Somewhere between resignation and anger
Three experiences this week left me sitting somewhere between resignation and anger.
They were small interactions, really. The kind you could easily ignore but together, they told a bigger story. And the anger? It wasn't loud. It was the quiet kind, the kind that sits in your chest when you realise something about the world you can't unsee.
This week showed me something about privilege I'd understood intellectually but hadn't truly felt: it doesn't just serve us. It blinds us. And worse, it can weaken us.
1. The flight
On a delayed flight last weekend, the two men next to me were deep in conversation. My ears perked up at: “I had one of them pinned-”
Given my martial arts background, I tuned in.
Only to realise… they were discussing a video game.
Look, everyone has their interests. No judgement there (ok, maybe just a little). But something about how intensely and animatedly they were talking about virtual combat - while the world is on fire - struck me.
Then the Captain’s announcement came through:
“Apologies folks, we have a paperwork discrepancy causing further delay.”
Great!
And then, still sitting idle on the tarmac, one of them pulled out his handheld gaming console. Another escape.
2. The gate lounge
Later that evening, in the gate lounge for my return flight (also delayed), I overheard a group of travellers. My attention sharpened at the mention of a country currently in global headlines for horrific humanitarian reasons. One of them mentioned having worked there - with the emotional weight of someone discussing their grocery list.
It was the off-handedness that got under my skin.
What these moments revealed
With everything happening in the world - genocide, famine, social inequity - these moments revealed three uncomfortable truths:
Comfort can make us indifferent.
Indifference can make us blind.
And blindness can make us inhumane.
3. The coaching session
A few days later, a coaching client and I were discussing leaders who consistently fall short of expectation. I said sometimes we need to manage our expectations based on a person’s limitations.
My client shot back:
“But it’s off-pissing when people who’ve had everything handed to them still don’t do better.”
She wasn’t wrong.
So I brought up the cocoon metaphor: if a caterpillar is helped out too early, if it never has to struggle, to push, to persevere, the butterfly never forms properly. The wings never strengthen, its full colours never revealed to the world. The creature never becomes what it was meant to be.
Comfort without challenge creates under-formed leaders.
Comfort without responsibility creates hollow human beings.
And suddenly, the plane stories made sense: same gender, same ethnicity, similar upbringing, similar access, same bubble of privilege.
Patterns.
(Gee, I love the human brain!)
Privilege without self-awareness becomes unconscious apathy
When we don’t interrogate the comfort we come from - the privilege, the insulation, the protection - we risk one of two outcomes. We fail to fulfil our potential, because struggle is the birthplace of strength. And we become numb to others’ sombre realities, because sustained comfort protects us from empathy. Neither reflects leadership. Neither reflects humanity at its best.
A moment of truth from an unexpected source
After all the delays, the Captain made the final announcement:
“Thank you for your patience, folks. We’ll be on our way shortly.”
Seven minutes later - still motionless - a little voice from the row ahead called out:
“We’re not moving. He lied. They’re playing games with us!”
As I leaned over to ask the kid's dad if he could send her up to the cockpit to get a word in the pilot's ear, it struck me:
Sometimes it takes a child to say what adults won’t.
Sometimes it takes discomfort to wake us up from our daytime slumber.
Where this meets Becoming Unapologetically You
This entire week was a reminder of the Hover step in my Becoming Unapologetically You framework - the pause where you notice patterns you’d otherwise miss.
Because you can’t transform what you refuse to look at. And you can’t change what you’ve normalised.
Hover is where we ask:
Where am I asleep at the wheel?
What comfort am I mistaking for safety?
What privilege have I never questioned?
What part of me needs to wake up?
Awareness is uncomfortable and that’s exactly why it grows us.
Final reflection
This week, try hovering over your own comfort. Not to judge yourself but to observe.
Ask:
Where have I gone emotionally numb?
What am I choosing not to see?
And what would change if I allowed discomfort to wake me up rather than shut me down?
Somewhere between resignation and anger, there's a choice: to wake up to our privilege, or to let it trap us.
And sometimes the most human thing we can do is feel something deeply enough that we can no longer look away.
