Category: Food for thought

The Goodreads reading challenge and other suggestions I declined.

Every January, Goodreads acts. It prompts readers to set a reading challenge, choose a number, track progress, and share results. The message sounds cheerful. The structure sits underneath it is managerial.

I feel frustration at an app assigning me homework. I want to scream.

Reading entered my life as refuge, curiosity, argument, and pleasure. I read when a sentence catches or a character resonates. I follow books that open doors I did not know existed. None of that needs a target. None of it improves when measured.

When Goodreads introduced the challenge, reading changed shape. A private exchange turned into a task list. Pages became units. Books became ticks. A progress bar stepped into the space where attention once lived. Speed started to count. Comparison followed. A long novel began to feel like a poor choice, while a slim book felt efficient. Pleasure slipped toward performance.

Some readers accept this frame. They describe the challenge as motivation. Life feels crowded. A number promises structure. For them, the system works as intended.

I read in seasons. Some years I read fewer books and let them linger. Some years one novel rearranges how I see the world. Other times I move quickly, sampling voices, following a line of interest wherever it leads. None of those choices respond well to measurement.

A reading challenge does not allow for rereading a paragraph because it sounded better in theory. It does not recognise abandoning a book that feels wrong for this moment. It assumes more equals better. It assumes finishing equals success. Reading does not work like that.

The cost shows up  when reading begins to feel like unpaid labour. Daily reminders feel less friendly than supervisory. The act starts to resemble fitness tracking, streaks protected, output optimised. Competition seeps in. Who read more. Who stayed on track. Who fell behind. Numbers replace attention. Curiosity thins out.

So I ignore the challenge. I do not set a number. I do not track progress. I let books arrive and leave as I choose.

Reading gives me enough without asking me to prove anything back.

The hero of today’s story is the photograph

Moos in the Mist 

The past couple of weeks have been full on, and my head has been running its own agenda. “The book” has taken over completely. It does not seem to matter if it is two in the morning or two in the afternoon. The scenes arrive when they feel like it, and once they land, I have no choice but to deal with them.

And of course, in a book written by me you can expect strong female leads. That was always the plan. No Tess of the d’urbervilles anywhere to be seen. What I did not plan for was the problem I have now created for myself. I think I have fallen a little in love with the male lead. I am turning him into the perfect man and now I cannot stop thinking about him. If that is not a sign that I need to get out of my own head occasionally, I do not know what is.

And speaking of the male lead, my book might be fictional but it is based on true facts. On Friday I discovered that his first name was far too close to the real man’s name. Too close. A name I had used four hundred times. Thank goodness for Control F. I hit that button, held my breath, and watched the entire manuscript light up like a Christmas tree. Then came the not so romantic part. Control F Replace. Fictional man reborn.

It is much safer when these scenes arrive at two in the morning. Nobody sees me wandering around the house writing and rewriting them, half sentences in the dark. When they arrive in daylight, it becomes a public event.

A few weeks ago I went to Minnamurra for coffee with friends. I got out of the car thinking about a scene and stopped right there in the middle of the road to record it on my phone. Thank God it was Minnamurra and not Terralong Street. I can only imagine the commentary if I tried that in peak hour.

And then there are the drives home. A scene arrives, I need to catch it, and I start looking for somewhere to pull over. If you know the roads around here, you know how unrealistic that is. You cannot pull over. Not safely anyway. Ask the bicycle riders. They could give an entire TED Talk on the subject.

So yesterday morning, when I stood on my veranda, I felt grateful for my little piece of paradise. It gave me a short reset before diving back into all the things demanding attention, including one fictional man who is taking up far too much space in my head.

And that brings me to the hero of today’s story  –  the photograph. I have taken many photos from my front veranda, yet this one sparked something. A couple of people have already asked if they can paint it. I am not entirely sure why this particular image resonated more than the others, but it did.

What do you think, readers?

I am a bit partial to this one

#writinglife #novelinprogress #writersbrain #creativeprocess #rurallife #aussiestorytelling #amwritingfiction #strongfemaleleads #scenesfromtheveranda #lifeonafarm #writinghumour #behindthebook

Are We All Living in a Socially Accepted Delusion?

 

We’ve normalised the idea that a stranger’s 30-second video can diagnose our personality, heal our trauma, or sell us peace of mind in a bottle. When enough people repeat it, it stops feeling ridiculous. It becomes a trend, which is just a delusion with good PR.

I’ve started noticing something interesting in a few novels lately: little acronyms like SAD and MAD popping up in unexpected ways. Not the usual meanings, of course. SAD becomes Socially Accepted Delusion. MAD turns into Mutually Accepted Delusion.

Writers love this device. Technically they’re acronyms, but when an author redefines them for a deeper or ironic purpose, it’s called a backronym, a phrase built around existing letters to create new meaning. It’s a small linguistic trick that can hold a big mirror up to society.

One of my favourite examples comes from The Detective by Matthew Reilly. His character muses that if a woman believes aliens live in her head, she’s sent to a mental institution, but if she believes Jesus lives in her head, she’s considered a person of deep faith. Both beliefs are invisible, yet one is sanctioned and the other condemned.

That’s the essence of a Socially Accepted Delusion: a belief that survives scrutiny because enough people share it.

Social norms can uplift, kindness as a default, recycling without being asked. But they can also disguise absurdities: buying things we don’t need to prove success, glorifying burnout as dedication, mistaking outrage for virtue. The line between belief and delusion isn’t always logic, it’s popularity.

We don’t have to look far to find new socially accepted delusions. Scroll through TikTok and you’ll see thousands of people declaring the latest miracle cure, wealth hack, or personality quiz that “changes everything.” We call it “content,” but it’s really crowdsourced conviction.

We’ve normalised the idea that a stranger’s 30-second video can diagnose our personality, heal our trauma, or sell us peace of mind in a bottle. When enough people repeat it, it stops feeling ridiculous. It becomes a trend, which is just a delusion with good PR.

Social media has turned SAD and MAD into a feedback loop: Socially Amplified Delusions and Massively Accelerated Denial. We don’t need facts, we need followers. And the algorithm happily feeds our favourite fantasies back to us. The more confident the lie, the faster it spreads.

The technology isn’t evil. The danger lies in what we stop questioning once something feels familiar, popular, or profitable.

Maybe the real test of sanity in the 21st century isn’t what we believe. It’s how often we pause to ask why.

#SociallyAcceptedDelusion #MatthewReilly #TheDetective #SocialNorms #TikTokCulture #MassDelusion #DigitalLife #CriticalThinking #ModernBeliefs #CulturalCommentary

When the Trolls Take Over the Thread

“People are watching. Values are showing.”

You’ve probably seen it before.

Someone posts something heartfelt. Maybe it’s about a humanitarian crisis or a fundraising appeal. Maybe it’s just a quiet call to care – about refugees, conflict zones, environmental devastation, or yes, children starving on the other side of the world.

Then in comes the comment.
Cold. Blunt. Designed not to inform, but to provoke.

“Nobody in Australia gives two hoots about people starving on the other side of the world.”

It’s the kind of line that doesn’t just shut down empathy – it throws it under a bus, reverses back over it, and then posts a meme to celebrate the ride.

And yet, as predictable as it is, it works.
It gets reactions.
It triggers outrage.
It attracts backup.
The poster’s “tribe” shows up. So do the people who want to push back.

And within a few hours, the post isn’t about the original issue at all.
It’s about that comment.

The comment that’s no longer about the suffering. It’s about the person who made it about themselves.
And the energy that could have been used to support or inform or take action is now being used to argue with someone who never came to learn, only to dominate the thread.

Eventually, the admin steps in.

“Hi all. Comments outside the group rules and obvious trolling are now reaching overload levels. We appear to be going down a Facebook rabbit hole. As such, we are locking comments. Thank you to those that engage respectfully.”

And just like that, the whole thing shuts down.

No discussion.
No momentum.
No outcome.

This is the world of the disruptor.

They don’t always fit the stereotype. Some are aggressive and obvious. Others are more subtle, smugly asking “reasonable” questions while spreading doubt or stirring division.

And then there are the strawman specialists. The people who twist what’s been said into something it never was, then argue fiercely against that distortion. They’ll take a comment about caring for people in crisis and turn it into, “So you’re saying we should ignore our own country?”

And sometimes, the derailment is even more calculated. The conversation begins with a plea for basic human compassion, food, safety, dignity  and ends in a rabbit hole about geopolitics. Suddenly it’s all about Hamas. As if the actions of a regime justify the suffering of children. As if starvation is deserved because of who controls the border.

This isn’t nuance. It’s a tactic. A way to sidestep empathy by turning the victims into suspects. And once that happens, there’s no space left for humanity , just cold rationalisation and echo chambers clapping back in agreement.

And before you know it, the thread isn’t about the issue anymore, it’s about defending a point no one actually made. That’s the rabbit hole. And too often, we fall in.

What they have in common is intent. Their goal isn’t dialogue. It’s derailment.

And the more charged the topic, the more likely they’ll appear.

Strawman arguments don’t build dialogue – they burn it down.

We could say ignore them. But we know that’s easier said than done, especially when the issue feels personal or urgent.

We could block them. But often by then the damage is already done, the space has been flooded, and meaningful conversation has drowned under it.

Or, we could start recognising what’s happening for what it is.
Not just trolling. Not just bad behaviour.
But performance is often driven by ego, dressed up as bold truth-telling.

The people doing it rarely think they’re being watched. But they are.
Not just by their tribe – the loyal few who jump in to defend every outburst – but by everyone else who’s watching and thinking, “When you mock pain, you reveal more about your values than you realise and none of it is admirable.”

So what can we do?

We don’t need to match someone’s energy to show who we are.
We don’t need to follow them down every rabbit hole, or correct every misrepresentation.

When someone builds a strawman, twisting our words to make them easier to attack, the goal isn’t clarity. It’s control. And we don’t have to give it to them. See footnote

We just have to keep our focus.
Keep our integrity.
And keep speaking to the people who are still listening.

Because not everyone in the thread is arguing.
Some are watching.
Some are learning.
And some are waiting for a voice that sounds like reason.

Let that be you.

“Outrage is loud, but character lasts longer.”

Footnote:

How to Handle a Strawman Argument Without Losing the Thread

You don’t have to match their energy.
You don’t have to defend something you never said.

When someone responds to a post about human suffering by making it all about geopolitics or criminal groups, that’s not a real response. That’s a strawman. It’s meant to shift the focus, create doubt, and exhaust you.

Here’s how to bring the conversation back:

  • 🔁 Refocus:
    “This post is about civilian suffering. Can we stay with that?”

  • 🧭 Clarify intent:
    “That’s not what I said. I’m talking about people, not politics.”

  • 🚫 Don’t follow the bait:
    “We can debate governments another time. Right now, I’m talking about hunger. About dignity. About human lives.”

  • 🧍‍♀️ Speak for yourself:
    “You don’t have to agree with me. I won’t let compassion be dismissed as moral confusion.”

Not every comment needs a reply. But when you do respond, respond with purpose, not performance. Don’t argue for the algorithm. Speak for the people still listening, still learning, still trying to care.

That’s how we keep the thread intact.
That’s how we keep our voice.

#SocialMediaDisruptors #EgoAndOutrage #DigitalCivility #OnlineIntegrity #TribalThinking #PublicValues #WatchWhatYouAmplify #TrollingWithConsequences #RespectfulDialogue

Gareth Ward Is in Custody. Now Let’s Talk About Real Courage.

Gareth Ward has now been taken into custody awaiting sentencing. And as our community processes that reality, something else is rising to the surface –  empathy.

I’ve heard it, and maybe you have too. People expressing sadness, disbelief, or even compassion for Gareth. That’s not wrong. Empathy is a good thing. It’s part of what makes us human. But it’s also a reminder of just how brave the two young men were who came forward.

Because they would have known, from the very beginning, that this wouldn’t be easy. They would have known that people would question them. That some would defend him. That there’d be talk about his helpfulness, his advocacy, his years of public service. That others would say, “People have done worse,” or “Good people sometimes do bad things.”

They would have known that if they were part of political or professional circles, people might ask, “Well, what did they expect?” That old narrative. They should have known the culture, the risk, the way things work.

And then, of course, the most familiar kind of deflection. The kind that used to get whispered about women in short skirts. The kind that quietly implies: maybe they brought this on themselves.

We’re still hearing versions of that now.

So when I say “victims”  I put that word in brackets, because I know not everyone is ready to see them that way. But let’s be honest: if they hadn’t come forward, there would be no conviction, no sentence, no reckoning. They’ve carried the weight of disbelief, delay, and public doubt  and still stood up.

So yes, feel empathy. Feel conflict. But let’s also feel awe.

Because this was never going to be a clean or easy process. And those two young men had every reason to stay silent, and every reason to think they would not to be believed.

They spoke anyway.

And now we get to ask: what kind of community do we want to be in response?

#GarethWard #VictimBravery #EmpathyAndAccountability #CivicResponsibility #JusticeMatters #CommunityReflection #SexualAssaultAwareness #BelieveVictims #HardConversations

In Praise of Lunch


Every now and then, I need a break from writing about what’s going wrong (or going nowhere) at our local council. Today’s that day. It’s 11am, I haven’t had breakfast, and I’m already thinking about lunch, which, let’s be honest, is the one meal that rarely disappoints and never ends in a motion being deferred.

My grandmother believed lunch was the main meal of the day, and frankly, I thought it was just a post-war habit she couldn’t shake. But here I am, decades later, eating my main meal at noon and realising she was the wisest person in the house.

Turns out, lunch has a lot going for it.

The truth is, I love lunch. I especially love having lunch with friends. We always pick somewhere with good food and living in paradise, we nearly always find a spot with great views too. Add in a table full of thoughtful, funny, generous humans, and I’m reminded how lucky I am. Good friends, good food, good conversation. What more do you need?

Lunch is underrated. It doesn’t ask much. You can eat it standing up at the bench or sitting under a tree with a sausage roll and a story to tell. You don’t need matching napkins or a dinner playlist. You don’t need to be on. You just need an appetite and ideally someone who makes you laugh.

Unlike breakfast, you don’t have to fake cheerfulness. Unlike dinner, where at my age you’re not half-asleep. Lunch is simple, forgiving, and strangely optimistic. It happens while the day still has potential.

So let’s stop treating it like a time slot between meetings. Let’s stop pretending a protein bar is a meal. Let’s bring back the proper lunch, with real food and real people, and maybe even a second glass of wine ( maybe not if I want to be awake at 7pm.)

Let’s be honest. If we want meals that build connection, restore sanity, and occasionally include a pastry (or two), lunch is our best shot.

Let’s stop treating it like a speedbump.

Let’s make lunch the main event again.

Shoutout to Lauren Collins at The New Yorker for the inspiration

#LunchWithFriends #GratefulForGoodCompany #ViewsAndConversation #InPraiseOfLunch #SavourTheMiddleMeal #Over60AndThriving
#EverydayJoy #LunchBreakNotBreakneck #FriendshipAndFood
#LivingWellAtLunch

What If We’re Teaching the Wrong History?

 

When I was at school, history was dates and battles, World War I, World War II, Gallipoli, the Depression. But even back then, 55 years ago, the Middle East was in turmoil, Southeast Asia was shifting under our feet, and Indigenous voices in Australia were demanding to be heard. None of that made it into the classroom.

We were taught facts. Not how to think about them.

No one ever asked: What can we learn from history? How do we hold different perspectives? What does it mean to disagree respectfully? Or to understand where someone else is coming from, even when we don’t agree?

And it matters, because if history doesn’t teach us how to listen, how to think, how to judge wisely, then we’re not learning history. We’re learning trivia.

Chris Wallace, a historian and professor, says the same thing in a recent ABC interview. She argues that decades of neoliberalism have narrowed the purpose of education into something transactional, training people to “get a job,” not become thoughtful citizens. History and literature have been among the first subjects to be cut. They’re seen as “nice to have,” not “must have.”

But what do we lose when we strip those subjects away?

We lose critical thinking. We lose wisdom. We lose the kind of broad understanding that helps societies steer through complexity without being manipulated by loud voices or narrow interests. As Wallace puts it, we end up with people in elite positions “who are highly trained—but not deeply educated.”

She’s not just talking about university. She’s talking about a mindset. And it’s showing up in the way we do democracy, especially at the local level.

We talk a lot about “community consultation” in local government. But let’s be honest, most of the time, it’s just a box-ticking exercise. Surveys, feedback forms, public meetings that go nowhere. We capture mass opinion, but we don’t help people work through the hard stuff: trade-offs, values, vision.

Jay Weatherill, the former SA Premier, says public opinion sits on a continuum—from magical thinking (“lower taxes and better services for all!”) to mature public judgement. And it’s the job of leadership to help us move along that line. Not by preaching. Not by pretending to have all the answers. But by creating space for proper dialogue.

That’s what good history teaches us too. That life is complex. That truth depends on where you’re standing. That understanding how we got here helps us work out where we go next.

It’s no wonder students are disengaging. As Wallace says, if you remove meaningful options, if there’s no space to explore Australia’s political history, social history, Indigenous history, then we’re not just dumbing down education. We’re forgetting our own story.

And when we forget our own story, we’re easy to manipulate. We stop asking questions. We confuse certainty with truth.

So here’s my hope.

That we teach history not just as a set of facts, but as a way of thinking.

That we expect more from civic engagement than noisy town halls.

That we stop asking people what they want and start asking why they want it, and what it will take.

That we invest not just in infrastructure, but in informed decision making, in the skills and tools communities need to think together.

Because democracy isn’t just about who wins the vote. It’s about whether we can still talk to each other after.

Additional reading option

Top Australian writers urge Albanese to abolish Job-Ready Graduates, calling their humanities degrees life changing

Humanities faculties are being restructured not because they cost too much to run, but because they are perceived to return too little. Yet the skills they foster – interpretive reasoning, ethical judgement, historical understanding – remain essential to democratic life.

This post is dedicated to a very wise man,  Peter Bailey Brown , who I wish I met earlier

Peter Brown is a man whose legacy continues to unfold in paddocks, policies, and in the lives of the people he’s helped along the way. From the paddocks of Cudal to the boardrooms of international development…

Peter has never lost sight of what matters: listening, learning, and finding practical, human ways forward.

#HistoryMatters #CriticalThinking #PublicJudgement #DeliberativeDemocracy #CivicLeadership #Neoliberalism #EducationReform #DemocracyInPractice #CommunityVoice #LearningFromHistory #TeachTheWholeStory

Have We Learned Anything? Reflections on Local Council, Then and Now

In the second half of the 19th century, when Kiama’s citizens weren’t happy with how they were governed, they didn’t just complain. They seceded.

They formed their own municipality. Twice. Jamberoo and Gerringong both separated from Kiama Council when they felt their needs were being ignored. And while the politics of secession were messy and sometimes opportunistic, they were also a bold assertion of local self-determination. People weren’t content to be governed poorly. They expected more.

And here’s the part that stays with me, they acted not from strength or surplus, but while they were broke. Struggling. They made the best decisions they could under hard conditions, and sometimes they got it wrong. But the stakes were understood, and the community took responsibility for its choices.

Fast forward to now, and I find myself wondering, have we learned anything?

Because if history has a habit of repeating, then so does complacency.

Now

🏘️ Our Housing Strategy: A Missed Opportunity

Our current council has just made the most important decision of its elected term: our housing strategy. This is the document that will shape how and where people live in our region for years to come.

And what do we have?

  • No social housing.

  • No affordable housing.

  • Housing affordability isn’t even on the table.

But the gaps run deeper than that. Our housing strategy:

  • Sets no targets for affordable or social housing.

  • Offers no solutions for renters or people experiencing housing stress.

  • Contains no actions or incentives for local affordability.

  • Doesn’t plan for infrastructure to match growth.

  • Fails to connect housing approvals to service upgrades.

  • Offers no real tools to ensure housing diversity actually gets built.

  • Provides no clear guidance on where housing types should go.

  • Includes no sustainability standards or climate resilience planning.

  • Fails to integrate green infrastructure, bushfire buffers, or water sensitivity.

  • Doesn’t follow up on public feedback or create future accountability.

  • Leaves renters, youth, and low-income voices out of the ongoing process.

It’s not just underwhelming, it’s dangerous. Because while the housing crisis deepens, we are left with a document that looks busy but delivers nothing.

🔍 Leadership Doesn’t Come With the Role

This is not just about policy. It’s about leadership. And we’re not seeing it.

But I don’t blame individuals so much as the system that pretends leadership is instinctual. It’s not. We aren’t all born leaders—but leadership can be taught. It can be mentored, supported, nurtured. We have extraordinary people in our community. We have access to world-class facilitators, democratic innovators, and frameworks that help communities think through complex decisions.

We have what we need to lead wisely. So why are we still afraid to use it?

💡 What Are We So Afraid Of?

Maybe this is the question worth asking.

What do we fear?

Do we fear letting go of control?
Do we fear what the community might say if we give them space to deliberate?
Or are we simply afraid that the answers they offer will make us uncomfortable?

Because here’s the truth: There is nothing more powerful than a community of citizens who are equipped with the knowledge they need to make informed decisions. Not just opinions, judgement.

And if we want our councils to reflect the best of who we are, then we need to invest in that capacity, not just for leaders, but for all of us.

🧭 Look to Our Past to Guide Our Future

We’re are still broke. And maybe, just maybe, it’s time to remember what our forebears already knew: that when governance fails, the people must step forward, courage, vision, and the willingness to lead differently.

#LeadershipMatters #CommunityLeadership #LocalDemocracy #DeliberativeDemocracy #EmpoweredCitizens #CivicEngagement #BetterCouncils #LeadershipTraining #PeoplePowered #DecisionMakingTogether #DemocracyInPractice #LeadersAreMade #CourageToLead

Navigating Conversations Dismissed as “Woke”

 

In today’s political and cultural discussions, the word “woke” has evolved from a term signifying awareness of social injustices into a divisive label.

The term “WOKE” is often used pejoratively to shut down ideas without engaging with their substance. This shift has significant implications for dialogue, understanding, and meaningful connection.

Here’s how we can navigate conversations where this kind of dismissal arises:

1. A Misunderstood Label

Originally, being “woke” was about staying alert to societal inequalities, a call for empathy and awareness. However, the term has been co-opted and weaponised to ridicule progressive ideas. This misuse undermines the genuine intentions behind the term, turning what could be an invitation to discuss complex issues into a barrier to conversation.

How to address it:
Recognise and clarify the original intent behind the term. For instance, you might say, “I think there’s some misunderstanding here when people talk about being ‘woke,’ they often mean being aware of and addressing societal challenges. Can we explore the specific issue you’re concerned about?”

2. Avoidance of Complexity

Labelling something as “woke” often acts as a shortcut, bypassing the effort it takes to understand or address opposing views. Instead of tackling the nuances of an idea, the label serves to discredit it entirely.

How to address it:
Encourage deeper engagement by asking thoughtful, open-ended questions:

  • “What aspects of this idea do you find challenging or unhelpful?”
  • “Have you considered other perspectives on this issue?”

These questions prompt reflection and can steer the conversation towards a more meaningful exchange.

3. Polarisation and Defensiveness

Using “woke” as a derogatory term often reflects defensiveness or an unwillingness to consider ideas outside one’s ideological comfort zone. This dynamic increases polarisation, fostering an “us versus them” mentality that hinders understanding.

How to address it:
Acknowledge the defensiveness without escalating it. You might say, “I understand why this topic might feel polarising. What do you think is at the heart of the disagreement?” This can create a space for empathy and shared values to emerge.

4. Erosion of Dialogue

When terms like “woke” are used dismissively, they derail conversations and reduce opportunities for genuine connection. Instead of discussing the core ideas, the focus shifts to the emotional weight or connotations of the label itself.

How to address it:
Shift the focus back to the issue at hand. For example:

  • “Rather than focusing on labels, I’d like to hear more about your specific concerns regarding this topic.”
  • “Can we move past the term and discuss the underlying problem?”

5. Reframing the Conversation

Reframing is a powerful tool for navigating dismissive language. By steering the dialogue back to the issue itself, you can encourage critical thinking and engagement.

Sample reframes:

  • “What part of this perspective do you think is worth exploring further?”
  • “Do you think there’s common ground we can build on here?”

This approach not only de-escalates tensions but also invites collaboration and mutual understanding.

Why It Matters

Dismissing ideas as “woke” isn’t just a linguistic choice, it reflects broader trends in how we approach disagreement. By refusing to engage deeply, we miss opportunities for growth, compromise, and progress. Navigating these conversations with curiosity and care can help bridge divides and foster a culture of respectful dialogue.

A Call to Action
When faced with dismissive labelling, consider this: Every conversation is an opportunity to connect and learn. By resisting the temptation to retreat or retaliate, we can model the kind of meaningful discourse we wish to see.

Have you encountered this dynamic in your own conversations?

How do you respond when someone uses terms like “woke” to dismiss opposing views?

#woke #dialogue #polarisation #socialjustice #complexity #meaningfulconversation #curiosity #empathy #reframing #debate

Why Are We Fighting About Cows When the Real Problem is Us and Trust?

It’s the great cow controversy of 2024, and social media is on fire. This time, it’s not about dairy vs. oat milk or even beef vs. tofu. It’s about a tiny supplement called Bovaer, designed to reduce methane emissions from cattle, and the uproar is deafening.

On Facebook, it’s war. Some are decrying Bovaer as the latest corporate conspiracy, something Bill Gates would whip up in his private jet to poison our milk. Others see it as the saviour of the planet. But here’s what’s really happening: we’re missing the point entirely.

Let’s be honest. The problem isn’t cows. It’s us. The more people we have, the more food we need to produce. That means more cows, more methane, and, yes, more impact on the environment. But when a practical solution comes along to reduce that impact—something backed by a decade of research and field trials—we throw up our hands in shock. Why?

There’s a fundamental trust gap between the people making these solutions and the people consuming them. Scientists, bless their well-intentioned hearts, roll out their data and expect us to just get it. But most people don’t live in peer-reviewed journals. They live in real-world uncertainty, where the line between “helpful innovation” and “corporate takeover” feels razor-thin.

And social media isn’t helping. Instead of nuanced discussions, we’re fed bite-sized outrage. A single post about Bovaer can spiral into fearmongering faster than you can say “methane,” leaving consumers more sceptical than informed.

Take a moment to consider this: humans pop supplements every day with little to no evidence that they work. Collagen powders, detox teas, mystery vitamins—there’s a whole industry thriving on the “it can’t hurt, right?” mentality. But introduce a scientifically-proven supplement for cows, and suddenly we’re all chemical experts, clutching our organic milk bottles like lifelines.

The debate over Bovaer isn’t really about methane or cows. It’s about trust. Trust in the people who make our food. Trust in the researchers who develop solutions. And trust in each other to have real conversations instead of trading cheap shots online.

We can’t fix this problem by vilifying farmers who are trying to do the right thing, whether they’re grass-feeding their cows or testing methane-reducing additives. Nor can we solve it by blindly defending corporate-backed solutions without addressing consumer concerns.

Here’s the truth: no single fix is perfect. Grass-fed systems sequester carbon but still produce methane. Feedlot systems can use products like Bovaer but rely on grain, which has its own environmental cost. The real solution lies in recognising that everyone—farmers, scientists, and consumers—is on the same team. We all want sustainable food systems. We all want to protect the planet. We just need to stop fighting long enough to figure out how to get there.

So, next time you see a post about cows “killing the planet” or a product like Bovaer being the hero or villain of the story, pause. Ask questions. Demand transparency.

But don’t let fear or outrage guide the narrative. Because if we don’t tackle the root problem—how we produce and consume food—we’re just mooing in circles.

Will agriculture ever learn? How many own goals does it need to kick? Trust and Transparency is everything.

I rest my case 4 December 2024 SMH – Panic over additive in cattle feed sparks milk and meat furore 

 

#Bovaer #MethaneReduction #SustainableFarming #GrassFedBeef #DairyFarming #ClimateAction #FoodSecurity #LivestockSolutions #EnvironmentalImpact #ConsumerTrust