We Used to Be Tougher

 

Back in the day, our relatives — bless their cotton socks, which, incidentally, were probably knitted by a woman who single-handedly wrestled a grizzly bear to the ground while simultaneously balancing a load of laundry on her head — had guts. Real guts. The kind that wouldn’t flinch at a beer bottle hurled from a passing Model T, or a surprise encounter with a rogue badger.

Back then, people would tell you exactly what they thought, even if what they thought was wildly inaccurate and offensively stupid. You’d just deal with it. Built character, you see.

Or just a crippling resentment that you carried to your grave. And let’s be honest, the whole “tell it like it is” thing often involved a lot of yelling, spitting, and possibly some fisticuffs. But they were real. At least, that’s how they’d like to be remembered now that they’re all mostly dead and can’t contradict me.

These days? Forget about it.

We’re a nation of people who need a safe space from… well, from everything. I’m talking about a time when a “safe space” meant a sturdy oak tree offering some shade from the midday sun, not some padded room filled with artisanal soy lattes and coloring books for adults.

Even the idea of a slightly challenging crossword puzzle requires a support group and a therapist specializing in existential dread.

What happened? Did we evolve backwards? Did some cosmic joke-playing deity swap our brains for particularly sensitive avocado toast?

I suspect it’s a confluence of factors.

Firstly, the alarming proliferation of “participation trophies.” This insidious program, subtly introduced into our school systems under the guise of building self-esteem, bred a generation of individuals who believe that merely showing up constitutes a monumental achievement worthy of an engraved gold-plated commemorative game controller.

Think about it: What kind of grit do you develop when you’re constantly being told you’re awesome, regardless of whether you can tie your shoelaces or spell “dog” without resorting to an interpretive dance?

Secondly, there’s the internet.

The internet, that glorious tapestry of cat videos and misinformation, has created a landscape where anyone can be an expert on anything, from quantum physics to the proper way to fold a fitted sheet (a debate that’s currently splitting families and causing international incidents, mind you).

This digital cacophony of opinions, most of which are demonstrably wrong, creates a constant, low-level hum of anxiety. How can you be tough when you’re constantly bombarded with the knowledge that your entire worldview might be based on a single poorly sourced meme?

Then there’s the relentless pursuit of comfort. We live in a world where heated toilet seats are considered a basic human right, and even mild inconvenience is considered a form of torture.

But the most insidious culprit, I believe, is the insidious creep of “safetyism.” We’ve become so obsessed with eliminating risk that we’ve inadvertently eliminated the very conditions that nurture resilience.

We’ve padded the world with so much bubble wrap that we’ve forgotten how to bounce back from a minor setback. We’ve removed all the sharp edges — the things that once taught us to adapt, to problem-solve, to develop that old-fashioned thing we used to call “grit.”

Consider the playground of my youth.

It was a landscape of rusted metal, precarious climbing frames, and suspiciously splintery wooden structures. We tumbled, we scraped our knees, we lost teeth (occasionally other children’s teeth, I confess). We learned, through trial and error (mostly error), to navigate the world without needing a team of lawyers, risk assessors, and emotional support animals at our side.

Nowadays, playgrounds resemble sterile, brightly colored padded cells.

They’re designed to prevent injury, and in doing so, they prevent the development of crucial life skills, such as the ability to distinguish between a mildly irritating pebble and a limb-threatening plummet. 

So, what’s the answer? I don’t have a neat, easily digestible solution.

There’s no magic pill, no app, no self-help guru who can magically restore our lost toughness.

But, just maybe, we need to rediscover the joys of calculated risk. We need to embrace a little discomfort, a little challenge, a little… oomph. We need to stop coddling ourselves and start wrestling a few metaphorical grizzlies. 

And just to be on the safe side, someone should put a little foam padding in the grizzly’s cage. Just in case. You can never be too careful these days. You can’t. It’s all that's allowed.