Five stories and perspectives on friendship.
“People mistake vulnerability for intimacy. It’s not just annoying, it’s damaging.” — these words from my friend and Anti-Nihilist Institute co-founder Anna Lind-Guzik have been knocking around in my head lately for a reason.
Vulnerability is a useful tool of connecting to one’s audience. This isn’t just true of confessional writing. When I began to open up about leaving Russia/an abusive relationship, I did so with an explicit goal in mind: Draw attention to the problem, and show people how abuse *really* works.
It was also obviously important for me to emotionally connect with my audience and friends in general. Pain becomes more manageable when you feel less alone. All of this is normal — mundane, even.
I wasn’t surprised by the amount of odd, insensitive, prying and condescending messages I received. A lot of them came from men who have trouble processing vulnerability — in all of its forms…
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Every year we see people moving from a certain phase of their lives to the next with the hope of making it big or better.Unfortunately the case is not satisfactory to everyone’s expectations.As graduates and graduates are produced each year they face many challenges moving on to what i can sincerely call a much comfortable time as your life is probably planned for the 4 years you spend at university.
Unlike the world of job hunting university time is spent focused on attaining your degree at the end of the 4year course.wWith a timetable well planned for you and easy to follow and the results that are to some point are certain to be satisfactory.
I am one of those people who had ideologies installed in my head that jobs are hard to come by these days unless you are well connected or you come from a family with businesses…
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[“SHARE” JAN 2018] TAKING ACTION How far would you go for the poor? Would you visit the Guangdong industrial district alone to investigate sweatshop labour, or venture to Northwest China alone and live among the Hui people, or supervise earthquake rescue efforts while carrying a baby in your tummy and worrying about your husband’s safety who is responding at the frontline, or devote your family as a fulltime volunteer for four years, only to wake more hearts to care for the poor? That was Alice Kwan’s story.
Laurie Penny | Longreads | September 2017 | 15 minutes (4,185 words)
“Man fucks woman. Man: subject. Woman: object.”
—The Fall, Episode 3, “Insolence and Wine”
The first thing you need to understand about consent is that consent is not, strictly speaking, a thing. Not in the same way that teleportation isn’t a thing. Consent is not a thing because it is not an item, nor a possession. Consent is not an object you can hold in your hand. It is not a gift that can be given and then rudely requisitioned. Consent is a state of being. Giving someone your consent — sexually, politically, socially — is a little like giving them your attention. It’s a continuous process. It’s an interaction between two human creatures. I believe that a great many men and boys don’t understand this. I believe that lack of understanding is causing unspeakable trauma…
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I was inspired to write this brief post after a business associate expressed that she’d like to learn how to be empathetic when frustrations are high. I thought that was a brilliant goal. And a hard one to reach. It got me thinking and this is what I came up with………
People who are striving to be more empathetic at work can generally find small ways to practice. They can ask more questions at the beginning of a conversation to better understand where someone is coming from. They understand when someone who is grieving is not at their best. They may reach out and offer support to someone who is struggling with a specific work issue.
It’s difficult to practice empathy at work with someone who frustrates us over time. When we’re focused on our own feelings we’re less likely to have a genuine interest in understanding others. We tend…
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I paid for my loyalty to Malaysia with everything good and decent that I had, only to be mocked and despised; to watch my profession usurped by “the right kind of Malay” regardless of literacy; to have my name smeared and reputation destroyed; and in the end to be hounded back to the very redoubt in the hills where I had written that book 23 years ago now, never again to write. Rosemarie never saw this place where I may now languish forgotten and ignored for the rest of my own days, and now she never will. I chose my love for my country over my love for her. Bad choice. Big mistake. My punishment has been a life of regret and insuperable loneliness.