There is a tendency in individuals of my demographic, and by that I mean of course those of the white, middle-aged and male variety, to get incensed by something they read or hear, and to feel an intense need to opine or, in modern parlance, to mansplain the situation to the world. I am sufficiently self-aware to know that I display this tendency in spades. My weekly opinions have, for years now, served as both catharsis for me and, I hope, mild entertainment for readers who share my particular vantage point on the world. Part of that tendency involves reacting to commentary that feels a little too sweeping or a little too certain, the kind that frames complex issues in stark, almost apocalyptic terms and leaves little room for nuance or shared responsibility.The fuel crisis is a good example. It has all the ingredients required to spark outrage, rising prices, global instability, decisions made far from our shores but felt keenly at the local pump. The commentary that follows tends to fall into familiar patterns. Blame is assigned, usually with some justification, to governments, corporations, or whoever happens to be the most convenient villain at the time. There is no shortage of heat in these takes, and often a fair bit of light as well. But what they can leave behind is a sense that we, as individuals, are largely passengers in the whole affair, subject to forces beyond our control.
That framing is not entirely wrong, but it is incomplete. Because while we may not be able to influence global energy markets or rewrite policy overnight, it does not necessarily follow that our only role is to observe, complain, and absorb the consequences. There is another way of approaching these situations, one that is quieter and, if I am honest, a little less immediately satisfying.
It begins with a simple idea drawn from Stoic philosophy. The notion that there are things we can control and things we cannot, and that expending energy on the latter is, at best, unproductive. In the context of something like fuel prices, this can feel almost insultingly obvious. Of course, I cannot change the price displayed on the pump. Of course, my irritation does not ripple out to influence global supply chains. And yet, recognising that distinction has a subtle effect. It takes some of the emotional edge off the situation. The world remains as it is, but we are no longer quite so tangled up in our reaction to it.
But if that is where we stop, we risk confusing calm with complacency. Acceptance can slide, almost imperceptibly, into resignation. We tell ourselves that since we cannot change the big picture, there is little point in engaging with it at all. We become, in effect, well-adjusted bystanders.
Which is where a second idea becomes useful. John F Kennedy’s famous call to ask not what your country can do for you, but what you can do for your country has endured precisely because it challenges that instinct to stand back. It asks us to consider our role, however small, in the systems we inhabit.
Taken together, these two ideas form a kind of progression. First, accept what you cannot change. Then, turn your attention to what you can. It is not a grand or heroic framework, but it is a practical one.
In the case of a fuel crisis, that second step is unlikely to involve sweeping gestures. Most of us are not about to reshape global markets or single-handedly drive policy reform. But that does not mean we are without agency. It simply means our agency operates at a different scale. It shows up in the choices we make about how we travel, how often, and whether convenience always wins. It appears in small adjustments that, taken individually, seem inconsequential but, collectively, begin to add up. It also emerges in how we engage with the issue itself, whether we default to complaint or whether we at least attempt to be part of a more constructive response.
None of this will solve the crisis. It would be naive to suggest otherwise. But it does alter our relationship to it. We move, however slightly, from being purely on the receiving end of events to being participants in the response. And that shift, modest as it is, has a way of changing the tone of things. It tempers the instinct to simply point the finger elsewhere, at governments, corporations, or other groups. All of them have responsibilities, certainly, but so do we. Recognising that does not let anyone else off the hook, but it does stop us quietly excusing ourselves from the equation.
I have no doubt that I will continue to get incensed. It is, at this point, something of a reflex. There will be future moments of irritation, future columns sparked by something that feels worth pushing back on, and no shortage of situations that invite a well-crafted rant. But perhaps there is room to refine the pattern. To move, even slightly, from reaction to reflection, and from reflection to contribution. To see acceptance not as the end point, but as the starting line.
Because while it is undeniably comforting to believe that the world would improve if only others behaved differently, it is also a little too convenient. The harder, and ultimately more useful, question is what we might do ourselves. And that, inconveniently, is a question that is much harder to mansplain away.
“The harder, and ultimately more useful, question is what we might do ourselves.” … I’d add one word to this – “together”. What can we do ourselves, together? This is where the real power lives in bringing about change.