religion, politics, or raising children, may be insurmountable. These differences can create significant friction in your relationship if left unaddressed, and they often require a higher level of reflection and self-awareness. Couples who share similar values and beliefs have a higher likelihood of long-term success. It's crucial to discern where you can be flexible and where you must hold your ground. If you discover your core values clash, it may signal that the relationship isn't the right fit, despite the love and affection you feel for one another. As you and your partner work through conflicts, it's essential to communicate openly and honestly, respect one another's boundaries, and remain committed to finding common ground. This process of compromise and collaboration can strengthen your bond and help you create a more harmonious, fulfilling partnership. 3. Set Boundaries and Enforce them. Establishing healthy boundaries is a vital component of any successful relationship. Esther Perel in the book “Mating in Captivity: Reconciling the Erotic and the Domestic” notes that, “Boundaries are a way to take care of ourselves. They’re like a safety net. Without them, we may be taken advantage of, used, or exploited.” This sentiment is echoed by John Gottman, who writes, “The ability to set boundaries is one of the most critical skills we can learn for preserving our physical and emotional health.” It's important to communicate your boundaries clearly and be willing to enforce them. If your partner repeatedly violates your boundaries or fails to respect your needs and concerns, it may be time to reassess the relationship. I understand that breaking up is never easy, but it's important to be objective and make the tough decision to end a relationship if necessary. Sometimes we need to move on from relationships that are not good for us, in order to create space for new relationships that will be more supportive, nurturing, and growth-promoting. 4. Seek Outside Help and Perspectives In the process of making a decision about whether to stay in a relationship or end it, it's challenging to maintain the perspective. Naturally, it’s personal for you. Seeking the opinions of trusted friends, family members, or a professional counsellor can provide a valuable outside perspective. But remember that while friends, family, and counsellors may help you see what you can’t, they don’t have to live with the consequences of your decision; you do. So, ultimately, the decision must be made by you, as everyone's opinion may be subjective. In addition to seeking outside perspectives, fostering a culture of open communication with your partner is crucial for evaluating the relationship. John Gottman says, "Marriage is a conversation ... and all the conversations you have in a marriage are connected to each other." I think all relationships are the same. Engage in conversations with your partner about the relationship and its future, and be open to exploring alternative solutions together. This may involve attending couples' therapy, exploring new ways to connect emotionally, or addressing individual issues that are affecting the relationship. Seeking outside perspectives and fostering open communication can help you gain the insights to evaluate whether your relationship is worth saving. Maintaining a healthy and lasting relationship is a continuous process that requires effort and dedication from both partners. As relationships grow over time, it's essential to prioritize quality time together and find ways to keep the spark alive. Relationships require maintenance, and that's not a bad thing. We maintain our cars, our homes, and our jobs. Why wouldn't we maintain something as important as our relationships? One way to maintain a strong connection is by engaging in shared hobbies or activities. Research shows that couples who participate in new and exciting activities together experience a surge of dopamine, a neurotransmitter associated with pleasure and reward. This surge of dopamine can create a sense of excitement and adventure, which can help keep the relationship fresh and exciting. Finally, to maintain a strong and lasting relationship, it's crucial to prioritize emotional connection and continue nurturing the bond between you and your partner. This may involve expressing gratitude and support, regularly checking in on each other's feelings, and weathering life's ups and downs together. As Esther Perel states, "The quality of our relationships determines the quality of our lives. It's the single most important investment we can make." By investing time and effort into your emotional connection, you can create a safe and supportive environment that strengthens your bond and sets the foundation for a lasting partnership. However, it's important to remember that if the relationship no longer aligns with your well-being and personal growth, making the hard decision to break up may be necessary for everyone's sake. This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit justreflections.bhekani.com

    9 min
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Impactful ideas that challenge my thinking. I hope they'll challenge yours too. justreflections.bhekani.com

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  • Creator
    Impactful ideas that challenge my thinking. I hope they'll challenge yours too.
  • Years Active
    2022 - 2026
  • Episodes
    32
  • Rating
    Clean
  • Copyright
    © Bhekani Khumalo
  • Show Website
    Just Reflections Podcast