Anti-Fragility

          Nigerian novelist Chinua Achebe titled his 1958 debut novel Things Fall Apart. How well he summed up the human experience using only those three words. Our bodies break. Our artwork disappears. Our designs fail.
          What would the strongest bridges say if they could speak to us beneath their heavy loads? Or the tallest skyscrapers from their perches on high? “Our destiny is the same as yours. We have seen it, and we know. All things fall apart. Dust we are, and to dust we will return.”
          In the modern workplace, Human Resources teams devote themselves to helping employees gain resilience. Resilience is the ability to endure stress and recover from it without persistent damage.
          Consider one inanimate example of resilience: a rubber ball dropped onto a hard surface deforms upon impact, recovers its shape, and bounces back to nearly the height from which it fell.
          People are not rubber balls. We breathe and bleed and die. When we fall onto concrete, our bodies deform, but they don’t bounce back to their original height.
          What about rebounding metaphorically? Can we recover our full strength when struck by insults? Stunned by pay cuts? Slammed by ever-increasing workloads? Tormented by bosses who delight in evil?
          I love the concept of resilience, but unfortunately, I cannot convert my hardships directly into new energy—equal in proportion and opposite in direction. I need something better: the living power that produces growth—anti-fragility. But what is that?
          When an Olympian trains her mind and body, she aims not for resilience but for increase. She pushes herself as hard as possible, taking utmost care to avoid injury, so that she may gain strength and speed. She knows if she presses too hard, her body will break. Things fall apart. But with meticulous care, excellent diet, and proper rest, she should progress.
          How about us? When unexpected hardship strikes us like a hammer, do we gain strength? When we lose an eye, can our ear more than compensate? When we lose a family member far too young, can we gain fortitude, as if we were preparing for greater disasters yet to come?
          Some of my patients grow stronger in this way. I ask my elderly patients who have survived COVID, “If that couldn’t kill you, what can?” They laugh and list some milestones they still might reach. When I ask my ex-smokers, “If you left nicotine behind, what couldn’t you do?” they nod and raise their eyes to my open window. I can almost hear the wind across the sea as the sails of their minds snap open with the breeze.
          My friend, what has happened in your life that almost broke you—but didn’t? Were you suicidal? Addicted to something (like drugs or computer games)? Deathly ill? Imprisoned? Falsely accused? Rejected by friends and family?
          What happened, and how did you make it through? Did someone extend a hand to you, though you had nothing to offer in return? Did you cry out in despair and receive strength beyond yourself?
          Clarity comes through mystery and metaphor.
          We are seeds planted in a garden. The frigid rainwater washes over us, soaking us clear through. Our roots emerge and spread downward, we know not how. Our arms erupt, stretching wide though no one can say exactly why. The sunshine blisters our faces, and the wind rocks us sideways, sometimes knocking us clear to the ground. Then we recover, keep on growing, and eventually spread our own shade upon the ground.
          We are not rubber balls, or bridges, or skyscrapers; we are seeds. We sprout and grow through hardship. Someone else is the Gardener.

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