When I was a teenager in the 1990s, the government seemed to believe that the gender pay gap was best addressed by telling girls that they could do anything. Splashy, lurid pink ads told me that systemic and societal barriers would fall in the face of my self-confidence.
Researchers have since debunked the notion that an individual can fix their lives through positive thinking. Will Storr, in his book Selfie, unpacks how the neoliberal myth of the level playing field underpins much of the self-improvement movement.
Yet there is a part of me that still believes that if I work hard and glue together a sturdy vision board, I should be able to achieve my wildest dreams: the only thing standing between me and my destiny is me. How do I find a point of equilibrium, a balance between believing that I am capable of anything but am not responsible for every failure?
The answer, according to Saint Augustine, a North African Catholic bishop and philosopher from the fourth century CE, is humility. Augustine wrote that humility was the foundation of all other virtues, and that for someone seeking God “the first part is humility; the second, humility; the third, humility” (Letters 118:22).
For a lapsed Catholic like me, the word “humility” may trigger a range of negative emotions. I grew up in an era of the church when caring about your looks constituted the sin of vanity; sexual desire was unacceptable outside of procreation; and just thinking about masturbation was a punishable offence.
I don’t think that this was Saint Augustine’s intention, but for many years, I conflated “humility” with shame.
Being humble, according to psychiatrist Ravi Chandra, is not about self-loathing. Someone who is healthily humble is proud of their abilities and achievements while acknowledging that there is always more to learn. Chandra defines eight kinds of humility: cultural humility; intergenerational humility; intellectual humility; humility of knowledge; humility of skill; humility of wisdom; humility of awe; and humility in the face of suffering.
Psychological research has also identified a range of benefits arising from intellectual humility, including greater resilience, tolerance and relatedness.
In my work as a pastoral care practitioner in aged care, I now think about humility as the act of being present to the other. Humility is an act of re-grounding: coming back, breath by breath, to the carpet beneath my shoes and the person sitting in front of me.
There are some residents who tell me the same five anecdotes from their lives, over and over again, every time I see them. Instead of watching the clock, I try to listen. I try to stay curious. What can I learn from this person and the stories that have stayed with them when so much else has gone?
I try to live with the Taoist attitude that theological scholar Huston Smith described as “creative quietude”. Taoist philosophers encourage humans to quiet the ego and live aligned to the flow of creation.
This might be especially relevant as humans seek to repair the damage our species has done to the natural world. In her book Fathoms: The World in the Whale, Rebecca Giggs explains that being humble allows us to re-connect with “the animal inside, the creature that quakes at what twitches beyond the campfire light”. Taking a position of humility, of not-knowing, allows us to remember our species is a part of a larger whole.
There is a barrenness and hopelessness that comes with believing you can do anything: success – whether this means getting rich, losing weight, or winning the presidential race – becomes the only acceptable option. Humility allows for grace and failure. I am humble, rooted in the earth, which means I have everything I need to grow.
• Jackie Bailey is the author of The Eulogy, the winner of the 2023 NSW Premier’s literary multicultural award. When not writing, she works as a funeral celebrant and pastoral care practitioner, helping families navigate death and dying
