RESILIENCE-
What I Learned About Resilience When My Desk Buddy Died.
A Personal Perspective: Finding resilience through others.
Reviewed by Michelle Quirk
When asked to recall the formative moments in our lives, few of us will describe the luxury holidays we were lucky to go on or the lavish gifts that our parents indulged us with (if we were fortunate enough to receive them—I’m just imagining here). It’s rare to hear someone relating tales of their character being forged while sipping cocktails at a poolside bar. There’s something about the experiences that feel the hardest to experience that make for the most potent memories. I know this well; I learned important lessons about resilience when the colleague who sat next to me fell ill and died in a month.
Where's Our Resilience Switch?
The concept of resilience is so casually bandied about that it can feel hackneyed. "Be more resilient," children are schooled. We’re all advised to show a resilient bounceback response in the face of personal setbacks. But the term is so liberally invoked that even a keenest intent to be resilient can stumble for fear of not knowing how. Someone telling us to show more resilience can elicit helplessness if we feel unable to activate the elusive strength when asked. Where’s our resilience switch? I’m certain that I would have had no idea of how to demonstrate greater personal fortitude if asked before I found it being thrust upon me. I learned that resilience is the strength we draw from the people around us.
For a British person, one of working life’s simple pleasures is finding yourself in the synchrony of being in a "tea round" with like-minded desk neighbours. Yes, we really do drink lots of tea, and we tend to take turns making cups for each other in "rounds." To look up from an email or to wrap up a call to see a hot steaming mug of perfectly coloured tea being gently laid down is an under-celebrated joy. When people talk about what we lost in the pandemic, this was our quietest loss. One Monday morning, my tea buddy was gone. I’d been prepared for her absence: an unrecognised number appearing on my phone screen the day before, her anxious partner telling me of an unexpected cancer diagnosis after a visit to the emergency room.
I was part of a small team, with around 50 or so colleagues in a slightly tatty serviced office in central London. The colleague I’d made hot drinks for was also a friend and colleague to the group who worked in the tightly packed space around us. When someone’s health takes such an alarming turn for the worse, we’re so consumed with distress and sympathy that even acknowledging our own distress can feel indulgent. People cried together and hugged each other but didn’t want to dwell on their own feelings; rather, we wanted to hold our colleague’s well-being at the top of our minds.
Anyone familiar with cancer care in the United Kingdom will know that most hospital wards prohibit gifts of flowers and chocolates. In the fog of emotional confusion, it’s not immediately obvious what token of love that you can send to a sick friend. One colleague (who sat roughly two tea rounds down the office) suggested we could collectively knit a simple woolen blanket. Knitting lessons were arranged, and size-10 needles distributed with balls of soft yarn. Meetings developed a gentle click-clack percussive soundtrack as colleagues raced to complete their pledged commitment of knitted rows. There’s something therapeutic about working with one’s hands. It felt that we were trying to mend our friend with our slow and deliberate stitchwork.
We Were Bonded by a Powerful Shared Experience.
Heartbreak soon followed, our friend slipped further into sickness and then, within days, was gone. To compound the breathless urgency of the few weeks, we’d not even been able to visit or say goodbye. In such grief, it would have felt indulgent to observe on how the month had changed us as a group. We survivors—knitters, stitchers, and nonparticipating supporters—had been bonded by a powerful shared experience.
When we look for resilience, we make the mistake of going in pursuit of tales of individual valour and bravery. The US Army has spent the last decade desperately trying to teach combat soldiers how to switch on their personal resilience mode in exactly this manner. (And this has been an endeavour that research would suggest has had no impact.)
In contrast, so often when we do observe resilience, it comes quietly, like an enveloping hug. It comes as a sense that we’re all in it together with those around us. When we hear stories of the resilient bravery of Ukrainian citizens and soldiers, it’s this sense of shared experience that seems to embolden them. We witness it in the bravery of survivors of natural disasters. More mundanely, my colleagues and I learned our own lessons of drawing on the strength we gained from each other— the tea rounds grew bigger, and the bonds grew stronger.
Bruce Daisley is the author of Fortitude: The Myth of Resilience, and the Secrets of Inner Strength.
What I Learned About Resilience When My Desk Buddy Died.
A Personal Perspective: Finding resilience through others.
Reviewed by Michelle Quirk
When asked to recall the formative moments in our lives, few of us will describe the luxury holidays we were lucky to go on or the lavish gifts that our parents indulged us with (if we were fortunate enough to receive them—I’m just imagining here). It’s rare to hear someone relating tales of their character being forged while sipping cocktails at a poolside bar. There’s something about the experiences that feel the hardest to experience that make for the most potent memories. I know this well; I learned important lessons about resilience when the colleague who sat next to me fell ill and died in a month.
Where's Our Resilience Switch?
The concept of resilience is so casually bandied about that it can feel hackneyed. "Be more resilient," children are schooled. We’re all advised to show a resilient bounceback response in the face of personal setbacks. But the term is so liberally invoked that even a keenest intent to be resilient can stumble for fear of not knowing how. Someone telling us to show more resilience can elicit helplessness if we feel unable to activate the elusive strength when asked. Where’s our resilience switch? I’m certain that I would have had no idea of how to demonstrate greater personal fortitude if asked before I found it being thrust upon me. I learned that resilience is the strength we draw from the people around us.
For a British person, one of working life’s simple pleasures is finding yourself in the synchrony of being in a "tea round" with like-minded desk neighbours. Yes, we really do drink lots of tea, and we tend to take turns making cups for each other in "rounds." To look up from an email or to wrap up a call to see a hot steaming mug of perfectly coloured tea being gently laid down is an under-celebrated joy. When people talk about what we lost in the pandemic, this was our quietest loss. One Monday morning, my tea buddy was gone. I’d been prepared for her absence: an unrecognised number appearing on my phone screen the day before, her anxious partner telling me of an unexpected cancer diagnosis after a visit to the emergency room.
I was part of a small team, with around 50 or so colleagues in a slightly tatty serviced office in central London. The colleague I’d made hot drinks for was also a friend and colleague to the group who worked in the tightly packed space around us. When someone’s health takes such an alarming turn for the worse, we’re so consumed with distress and sympathy that even acknowledging our own distress can feel indulgent. People cried together and hugged each other but didn’t want to dwell on their own feelings; rather, we wanted to hold our colleague’s well-being at the top of our minds.
Anyone familiar with cancer care in the United Kingdom will know that most hospital wards prohibit gifts of flowers and chocolates. In the fog of emotional confusion, it’s not immediately obvious what token of love that you can send to a sick friend. One colleague (who sat roughly two tea rounds down the office) suggested we could collectively knit a simple woolen blanket. Knitting lessons were arranged, and size-10 needles distributed with balls of soft yarn. Meetings developed a gentle click-clack percussive soundtrack as colleagues raced to complete their pledged commitment of knitted rows. There’s something therapeutic about working with one’s hands. It felt that we were trying to mend our friend with our slow and deliberate stitchwork.
We Were Bonded by a Powerful Shared Experience.
Heartbreak soon followed, our friend slipped further into sickness and then, within days, was gone. To compound the breathless urgency of the few weeks, we’d not even been able to visit or say goodbye. In such grief, it would have felt indulgent to observe on how the month had changed us as a group. We survivors—knitters, stitchers, and nonparticipating supporters—had been bonded by a powerful shared experience.
When we look for resilience, we make the mistake of going in pursuit of tales of individual valour and bravery. The US Army has spent the last decade desperately trying to teach combat soldiers how to switch on their personal resilience mode in exactly this manner. (And this has been an endeavour that research would suggest has had no impact.)
In contrast, so often when we do observe resilience, it comes quietly, like an enveloping hug. It comes as a sense that we’re all in it together with those around us. When we hear stories of the resilient bravery of Ukrainian citizens and soldiers, it’s this sense of shared experience that seems to embolden them. We witness it in the bravery of survivors of natural disasters. More mundanely, my colleagues and I learned our own lessons of drawing on the strength we gained from each other— the tea rounds grew bigger, and the bonds grew stronger.
Bruce Daisley is the author of Fortitude: The Myth of Resilience, and the Secrets of Inner Strength.
RESILIENCE-
What I Learned About Resilience When My Desk Buddy Died.
A Personal Perspective: Finding resilience through others.
Reviewed by Michelle Quirk
When asked to recall the formative moments in our lives, few of us will describe the luxury holidays we were lucky to go on or the lavish gifts that our parents indulged us with (if we were fortunate enough to receive them—I’m just imagining here). It’s rare to hear someone relating tales of their character being forged while sipping cocktails at a poolside bar. There’s something about the experiences that feel the hardest to experience that make for the most potent memories. I know this well; I learned important lessons about resilience when the colleague who sat next to me fell ill and died in a month.
Where's Our Resilience Switch?
The concept of resilience is so casually bandied about that it can feel hackneyed. "Be more resilient," children are schooled. We’re all advised to show a resilient bounceback response in the face of personal setbacks. But the term is so liberally invoked that even a keenest intent to be resilient can stumble for fear of not knowing how. Someone telling us to show more resilience can elicit helplessness if we feel unable to activate the elusive strength when asked. Where’s our resilience switch? I’m certain that I would have had no idea of how to demonstrate greater personal fortitude if asked before I found it being thrust upon me. I learned that resilience is the strength we draw from the people around us.
For a British person, one of working life’s simple pleasures is finding yourself in the synchrony of being in a "tea round" with like-minded desk neighbours. Yes, we really do drink lots of tea, and we tend to take turns making cups for each other in "rounds." To look up from an email or to wrap up a call to see a hot steaming mug of perfectly coloured tea being gently laid down is an under-celebrated joy. When people talk about what we lost in the pandemic, this was our quietest loss. One Monday morning, my tea buddy was gone. I’d been prepared for her absence: an unrecognised number appearing on my phone screen the day before, her anxious partner telling me of an unexpected cancer diagnosis after a visit to the emergency room.
I was part of a small team, with around 50 or so colleagues in a slightly tatty serviced office in central London. The colleague I’d made hot drinks for was also a friend and colleague to the group who worked in the tightly packed space around us. When someone’s health takes such an alarming turn for the worse, we’re so consumed with distress and sympathy that even acknowledging our own distress can feel indulgent. People cried together and hugged each other but didn’t want to dwell on their own feelings; rather, we wanted to hold our colleague’s well-being at the top of our minds.
Anyone familiar with cancer care in the United Kingdom will know that most hospital wards prohibit gifts of flowers and chocolates. In the fog of emotional confusion, it’s not immediately obvious what token of love that you can send to a sick friend. One colleague (who sat roughly two tea rounds down the office) suggested we could collectively knit a simple woolen blanket. Knitting lessons were arranged, and size-10 needles distributed with balls of soft yarn. Meetings developed a gentle click-clack percussive soundtrack as colleagues raced to complete their pledged commitment of knitted rows. There’s something therapeutic about working with one’s hands. It felt that we were trying to mend our friend with our slow and deliberate stitchwork.
We Were Bonded by a Powerful Shared Experience.
Heartbreak soon followed, our friend slipped further into sickness and then, within days, was gone. To compound the breathless urgency of the few weeks, we’d not even been able to visit or say goodbye. In such grief, it would have felt indulgent to observe on how the month had changed us as a group. We survivors—knitters, stitchers, and nonparticipating supporters—had been bonded by a powerful shared experience.
When we look for resilience, we make the mistake of going in pursuit of tales of individual valour and bravery. The US Army has spent the last decade desperately trying to teach combat soldiers how to switch on their personal resilience mode in exactly this manner. (And this has been an endeavour that research would suggest has had no impact.)
In contrast, so often when we do observe resilience, it comes quietly, like an enveloping hug. It comes as a sense that we’re all in it together with those around us. When we hear stories of the resilient bravery of Ukrainian citizens and soldiers, it’s this sense of shared experience that seems to embolden them. We witness it in the bravery of survivors of natural disasters. More mundanely, my colleagues and I learned our own lessons of drawing on the strength we gained from each other— the tea rounds grew bigger, and the bonds grew stronger.
Bruce Daisley is the author of Fortitude: The Myth of Resilience, and the Secrets of Inner Strength.
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