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Homesick for ourselves – the hidden grief of ageing

<a href="https://theconversation.com/profiles/carol-lefevre-1341823">Carol Lefevre</a>, <a href="https://theconversation.com/institutions/university-of-adelaide-1119">University of Adelaide</a> Anyone parenting young children will be familiar with the phrase “there’ll be tears before bedtime”. But in a quieter, more private way, the expression seems perfectly pitched to describe the largely hidden grief of ageing. Not the sharp grief that follows a bereavement (though bereavements do accumulate with the years), but a more elusive emotion. One that is, perhaps, closest to the bone-gnawing sorrow of homesickness. Sarah Manguso <a href="https://www.panmacmillan.com.au/9781509883295/">evokes</a> this sense of having travelled further from our younger selves than we could ever have imagined: "Sometimes I feel a twinge, a memory of youthful promise, and wonder how I got here, of all the places I could have got to." Historically, the phenomenon of homesickness was identified in 1688 by the Swiss medical student <a href="https://www.theatlantic.com/health/archive/2013/08/when-nostalgia-was-a-disease/278648/">Johannes Hofer</a>, who named it nostalgia from the Greek nostos, meaning homecoming, and algos, meaning an ache, pain, grief and distress. It was the disease of soldiers, sailors, convicts and slaves. And it was particularly associated with soldiers of the Swiss army, who served as mercenaries and among whom it was said that a well-known milking song could bring on a fatal longing. (So singing or playing that song was made punishable by death.) Bagpipes stirred the same debilitating nostalgia in Scottish soldiers. Deaths from homesickness were recorded, but the only effective treatment was to send the afflicted person back to wherever they belonged. The nostalgia associated with old age, if it occurs, appears incurable, since there can be no possibility of a return to an irrecoverable youth. But as with homesickness, how badly those afflicted suffer seems to depend on how they manage their relationship with the past. <h2>The phantom was me</h2> American writer Cheryl Strayed <a href="https://cherylstrayed.substack.com/p/what-you-know-changes">describes</a> deciding to transcribe her old journals. On reading one of them from cover to cover, she is left feeling: "kind of sick for the rest of the day, as if I’d been visited by a phantom who both buoyed and scared the bejesus out of me. And the weirdest of all is that phantom was me! Did I even know her anymore? Where did the woman who’d written those words go? How did she become me?" I’ve experienced a similar rush of bafflement and grief upon opening a letter I’d written some time before I turned 50. My mother had saved it and returned it to me 20 years later. Within its pages I found a younger, more energetic and vibrant self. The realisation this woman who inhabited the letter so vividly was no longer available to me came with a jolt of emotion that felt like a bereavement. I was so knocked off-kilter by this ghost-like encounter that the letter (along with others I had been planning to transcribe) had to be set aside for a day when I might be able to muster the necessary courage and detachment. Whether that day ever comes will depend, I suppose, on how I navigate my own relationship with time, and on reaching a calm acceptance of the distance travelled. Disbelief at the distance between the young self and the old self is one of the factors in this late-life grieving. At its root, perhaps, is an internalised ageism: innate, or else massaged into us by the culture we spring from. In a series of recent conversations with people over 70, I encouraged them to tell their stories and to reflect on the effects of time on their lives. Childhood sometimes emerged as a place they were pleased to have left behind – and occasionally, as a place to be held close. Trevor emigrated alone to Australia when he was just 18. I asked him how often now, at 75, he thinks about his childhood. “Do you have a sense of who you were back then, and is that person still part of who you are?” “I think about my childhood quite a lot, especially putting some distance between where I was then and where I am now,” he told me. “I didn’t have a really happy upbringing, and coming to Australia was a way of getting away from home and experiencing a new culture.” In response to the same question, Jo, at 84, led me to a framed photograph, enlarged to poster-size, which has hung on the wall of both his homes. It shows him aged three, in a garden – a radiant child wearing a plain white shirt and dark shorts, arms out-flung as if to embrace the natural world. He bursts with exuberance, curiosity, and joy. "I relate to that as an idea, as a concept of my life. I want to maintain that freshness, that child-like freshness. You’ve got no responsibilities; every day is a new day. You’re looking at things in a different light, you’re aware of everything around you. That’s what I wanted to maintain, that feeling through my life – I’m talking age-wise. My concept of my ageing is there in that photograph.“ While older voices are often absent in the media, and in fiction they are too often presented as stereotypes, in conversation what arises can both surprise and inspire. <h2>‘How can I be old?’</h2> As I approached my own 70th birthday, I realised I was about to cross a border. Once I was on the other side, I would be old – no question. Yet the word "old”, especially when coupled with the word “woman”, is carefully avoided in our culture. Old is a country no one wants to visit. <a href="https://www.penguin.com.au/books/metamorphosis-9780241514771">Penelope Lively’s</a> novella-length story Metamorphosis, or the Elephant’s Foot, written when Lively was in her mid-eighties, explores this evolution from youth to old age through the character of Harriet Mayfield. As a nine-year-old, Harriet is reprimanded by her mother for not behaving well on a visit to her great-grandmother. “She’s old,” says Harriet. “I don’t like old.” When her mother points out that one day Harriet, too, will be old, like her great-grandmother, Harriet laughs. “No, I won’t. You’re just being silly,” says Harriet “how can I be old? I’m me.” Towards the end of the story, Harriet is 82 and must somehow accept that she is “in the departure lounge. Check-in was a very long time ago.” With her equally elderly husband, Charles, Harriet ponders what they can do with the time remaining. Charles decides “it’s a question of resources. What do we have that could be used – exploited?” Harriet replies, “Experience. That’s it. A whole bank of experience.” “And experience is versatile stuff. Comes in all shapes and sizes. Personal. Collective. Well, then?” If distance travelled is a factor in late-life grief, so too is a sense of paths not taken: of a younger self, or selves, that never found expression. In Jessica Au’s recent, much-awarded novella <a href="https://giramondopublishing.com/books/jessica-au-cold-enough-for-snow/">Cold Enough For Snow</a>, there is a scene where the narrator explains to her mother the existence, in some old paintings, of a <a href="https://www.britannica.com/art/pentimento-oil-painting">pentimento</a> – an earlier image of something the artist had decided to paint over. “Sometimes, these were as small as an object, or a colour that had been changed, but other times, they could be as significant as a whole figure.” <figure class="align-right zoomable"><figcaption></figcaption></figure> Art historians, using X-rays and infrared reflectography, have identified pentimenti in many famous paintings, from the adjusted placement of a controversial off-the-shoulder strap in <a href="https://www.virtualartacademy.com/madame-x/">John Singer Sargent</a>’s Portrait of Madam X, to the painted-over figure of a woman nursing a child in Picasso’s <a href="https://www.pablopicasso.org/old-guitarist.jsp">The Old Guitarist</a>, and a man with a bow-tie concealed beneath the brushwork of his work <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Blue_Room_(Picasso)">The Blue Room</a>. Singer Seargent’s adjustment was his response to an outcry at the perceived indecency of Madame X’s lowered shoulder strap, which both the public and art critics of the time declared to be indecent. By contrast, the model’s icy pallor caused only a ripple of interest. Picasso’s hidden figures <a href="https://www.singulart.com/en/blog/2019/10/29/pablo-picassos-blue-period-and-the-old-guitarist/">are assumed</a> to be the outcome of a shortage of canvas during his <a href="https://www.pablopicasso.org/blue-period.jsp">Blue Period</a>, but shortages aside, the word pentimento, which derives from the Italian verb pentirsi, meaning “to repent”, brings to these lost figures a sense of regret that resonates with the feeling in old age of having lost the younger self, or of carrying traces, deeply buried, of other lives one might have lived. In Cold Enough for Snow, Au’s narrator remarks of her mother that, "Perhaps, over time, she found the past harder and harder to evoke, especially with no-one to remember it with." The mother’s situation references another source of grief: that of the person who becomes the last of their friends and family still standing. In childhood games of this nature there would be a prize for the survivor. But for those who reach an extreme old age, having lost parents, siblings and contemporaries who knew them when they were young, even the presence of children and grandchildren may not entirely erase this “last man standing” loneliness. There is, too, the darkness of a projected future where there is no one still living who remembers us. In Jessica Au’s book the narrator occasionally speaks of the past as “a time that didn’t really exist at all”. And yet in my recent conversations with people in their seventies and above, every one of them admits to feeling a vivid sense of the past, and of the continuing presence of a younger self. As one of them wistfully remarked: “Sometimes she even seeps through.” <h2>Memory and detail</h2> Perhaps part of the problem is the mass of ordinary detail that disappears from memory on any given day. Life is made up of so many small moments that it’s impossible to hold onto them all – and if we did it might even be damaging. Imagine someone casually asking how your day had been, and responding with the tsunami of detail those hours actually contained. After opening your eyes at first light, you’d describe your shower, your breakfast, and how you slipped your keys into your handbag as you left the house; in the street you’d passed two women with a pram, a child with a small white dog on a lead, and an elderly man with a walking stick. And so on. If our minds swarmed with the trivia of daily life, more important events might be forgotten, and possibly the neural overload would even make us ill. Yet with the realisation of the loss of these minutes and hours arises the anxiety that in time, the things we do want to remember will slither away from us into the dark. I imagine this fear is what compels people to fill social media with photographs of their breakfasts, and of their relentless selfie-taking. It is surely the impulse behind keeping a journal. The anxiety of losing even the passing moments in a day afflicts the author of <a href="https://www.panmacmillan.com.au/9781509883295/">Ongoingness: The End of a Diary</a>. In it, the American writer Sara Manguso describes her compulsive need to document and hold onto her life. “I didn’t want to lose anything. That was my main problem.” After 25 years of paying attention to the smallest moments, Manguso’s diary is 800,000 words long. “The diary was my defense against waking up at the end of my life and realizing I’d missed it.” But despite her continuous effort, "I knew I couldn’t replicate my whole life in language. I knew that most of it would follow my body into oblivion." Is it possible that women experience grief around ageing earlier, and more emphatically than men? After all, by the age of 50, the bodies of even those women who remain fit send the implacable signal that things have changed. In Alice Munro’s story Bardon Bus, from her collection <a href="https://www.penguin.com.au/books/the-moons-of-jupiter-9780099458364">The Moons of Jupiter</a>, the female narrator endures dinner in the company of a rather malicious man, Dennis, who explains that women are. "forced to live in the world of loss and death! Oh, I know, there’s face-lifting, but how does that really help? The uterus dries up. The vagina dries up." Dennis compares the opportunities open to men as opposed to those available to women. "Specifically, with ageing. Look at you. Think of the way your life would be, if you were a man. The choices you would have. I mean sexual choices. You could start all over. Men do." When the narrator responds cheerfully that she might resist starting over, even if it were possible, Dennis is quick to retort: "That’s it, that’s just it, though, you don’t get the opportunity! You’re a woman and life only goes in one direction for a woman." In another story in the same collection, Labor Day Dinner, Roberta is in the bedroom dressing for an evening out when her lover George comes in and cruelly remarks: “Your armpits are flabby.” Roberta says she will wear something with sleeves, but in her head she hears the, "harsh satisfaction in his voice. The satisfaction of airing disgust. He is disgusted by her aging body. That could have been foreseen." Roberta thinks bitterly that she has always sought to remedy the least sign of deterioration. "Flabby armpits – how can you exercise the armpits? What is to be done? Now the payment is due, and what for? For vanity. Hardly even for that. Just for having those pleasing surfaces once, and letting them speak for you; just for allowing an arrangement of hair and shoulders and breasts to have its effect. You don’t stop in time, don’t know what to do instead; you lay yourself open to humiliation. So thinks Roberta, with self-pity […] She must get away, live alone, wear sleeves." As with most emotions that arise around our ageing, it can usually be traced back to a fraught relationship with time. French philosopher and Nobel Prize winner <a href="https://plato.stanford.edu/entries/bergson/">Henri Bergson</a> <a href="https://www.gutenberg.org/files/56852/56852-h/56852-h.htm">says</a>: “Sorrow begins by being nothing more than a facing towards the past.” For Roberta, as for many of us, it was a past in which we relied on those “pleasing surfaces”, perhaps even took them for granted, until they no longer produced the desired effect. But the truth is that our bodies are capable of more severe betrayals than mere flabby armpits. In time they may cause us to be exposed in skimpy, front-opening or back-opening hospital gowns under the all-seeing eye of the CT scanner; they may deliver us into the skilled, ruthless hands of a surgeon. Our very blood may speak of things we will not wish to hear. <h2>Glimpsing our mortality in middle age</h2> Middle age is sometimes referred to as The Age of Grief. It’s when we first glimpse our own mortality; we feel youth slipping away into the past, and the young people in our lives begin to assert their independence. We have our mid-life crises then. We join gyms, and take up running; we speak for the first time of “bucket lists” – the term itself an attempt to diminish the sting of time’s depredations. None of this will save us from the real Age of Grief, which comes later and hits harder because it is largely hidden. And we’ll be expected to endure it in silence. In my conversations with people aged 70 and older, grief has surfaced from causes other than what might be called “cosmetic” changes. Following a severe stroke, 80-year-old Philippa describes the pain of having had to make the decision to relinquish her home and move into residential care. "It’s when you lose your garden, which you’ve loved, and you’ve got to walk away from that. I’ve got photos of the house, and I look at them and think, oh, I just love the way I did that room, decorated it, things like that. But change happens." “Somehow change always comes with loss, as well as bringing something new,” I said. “Yes,” she replied, “I just had to say to myself: you can’t worry about it, and you can’t change it. That sounds hard, but it’s my way of dealing with it.” Tucked away in residential care homes, largely invisible to those of us lucky enough to still inhabit the outside world, elderly people like Philippa are quietly raising resilience to the level of an art form. In her poem, <a href="https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/47536/one-art">One Art</a>, the Canadian poet Elizabeth Bishop advises losing something every day. <blockquote> Accept the fluster of lost door keys, the hour badly spent. Lose something every day. The art of losing isn’t hard to master. </blockquote> Bishop goes on to list other lost items – her mother’s watch, the next-to-last of three loved houses, lovely cities, two rivers, even a continent. While the losses elderly people commonly accumulate are less grand, they are no less devastating. One by one, they will relinquish driver’s licenses. For many there will be the loss of the family home and their belongings, save for whatever will fit into a care home’s single room. Perhaps they have already given up the freedom of walking without the aid of a stick, or walker. There may be the dietary restrictions imposed by conditions such as diabetes, and the invisible disabilities of diminished hearing and eyesight. A failing memory, one would think, must be the final straw. And yet, what seems to be the actual final straw is the situation, reported time and again, where an old person feels “unseen”, or “looked through”, and for indefensible reasons finds themself being “missed” in favour of someone younger. It might, for example, be a moment when they are ignored as they patiently wait their turn at a shop counter. In my conversation with Philippa, she remarked that old people are often looked through when they are part of a group, or when they are waiting to be served. “I have seen it happen to other older people, as if they don’t exist. I have called out assistants who have done that to other people.” Surely the least we can do, as fortunate beings of fewer years, is to acknowledge the old people among us. To make them feel seen, and of equal value. <h2>‘Age pride’ and destigmatising ‘old’</h2> <a href="https://www.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/pmc/articles/PMC7246680/">Ageism, Healthy Life Expectancy and Population Ageing: How Are They Related</a> is a recent survey conducted with more than 83,000 participants from 57 countries. It found that ageism negatively impacts the health of older adults. In the United States, people with a negative attitude towards ageing live 7.5 fewer years than their more positive counterparts. In Australia, the National Ageing Research Institute has developed an <a href="https://www.nari.net.au/age-positive-language-guide">Age-Positive Language Guide</a> as part of its strategy to combat ageism. Examples of poor descriptive language include terms such as “old person”, “the elderly”, and even “seniors”. That last term appears on a card Australians receive shortly after turning 60, which enables them to receive various discounts and concessions. Instead, we are encouraged to use “older person”, or “older people”. But this is just another form of age-masking that fools no one. It would be better to throw the institute’s energy into destigmatising the word “old”. What, after all, is wrong with being old, and saying so? To begin the process of reclaiming this word from the pejorative territory it currently occupies, old people need to start claiming their years with pride. If other marginalised social groups can do it, why can’t old people? Some activists working against ageism are beginning to mention <a href="https://www.nextavenue.org/how-to-swap-ageism-for-age-pride/">“age pride”</a>. If we become homesick for who we once were as we age, we might remind ourselves of the meaning of nostos and consider old age as a kind of homecoming. <h2>Narrative identity</h2> The body we travel in is a vehicle for all the iterations of the self, and the position we currently inhabit is part of an ongoing creative process: the evolving story of the self. From the 1980s, psychologists, philosophers and social theorists have been calling it <a href="https://psycnet.apa.org/record/2011-21882-005">narrative identity</a>. The process of piecing together a narrative identity begins in late adolescence and evolves across our entire lives. Like opening a Russian doll, from whose hollow shell other dolls emerge, at our centre is a solid core composed of traits and values. It’s also composed of the narrative identity we have put together from all our days – including those we cannot now remember – and from all the selves we have ever been. Perhaps even from the selves we might have been, but chose instead to paint over. In Metamorphosis, or the Elephant’s Foot, Harriet Mayfield tells her husband, “At this point in life. We are who we are – the outcome of various other incarnations.” We know our lives, and the lives of others, through fragments. Fragments are all we have. They’re all we’ll ever have. We live in moments, not always in chronological order. But narrative identity helps us make meaning of life. And the vantage point of old age offers the longest view. The story of the self carries us from the deep past to the present moment. And old age sets us the great life challenge of maintaining balance in the present, while managing the remembered past – with all its joys and griefs – and the joys and griefs of the imagined future.<img style="border: none !important; box-shadow: none !important; margin: 0 !important; max-height: 1px !important; max-width: 1px !important; min-height: 1px !important; min-width: 1px !important; opacity: 0 !important; outline: none !important; padding: 0 !important;" src="https://counter.theconversation.com/content/202754/count.gif?distributor=republish-lightbox-basic" alt="The Conversation" width="1" height="1" /> <a href="https://theconversation.com/profiles/carol-lefevre-1341823">Carol Lefevre</a>, Visiting Research Fellow, Department of English and Creative Writing, <a href="https://theconversation.com/institutions/university-of-adelaide-1119">University of Adelaide</a> Image credits: Getty Images This article is republished from <a href="https://theconversation.com">The Conversation</a> under a Creative Commons license. Read the <a href="https://theconversation.com/friday-essay-homesick-for-ourselves-the-hidden-grief-of-ageing-202754">original article</a>.

Beauty & Style

‘We lose ourselves’: carers talk about the lonely, stressful work of looking after loved ones

<a href="https://theconversation.com/profiles/fleur-sharafizad-1138251">Fleur Sharafizad</a>, <a href="https://theconversation.com/institutions/edith-cowan-university-720">Edith Cowan University</a>; <a href="https://theconversation.com/profiles/esme-franken-947855">Esme Franken</a>, <a href="https://theconversation.com/institutions/edith-cowan-university-720">Edith Cowan University</a>, and <a href="https://theconversation.com/profiles/uma-jogulu-1278812">Uma Jogulu</a>, <a href="https://theconversation.com/institutions/edith-cowan-university-720">Edith Cowan University</a> An informal personal carer is someone who looks after a family member, neighbour or friend in need of care due to disability, illness or age. In Australia, there are approximately 2.8 million informal personal carers, including 906,000 who are primary carers. Projections suggest the national demand for carers will <a href="https://www.carersaustralia.com.au/wp-content/uploads/2020/07/FINAL-Value-of-Informal-Care-22-May-2020_No-CIC.pdf">rise 23% by 2030</a>. Around one in ten Australians are informal carers: <a href="https://www.aihw.gov.au/reports/australias-welfare/informal-carers">most of these unpaid</a>. This group of people support one of society’s most foundational needs and our economy would struggle without them. Yet, little is understood about their experiences. <a href="https://bristoluniversitypressdigital.com/view/journals/ijcc/aop/article-10.1332-239788223X16789866214981/article-10.1332-239788223X16789866214981.xml">Our recent research</a> reveals how this group of carers lack necessary support for their own wellbeing. <h2>Our research</h2> We interviewed 36 informal personal primary carers living across Western Australia and Queensland. Respondents were aged between 34 and 69 years, and had all been the primary carer for a child, parent, partner, or in-law, for between two and 21 years. Data was collected in two waves: one in 2020 and the other in 2021. Respondents were recruited with the help of an Australian carers’ organisation. <h2>‘I’d rather it be someone else’s problem’</h2> Many of the carers we spoke to said they were not caring by choice, but by necessity. They said they feel both unseen and undervalued. A husband who had been caring for his wife who suffers from Alzheimer’s said: "I would rather work. I really don’t like being a carer. I’d rather it be someone else’s problem. Being a carer, you just get forgotten." Carers generally provide care around-the-clock, yet their compensations (such as <a href="https://www.servicesaustralia.gov.au/carer-payment">carer payments</a>) are far from equivalent to full-time pay. The carer payment, for example, equates to only <a href="https://www.carersaustralia.com.au/programs-projects/caring-costs-us/">28% of weekly ordinary time earnings</a> in Australia, and carers can expect to lose <a href="https://www.carersaustralia.com.au/carers-are-17700-worse-off-every-year-in-superannuation-payments/#:%7E:text=Caring%20Costs%20Us%3A%20The%20economic%20impact%20on%20lifetime,every%20year%20they%20are%20in%20that%20caring%20role.">approximately $17,700 in superannuation</a> every year they provide care. Few of <a href="https://www.carersaustralia.com.au/wp-content/uploads/2023/02/FINAL-Carers-Australia-2023-24-Jan-2023-Budget-Submission.pdf">Carers Australia’s pre-budget submission items</a> to benefit carers were adopted in the most recent federal budget. Instead, the budget contained items which may indirectly benefit carers through <a href="https://www.carersaustralia.com.au/wp-content/uploads/2023/05/2023-24-Budget-What-it-means-for-carers.pdf">increased support for the cared-for</a>. But these measures do not explicitly recognise and support carers’ wellbeing. Similarly, the recent draft of the <a href="https://www.pmc.gov.au/resources/draft-national-strategy-care-and-support-economy">National Strategy for the Care and Support Economy</a> recognises the contribution informal carers make to Australia’s economy but focuses on paid care and support. Our interviewees spoke about the personal costs of their work, and the stress and loneliness they experience. They shared feelings of being taken for granted as if their role was not work, let alone difficult work. One mum caring for her disabled son shared: "I just want people to see that, [a] carer doesn’t have any leave, paid leave, or recognition. People just think that’s your loved one, that’s your job. But I do want people to understand that I did not choose to be a carer as my career, but I will do it because it is important." This played into a feeling of people losing their sense of self, because caring work was so demanding and time consuming. A mother who had been caring for her daughter for 17 years after she had been involved in an accident said, "People don’t realise how much we put our life on hold to support the people that need that emotional and mental and physical and spiritual support. We put ourselves in the back shed while we’re supporting them, so we lose ourselves." <h2>A mental toll</h2> Many spoke of how they once had individual goals and ambitions, which they now considered unachievable. All of our interviewees had quit jobs and halted careers to take on personal care full-time. One mother caring for her ill child said: "I think if I had a crystal ball, I don’t know that I would perhaps have become a parent, I think I would have just stuck to my corporate life and had a cat and be done with it." The mental health toll experienced by carers in our study was clear throughout all interviews. A mother looking after her child with mental health challenges expressed: "Every carer has mental health impacts from being a carer. They won’t say it’s depression or anxiety, but it’s mental health because when the hierarchy of needs is not being met for you, you can’t provide them for somebody else." As one interviewee explained, the demanding nature of the work had left them exhausted and as though they “can’t do it”. Our interviewees spoke of “falling apart” under the strain of constantly caring for high-needs people in their households. One mother who cared for her children who were both on the autism spectrum recalled: "How many times, if I don’t go to the bathroom and have a shower to cool down myself, I could kill the kids and myself easily. That’s how bad. We are not ever in the category to get help." <h2>Feeling abandoned</h2> Because so much of their work happens in pre-existing relationships and behind closed doors, carers talked about not just feeling unseen but abandoned. A common theme across all interviews was how carers felt abandoned by institutions, health professionals and, in many cases, friends and family members. One husband who had cared for his wife for close to 20 years said: "The government doesn’t even care about the carers […] we’re not really getting anything and then they’re trying to take the crumbs off us." Carers do not have psychological, institutional or social support for themselves as individuals, separate from their role. But these support pillars are necessary so the entire responsibility of care does not fall solely on informal carers. <a href="https://www.carersaustralia.com.au/wp-content/uploads/2023/02/FINAL-Carers-Australia-2023-24-Jan-2023-Budget-Submission.pdf">Carer-inclusive activities</a> could be a good start. But policy should also be responsive to the unique and unmet needs of carers. These relate to the lack of personal and professional development, feelings of abandonment and social isolation. With an ageing population, a pandemic, and an emerging crisis over the quality of care for older Australians and people with disabilities, the role of informal carers has become increasingly important. The truth is that most of us will likely, at some point, undertake care work or be the person being cared for. Better formalised support for carers will ultimately improve the care for the most vulnerable among us and society as a whole. If this article has raised issues for you, or if you’re concerned about someone you know, call <a href="http://lifeline.org.au/">Lifeline</a> on 13 11 14. <a href="https://theconversation.com/profiles/fleur-sharafizad-1138251">Fleur Sharafizad</a>, Lecturer in Management, <a href="https://theconversation.com/institutions/edith-cowan-university-720">Edith Cowan University</a>; <a href="https://theconversation.com/profiles/esme-franken-947855">Esme Franken</a>, Lecturer in Management, <a href="https://theconversation.com/institutions/edith-cowan-university-720">Edith Cowan University</a>, and <a href="https://theconversation.com/profiles/uma-jogulu-1278812">Uma Jogulu</a>, Senior Lecturer, School of Business and Law, <a href="https://theconversation.com/institutions/edith-cowan-university-720">Edith Cowan University</a> Image credits: Getty Images This article is republished from <a href="https://theconversation.com">The Conversation</a> under a Creative Commons license. Read the <a href="https://theconversation.com/we-lose-ourselves-carers-talk-about-the-lonely-stressful-work-of-looking-after-loved-ones-206409">original article</a>.

Caring

Can reading help heal us and process our emotions – or is that just a story we tell ourselves?

The <a href="https://www.jstor.org/stable/4306897">oldest known library</a>, dating back to the second millennium BC, in Thebes, Egypt, reportedly bore a sign above its portals in Greek: Psyches Iatreion, translated as “healing place of the soul”. The idea that reading may confer healing benefits is not new, but continues to intrigue readers and researchers. Of course, this doesn’t apply to reading about how to put up the tent, or tidy our piles of household stuff. When we talk about books that might offer a balm for the soul, we mean fiction, poetry and narrative non-fiction (including memoir). The idea of emotional catharsis through reading is intuitively appealing. But does it work that way? Or do we read for interest, pleasure, escapism – or love of words? <h2>Reading as catharsis and transport</h2> “The highest aspiration of art is to move the audience,” claims <a href="https://www.penguinrandomhouse.com/books/609280/a-swim-in-a-pond-in-the-rain-by-george-saunders/">George Saunders</a>. Who is not still moved by the first book that affected them on a cellular level – whether that’s Storm Boy, The Little Prince, or their high-school reading of To Kill a Mockingbird? According to the authors of <a href="https://www.textpublishing.com.au/books/the-novel-cure">The Novel Cure: an A-Z of Literary Remedies</a>, "novels have the power to transport you into another existence, and see the world from a different point of view […] sometimes it’s the story that charms; sometimes it’s the rhythm of the prose that works on the psyche, stilling or stimulating." Humans imitate or re-present the world through art: poetry, drama and epic. That drive, claimed <a href="https://www.amherst.edu/system/files/media/1812/The%252520Poetics%252520of%252520Aristotle%25252C%252520by%252520Aristotle.pdf">Aristotle</a>, sets humans apart from animals. In 1987 Jerome Bruner proposed that “world making” is the “principal function of mind”, in both the sciences and arts. As humans, we are drawn to the momentum of narrative to tell our stories, <a href="https://ewasteschools.pbworks.com/f/Bruner_J_LifeAsNarrative.pdf">he says</a>. We seek to make sense of the events in our lives, as if life really were a three-act play with a clear narrative arc. (Conveniently summarised as: “Get him up a tree; throw rocks at him; get him down.”) <h2>How reading works</h2> Reading is one way we seek to understand our worlds. Evolutionary psychologists propose the brain is <a href="https://journals.sagepub.com/doi/abs/10.1177/009164710203000101">“designed for reading”</a>, just as it is for language, facial recognition or other drives. The act of reading engages both cognitive and – especially where there’s a narrative – emotional processes. Children learning to read must first grasp the basics of recognition (sound-letter-phoneme-word) and then proceed to the higher-order cognitive skill of comprehension of the meaning of the text (semantics). It is at that next level of meaning-making that words connect and stir the emotions. That might be fear (<a href="https://theconversation.com/frankenstein-how-mary-shelleys-sci-fi-classic-offers-lessons-for-us-today-about-the-dangers-of-playing-god-175520">Frankenstein</a>), love (<a href="https://www.penguin.com.au/books/pride-and-prejudice-9780241374887">Pride and Prejudice</a>), outrage (Germaine Greer’s polemic <a href="https://theconversation.com/friday-essay-the-female-eunuch-at-50-germaine-greers-fearless-feminist-masterpiece-147437">The Female Eunuch</a>) or existential angst (Albert Camus’ philosophical novel L’Etranger/<a href="https://www.penguin.com.au/books/the-outsider-9780141198064">The Outsider</a>). But how does this process “work”? Or, as Saunders puts it: “How does [the writer] seduce, persuade, console, distract?” <h2>How reading between the gaps invites us in</h2> World or meaning making can occur directly by acquiring knowledge (for example, when reading that tent manual) or indirectly, through our engagement with the social world, art and our meaning-making faculties. Works of art invite thought and feeling. This “<a href="https://pubmed.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/27449184/">indirect communication</a>” of literature is one of the unique affordances (or benefits) it offers readers. Meaning-making <a href="https://www.onfiction.ca/p/books.html">is</a> a transaction between author, text and reader; the “gap” between the words and the reader’s interpretation, shaped by their own experiences and predispositions, is critical. Thus, an author might seek to move a reader – but whether the reader is moved will depend on individual circumstances and preferences. (Not the least among these is the skill of the writer, of course.) <a href="https://theconversation.com/book-week-is-good-for-kids-and-book-clubs-are-great-for-adults-30783">Book clubs</a>, where heated discussions can be motivated by how books and their characters made readers feel, are a great example. So is consumer review site <a href="https://theconversation.com/in-the-world-of-goodreads-do-we-still-need-book-reviewers-56455">Goodreads</a>, and <a href="https://theconversation.com/what-is-booktok-and-how-is-it-influencing-what-australian-teenagers-read-182290">#BookTok</a>, the sector of TikTok where books that make readers cry dominate. As <a href="https://www.penguinrandomhouse.com/books/609280/a-swim-in-a-pond-in-the-rain-by-george-saunders/">Flannery O’Connor</a> says, “the writer can choose what he writes about but he cannot choose what he is able to make live” (my italics). In other words, some books will always speak to some readers. And those same books will leave other readers cold – or even make them regret joining a book club. <h2>What neuroscience tells us about reading</h2> Virginia Woolf wrote of books as “<a href="http://lemasney.com/consulting/2015/05/05/books-are-the-mirrors-of-the-soul-virginia-woolf-cc-by-lemasney/">mirrors of the soul</a>”. And contemporary neuropsychologists have proven it, with brain-imaging studies. These studies have demonstrated that when a person indirectly experiences an event associated with an emotion, the same regions of the brain are activated as if they had experienced the event directly. We feel disgust, whether we actually discover (or half-eat) the maggot in the ham sandwich or view a TikTok video of the simulated event. The same fear is elicited in the brain when we walk a tightrope in a virtual reality simulation, view the film of Phillipe Petit in <a href="https://www.imdb.com/title/tt3488710/">The Walk</a>, or high-wire walk ourselves (do not try this at home). Mirror neurons prompt us to yawn or smile or frown when another person yawns, smiles or frowns. The other person – the protagonist, in a book – can be completely fictional, the entire plot make-believe: yet we still cry. Who of us hasn’t wept real tears when tragedy befalls a favourite character in a novel? (For me, it’s the death of shell-shocked World War I soldier Septimus in Virginia Woolf’s novel <a href="https://www.penguin.com.au/books/mrs-dalloway-9780241468647">Mrs Dalloway</a>.) <h2>The psychology of fiction</h2> University of Toronto professor emeritus and author-psychologist <a href="https://www.wiley.com/en-us/Such+Stuff+as+Dreams:+The+Psychology+of+Fiction-p-9780470974575">Keith Oatley</a> explains that reading narratives allows us to “simulate” a social world where we identify with characters and their struggles, and observe their way of solving conflicts. This way we can process emotional content and solve life’s problems indirectly. It’s much more effective than being given the solution! Oatley’s research has also demonstrated that readers’ long-term engagement in fiction (especially literary fiction) <a href="https://pubmed.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/27449184/">improves their empathy</a> and their ability to take the perspective of another person (referred to as “Theory of Mind”). Oatley suggests: “We need not lead one life; through fiction we can lead many lives”. In this sense, reading can prompt us to understand the inner lives of others as well as our own. It can even help us to re-imagine the narrative of our lives – especially if we are not happy with the one we are actually leading. In this way, reading can provide both escape and a way to imagine (and perhaps start to plan for) alternative ways to live. In her book <a href="https://www.jstor.org/stable/j.ctt1kgqwk8">Why We Read Fiction</a>, Lisa Zunshine argues "fiction helps us to pattern in newly nuanced ways our emotions and perceptions […] it creates new forms of meaning for our everyday existence." Quite apart from the practical benefits of this kind of cognitive and emotional gymnastics, Zunshine says our biggest reason for doing it is enjoyment itself. Does reading prompt emotional catharsis? Marcel Proust wrote that a novelist can, in an hour, “set free all kinds of happiness and misfortune which would take years of our ordinary lives to know”. Reading, as a hard-wired impetus and a form of engaging with art, allows us to process our emotions. Importantly, this can be at a distance. We don’t have to directly, for example, pursue forbidden love and sort out the ensuing mess (Graham Greene’s <a href="https://www.penguin.com.au/books/the-end-of-the-affair-9780099478447">The End of the Affair</a>), or cope alone with alienation or discrimination (Alice Walker’s <a href="https://www.hachette.com.au/alice-walker/the-color-purple-the-classic-pulitzer-prize-winning-novel">The Colour Purple</a>). We can scare ourselves without ever having to go into the dark woods. We can access experiences unavailable to us in life – and the positive feelings they produce can remain with us. For example, we can transform ourselves into magical, powerful heroes and heroines who prevail against impossible odds (<a href="https://theconversation.com/how-tolkien-and-lord-of-the-rings-inspired-the-commercial-and-artistic-success-of-the-fantasy-fiction-genre-170958">Lord of the Rings</a>). Saunders suggests art (including literature) might be "an offering of sorts – a hypothesis for both writer and reader to take up and consider together […] the goal of that offering might be to ease the reader’s way; to make the difficulty of this life less for her. We try to give the reader a way of thinking about reality that is truthful, yes, and harsh, if need be, but not gratuitously harsh, a way of thinking that, somehow, helps her." Image: Getty Images This article originally appeared on <a href="https://theconversation.com/can-reading-help-heal-us-and-process-our-emotions-or-is-that-just-a-story-we-tell-ourselves-197789" target="_blank" rel="noopener">The Conversation</a>. <figure></figure>

Why we perceive ourselves as richer than we really are

Every day billions of people make countless decisions that have economic implications. Buying new clothes, having dinner at a Japanese restaurant, renting a house: most of our decisions determine how much money we spend or save. Some of our decisions also increase the amount of debt we have accumulated, such as when we buy a book and pay by credit card or when we obtain a loan to buy a new car. Do people always weigh up pros and cons, use all the available information and commit to their long-term goals when making such decisions? Research in behavioural economics suggests this is not the case. For example, even though many Americans argue that they should be saving more for retirement, they declare that they frequently <a href="https://scholar.harvard.edu/laibson/publications/hyperbolic-consumption-model-calibration-simulation-and-empirical-evaluation">do not commit to their saving decisions</a>. In general, psychologists and behavioural scientists have long found that the gaps between people’s intentions and their actual behaviour are often due to cognitive biases – <a href="https://onlinelibrary.wiley.com/doi/pdf/10.1002/9780470939376.ch25">systematic errors in thinking</a> that affect individual decisions and judgements. Cognitive biases explain why our economic decisions often appear to be flawed by self-control problems, myopic behaviour, changes in preferences over time and other behavioural inconsistencies. For instance, <a href="https://onlinelibrary.wiley.com/doi/abs/10.1111/j.1540-6261.2009.01518.x">scholars</a> have found that people have a cognitive bias that often leads them to underestimate the true cost of debt, thus borrowing more than what they can afford. As another example, research in economic psychology <a href="https://www.researchgate.net/publication/23547394_Unfixed_Resources_Perceived_Costs_Consumption_and_the_Accessible_Account_Effect">has shown</a> that the perceived cost of an item is lower than the actual cost if people compare it to greater, rather than smaller, financial resources. For instance, even though a person knows that the objective cost of a T-shirt is 25 euros, that person is more likely to buy the T-shirt if she mentally compares the cost to the money in her bank account (for instance 23,000 euros) rather than the money in her wallet (let’s say 100 euros). The bias on wealth perception Following this line of research, at the Complexity Lab in Economics (CLE) of Università Cattolica del Sacro Cuore in Milan, <a href="https://www.axa-research.org/en/projects/alberto-cardaci">I have recently started a new project</a>, “Cognitive biases, perceived wealth and macroeconomic instability”, with the help of a postdoctoral scholarship by the AXA Research Fund. By combining findings from behavioural economics and social cognitive psychology with the techniques of experimental economics, the project essentially tests the hypothesis that some people tend to spend more than they “should” because they have the wrong perception of how wealthy they are. In other words, our working assumption is that, depending on <a href="https://www.investopedia.com/terms/l/leverage.asp">the value of leverage</a> (that is, the ratio between debt and net worth), people may feel wealthier even when their net worth has not changed, and that this makes them psychologically more prone to increase their spending, as well as their borrowing. We call this the “leverage bias hypothesis”. At CLE we have run some preliminary laboratory experiments to test the presence of the leverage bias. Our first results (to be published) confirm that around 78% of the participants have a wrong perception of the amount of wealth owned and this perception changes based on how wealth is composed, even when the net value remains constant. We postulate that this misperception of wealth may play a significant role at explaining individual consumption and borrowing decisions that do not appear rational based on canonical economics. Indeed, the potential implications of a cognitive bias of this type are substantial. An individual with a distorted perception of wealth may feel financially better off, consume more, borrow a larger amount of loans and overestimate her ability to pay back her debt in the future. This behaviour would have consequence not only for the borrower, but also for the lender: a borrower’s inability to meet the debt obligations would result in the accumulation of non-performing loans on the balance sheet of financial institutions in the credit market. Partial explanations for massive crash By extending this reasoning to a greater scale, it is also possible that macroeconomic fluctuations be (at least partially) explained by the excess spending and debt accumulation trigger by the leverage bias. This is the case when a large number of people perceive themselves as richer than they actually are: consumption can rise in the aggregate to the extent that such people possibly increase their debt being inaccurately confident that they will be able to pay it back. Before the 2007 financial crisis the level of household debt skyrocketed, going <a href="https://www.investopedia.com/updates/usa-national-debt/">beyond 100 per cent of GDP</a>. In those years, the American society easily and quickly moved from debt-led to debt burdened. While almost certainly not all personal debt accumulated in society could be attributed to behavioural fallacies, it is worth investigating whether distorted perceptions of wealth may have tremendous costs not only at the individual level but also at the macroeconomic one. <hr /> <img src="https://images.theconversation.com/files/202296/original/file-20180117-53314-hzk3rx.jpg?ixlib=rb-1.1.0&q=45&auto=format&w=237&fit=clip" alt="" /> Created in 2007, the Axa Research Fund supports more than 500 projects around the world conducted by researchers from 51 countries. To learn more about the work of Alberto Cardaci, visit his <a href="https://albertocardaci.wixsite.com/alcardaci">site</a> as well as the <a href="https://www.axa-research.org/en/projects/alberto-cardaci">Axa Research Fund dedicated page</a>.<img style="border: none !important; box-shadow: none !important; margin: 0 !important; max-height: 1px !important; max-width: 1px !important; min-height: 1px !important; min-width: 1px !important; opacity: 0 !important; outline: none !important; padding: 0 !important; text-shadow: none !important;" src="https://counter.theconversation.com/content/95965/count.gif?distributor=republish-lightbox-basic" alt="The Conversation" width="1" height="1" /> Written by Alberto Cardaci, Post-doctoral fellow, Complexity Lab in Economics (CLE), Università Cattolica del Sacro Cuore - Catholic University of Milan. Republished with permission of <a href="https://theconversation.com/why-we-perceive-ourselves-as-richer-than-we-think-we-are-95965">The Conversation</a>.

Retirement Income

How we think about ourselves affects how we can help others

Adam Gerace is a Senior Research Fellow in the College of Nursing and Health Sciences at Flinders University. His research focuses on empathy, interpersonal perspective and behaviour. Have you ever told a friend experiencing a troubling situation “I know exactly how you feel”? This empathic response is usually driven by a connection we’ve made with our own similar experiences. Having “been there”, we believe we know what it’s like to be them. But do we really? During his presidency, Barack Obama often <a href="https://obamawhitehouse.archives.gov/the-press-office/2011/09/21/remarks-president-obama-address-united-nations-general-assembly" target="_blank">spoke</a> of the ability to “recognise ourselves in each other”. Much earlier, Oliver Wendell Holmes <a href="https://www.gutenberg.org/files/2665/2665-h/2665-h.htm" target="_blank">wrote</a> in 1859, “A moment’s insight is sometimes worth a life’s experience”. Both quotes reflect themes psychologists have grappled with for much of the discipline’s existence. That is, how we come to understand and process challenging experiences such as relationship breakdowns, loss of loved ones or interpersonal conflicts, and to what extent we can use these experiences to <a href="https://doi.org/10.1017/jrr.2017.8" target="_blank">understand others going through similar things</a>. In order to address these issues, we need to consider the ways we think about ourselves (“self-reflection”) and the ways we think about others (“perspective taking”). How do we understand others? Self-reflection is turning our attention inward to consider what we are feeling at a given moment, why we acted in such a way, and how our past experiences have shaped us. Surprisingly, we don’t reflect on inner experiences as often as might be expected, with our environment usually the focus of attention. Perspective taking allows us to consider what it’s like to be in someone else’s situation and to empathise with their experiences. We do this every day, such as when we predict how a <a href="https://doi.org/10.1016/j.aap.2016.12.010" target="_blank">driver</a> in the next lane with a different field of vision will behave, or when we console a friend who is discussing their misfortunes. One of the main ways we try to understand another person’s experiences is to <a href="https://doi.org/10.1017/jrr.2013.6" target="_blank">imagine ourselves in their place</a> and to use our experiences of love and loss to connect with their situation. This process has a <a href="https://doi.org/10.1016/j.neuroimage.2010.10.014" target="_blank">neurological basis</a>: brain regions activated when we focus on our own point of view are also activated when considering that of another person. Reflecting on a similar situation we’ve experienced makes it <a href="https://doi.org/10.1017/jrr.2015.6" target="_blank">easier to understand another person</a> and can result in <a href="https://doi.org/10.1177/0146167296225005" target="_blank">compassion for their plight</a>. But sometimes we are actually less <a href="https://doi.org/10.1037/pspi0000012" target="_blank">compassionate</a> or willing to <a href="https://doi.org/10.1007/s40750-016-0044-x" target="_blank">help</a> them, particularly if we are currently experiencing a similar situation. How we can understand them better Researchers believe we <a href="https://doi.org/10.1037/0022-3514.76.2.284" target="_blank">reflect on ourselves</a> in two different ways – one out of curiosity and wanting to know more about what makes us tick (“intellectual self-attentiveness”), and the other is ruminating on our experiences – driven by anxieties and fears of loss. Rumination involves replaying an event again and again, often with little awareness of why it occurred. While more positive self-reflection or attentiveness is associated with an <a href="https://doi.org/10.1080/152988602317232803">increased tendency</a> to consider other peoples’ points of view, being prone to rumination makes us less able to consider things from other people’s perspectives. The more a person ruminates, the more they experience <a href="https://doi.org/10.1177/0146167297237008" target="_blank">personal distress</a>, making them less able to connect with another’s misfortunes. Initially, it’s normal to play over in our minds negative events such as a marriage breakdown or loss of a loved one. But we can <a href="https://doi.org/10.1037/0033-2909.107.2.156" target="_blank">become</a> fixated on these experiences, which is associated with <a href="https://doi.org/10.1037/0033-2909.128.4.638" target="_blank">depression and anxiety</a>. For our experiences to help us connect with others, we need to move beyond rumination to developing insight (understanding) into what has occurred. The <a href="https://doi.org/10.1111/j.1751-9004.2010.00301.x" target="_blank">ways</a> we think about past experiences can help or hinder the development of insight. One way is to mentally immerse ourselves in our past experiences – as if we were right back there – focusing on what occurred. This is likely to bring the past to life, but also results in anger and attributing blame to others involved. By contrast, a self-distanced perspective, where we almost picture the situation as a “<a href="https://doi.org/10.1111/j.1467-9280.2005.01600.x" target="_blank">fly on the wall</a>” leads to focusing on why an experience occurred, which can foster insight and closure. <a href="https://doi.org/10.1080/15298868.2011.649546" target="_blank">Studies have found</a> when people can reflect on their own problems with a bit of distance and compassion for themselves, they’re able to see the “bigger picture”. This in turn makes them better able to consider their own and others’ needs, and more likely to forgive and help others. We can never know ‘exactly’ how someone feels Self-refection is essential for understanding our troubling experiences. In turn, this understanding is likely to help us consider others in similar situations. We can’t assume others will experience a situation exactly the way we did, as there are probably <a href="https://doi.org/10.1037/0022-3514.87.3.327" target="_blank">differences</a> in the experiences. It can also be <a href="http://dx.doi.org/10.1037/a0035148" target="_blank">difficult</a> to imagine ourselves back in an emotionally-charged time in our lives. In certain contexts, especially working as a <a href="https://doi.org/10.1111/inm.12298" target="_blank">psychologist or nurse</a>, taking another person’s perspective in a more distant way is advised. Perhaps, then, rather than telling someone “I know exactly how you feel”, it’s best to ask curious questions that will help you to clarify what they are going through, as well as help them develop insight into their situation. Written by Adam Gerace. Republished with permission of <a href="http://theconversation.com/" target="_blank">The Conversation</a>.<img width="1" height="1" src="https://counter.theconversation.edu.au/content/80190/count.gif?distributor=republish-lightbox-advanced" alt="The Conversation"/>

Relationships

5 money lies we tell ourselves that are bleeding us dry

It’s easy to get caught up in misinformation around personal finances. Here are five common red herrings to steer clear of. 1. I'll start investing next year when things are better – Investing can be complicated, and so many of us avoid it altogether because we fear what we don't know. Don't shy away from informed commitment – it’s never too late and you’ll reap the rewards down the track. 2. I'll need less money in retirement, so I can live off my savings and the pension – In reality, you are probably going to need more money in your later years. Even if you manage to ease into retirement debt-free and fully owning your home, there are a lot of expenses that come along with getting older. These include: <ul> <li>Medical expenses</li> <li>Major fixes on an old home</li> <li>Helping out children in financial trouble</li> <li>Inflation</li> <li>Higher taxes</li> <li>Living longer than expected</li> </ul> If you don't think you have enough money for your retirement, make sure you are contributing extra to your super, or looking at other ways to boost your retirement nest egg. 3. It’s on sale – This has to be one of the best spending excuses. Whether it’s an international flight, a new suit or television, it is easy to get caught up in the hype and fall for marked-down prices, but a sale item is only a great buy if you genuinely need it. We are easily susceptible to slick marketing hype, such as 50% off already exaggerated prices or selling items at prices just below a larger round number. Unfortunately, these tricks have been proven to work and are being played out on us constantly. 4. It’s an investment – Beware of using this justification for luxury spending – whether it’s that a new set of golf clubs, couch, piece of jewellery or other “must-have” item. At the end of the day, unless you really need it, your bank account will have less in it and that is probably a poor investment. 5. I deserve this – Telling yourself spending is a reward can be a good old pick-me-up. You might have had a tough time recently and just need to do something that will give you a bit of a boost. So you go out and get your quick retail fix, feel great for a while and then realise that you just blew more than you intended for something you don’t even need that much. There are times we need to do something to make ourselves feel better or even act as a reward for an achievement. Maybe try a different approach – helping others can also be hugely satisfying, so next time you feel the need to splurge, find a charity that is close to your heart and donate.

Money & Banking

How we lie to ourselves

We’ve all done it, but most of the time, we have no idea. You may consider yourself to be an honest person and perhaps even pride yourself on never lying, but the fact is, we all do it – we lie to ourselves. As the video above (from <a href="https://www.youtube.com/channel/UC7IcJI8PUf5Z3zKxnZvTBog" target="_blank">The School of Life</a>) explains, there are four main things we like to lie to ourselves about – and it’s difficult to break out of the habit. Watch it for yourself and tell us in the comments, do you agree with the video? Video credit: <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=steu0fYGqhQ" target="_blank">The School of Life</a> / YouTube

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Homesick for ourselves – the hidden grief of ageing

‘We lose ourselves’: carers talk about the lonely, stressful work of looking after loved ones

Can reading help heal us and process our emotions – or is that just a story we tell ourselves?

Why we perceive ourselves as richer than we really are

How we think about ourselves affects how we can help others

5 money lies we tell ourselves that are bleeding us dry

How we lie to ourselves

News

Shop

Catalogues

Travel

Health

Lifestyle

Finance

Entertainment

Property

Information

Keep up to date

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Homesick for ourselves – the hidden grief of ageing

‘We lose ourselves’: carers talk about the lonely, stressful work of looking after loved ones

Can reading help heal us and process our emotions – or is that just a story we tell ourselves?

Why we perceive ourselves as richer than we really are

How we think about ourselves affects how we can help others

5 money lies we tell ourselves that are bleeding us dry

How we lie to ourselves

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