Last month, I was diagnosed with autism. As part of the process, I took the Empathy Quotient, a self-assessment tool designed to measure how well I tune in to what others are feeling. The results brought me back to high school, when my best friend Esther stood at the edge of my bed, eyes downcast saying: ‘It’s like you’re dead inside.’

I’m a physician. I’ve sat at the bedsides of thousands of patients.I’ve listened closely, asked thoughtful follow-up questions, and made space for grief and fear. But, according to the test, Esther was right: I lacked empathy. My score fell in the 0.5th percentile, nearly indistinguishable from a psychopath.

If I’d owned a pearl necklace, I might have clutched it. That very accusation – lacking empathy – is what tore apart my friendship with Esther. I didn’t cry at the expected time, or say the expected thing, or attend the expected party. But the problem isn’t that I lack empathy. It’s how our culture defines it.

Long before Esther and I met, I was a seasoned troublemaker. By kindergarten, my mugshot hung in the teachers’ lounge. Legend had it that I never learned to play by the rules but, the truth is, I played by the rules I was given.

In the fifth grade, I was caught red-handed in a bathroom stall reading my thesaurus. Concerned that I was under-socialised and ill-equipped for life, the principal promptly sent me to Ms Mortimer’s Kindness Boot Camp. I’d dangle my legs off an oversized chair and practice making eye contact, taking turns speaking, and laughing at jokes that weren’t funny. It felt a lot like detention, except with juice and crackers.

it taught me that I wasn’t like the other girls, and that being different was wrong

The only time Ms Mortimer was tough on me was when the hall monitor turned me in.’found her behind the garbage bin reading Webster’s Thesaurus,’ he’d report, like a prison guard clocking out. I didn’t understand the fuss.The reading program was all the teachers ever talked about, but here I was being reprimanded for preferring books to friendships.

‘Why do I have to be outside talking to the other girls at recess?’ I slumped down and crossed my arms over my chest. ‘All they talk about is lipstick and furry boots, and I don’t like fur on my feet.’

I didn’t hate the girls in my class. The truth is, I didn’t think about them at all. I was too enthralled, belly-down with my thesaurus, tucked between the shelves of our library. The moment I cracked it open, I knew: words were it for me. That single truth echoed from the top of my head to the tips of my toes. And for the first time, I belonged.

Kindness Boot Camp didn’t teach me how to connect. It taught me that I wasn’t like the other girls,and that being different was wrong. It was the first time I realised people were invested in changing me, and that I needed to protect the parts they wanted to erase.

Esther was the first real friend I trusted. she wasn’t picked by a teacher or arranged by my counsellor.We chose each other. We met in high school. She was the extrovert, and I was the frizzy-haired recluse who spent more time talking about grammar than Esther cared to sit through. Assigned seating brought us together, but it was our shared curiosity about our differences that led to our sacred promise. We sat cross-legged in my parents’ basement and swore

The quiet crisis in hospitality: why so many chefs are burning out

For decades, the professional kitchen has been romanticised as a crucible of creativity, a place where passion and skill combine to produce culinary magic. But behind the gleaming steel and artful plating lies a harsh reality: the hospitality industry is facing a burnout epidemic. Chefs, once celebrated as artists, are increasingly overwhelmed, stressed and leaving the profession altogether.

The pressures are multifaceted.Long hours are legendary, often exceeding 80 hours a week, with little time for personal life. the work is physically demanding, requiring stamina and precision in a hot, fast-paced habitat. But the challenges extend beyond the purely logistical.

A pervasive ‘toxic culture’ is often cited as a major contributor. This can manifest as aggressive behavior from chefs, a lack of work-life balance, and a reluctance to address mental health concerns. The hierarchical structure of many kitchens, where junior staff are expected to endure harsh criticism and relentless pressure, can be particularly damaging.

The pandemic exacerbated existing problems. Lockdowns and restrictions led to job losses and financial insecurity. When restaurants reopened, staff shortages were common, forcing those who remained to work even harder. Supply chain issues and rising food costs added further strain.

The consequences of this burnout are notable. beyond the personal toll on individuals – anxiety, depression, substance abuse – the industry is facing a critical skills shortage. Experienced chefs are leaving, and fewer young people are choosing culinary careers. This threatens the quality and innovation of the food we eat.

However, there are signs of change. A growing awareness of the problem is prompting some restaurants to prioritise employee wellbeing. Initiatives such as shorter working hours, mental health support, and a more respectful work environment are gaining traction.

Ultimately,addressing the burnout crisis requires a essential shift in the culture of hospitality.It’s time to move beyond the romanticised image of the suffering artist and recognize that a enduring, thriving industry depends on the health and wellbeing of its workforce.

the surprising link between anxiety and needing to be ‘right’

We all know people who have to have the last word, who can’t let a disagreement lie, or who become visibly distressed when challenged. Often, we label them as stubborn, controlling, or even arrogant.But what if this relentless need to be ‘right’ isn’t about ego, but about a deeper, more vulnerable place – anxiety?

As clinical psychologists, we’ve observed this pattern repeatedly in our work with clients. The drive to be right, it turns out, can be a misguided attempt to manage underlying anxiety. It’s a strategy, albeit an often counterproductive one, for creating a sense of safety and control in a world that often feels unpredictable and threatening.

The connection lies in how our brains process uncertainty. for many, uncertainty triggers the fight-or-flight response, releasing stress hormones and creating a feeling of unease. Being ‘wrong’ is, at its core, an experience of uncertainty. It means acknowledging that our understanding of the world is incomplete,that our predictions were off,and that we might be vulnerable to negative consequences.

For someone with anxiety, this can feel profoundly threatening. The need to be right becomes a way to ward off these feelings. If they can prove their viewpoint is correct, they can temporarily quiet the anxious voice in their head that whispers doubts and fears. It’s a form of mental self-soothing.

This isn’t to say that everyone who likes to win an argument is secretly anxious. However, when the need to be right is rigid, pervasive, and accompanied by significant emotional distress when challenged, anxiety is likely playing a role.

Consider these common scenarios:

* Defensive reactions: When someone’s viewpoint is questioned, do they immediately become defensive, interrupting or launching into lengthy explanations? This is often a sign that their sense of safety is threatened.
* rumination: Do they spend hours replaying conversations in their head, meticulously analysing every detail to ‘prove’ their point, even after the interaction is over? This is anxiety fuelling a compulsive need for certainty.
* Difficulty admitting mistakes: Is it incredibly difficult for them to acknowledge when they’re wrong, even in minor situations? this is as admitting fault feels like a confirmation of their fears and vulnerabilities.
* Controlling behaviour: Do they try to control conversations or situations to ensure their perspective is heard and validated? This is an attempt to create a predictable environment where they feel safe.

So,what can be done? For those who recognise this pattern in themselves,the first step is self-awareness. Understanding that the need to be right is a coping mechanism for anxiety can be incredibly liberating. It allows you to approach your reactions with more compassion and less self-judgment.

Therapy, particularly cognitive behavioural therapy (CBT), can be helpful in learning to tolerate uncertainty and challenge anxious thought patterns. Techniques like mindfulness and acceptance and commitment therapy (ACT) can also help you to observe your thoughts and feelings without getting caught up in them.

For those interacting with someone who exhibits this behaviour, patience and empathy are key. Avoid engaging in power struggles or trying to ‘win’ the argument. Instead, focus on validating their feelings and creating a safe space for them to express themselves without judgment.

Remember, beneath the surface of the need to be right often lies a vulnerable heart struggling with anxiety. By understanding this connection, we can move beyond frustration and towards compassion, both for ourselves and for others.

We’re learning just how early in life empathy starts to move us

Zanna Clay & Carlo Vreden

Why do we hesitate to talk about our own good deeds?

We readily share our failures and misfortunes, but frequently enough remain silent about our successes and acts of kindness. This reluctance stems from a complex interplay of social norms, psychological biases, and our fundamental need for belonging.

Socially, many cultures value humility and discourage self-promotion. Boasting about good deeds can be perceived as arrogant or attention-seeking, potentially leading to social disapproval. We fear being seen as self-righteous or insincere. this fear is particularly strong in cultures that emphasize collectivism, where maintaining group harmony is paramount.

Psychologically, several biases contribute to this silence. The Dunning-Kruger effect suggests that people with limited competence frequently enough overestimate their abilities, while those who are highly competent tend to underestimate theirs. This can lead individuals to downplay their accomplishments, assuming others will recognise their value without explicit mention. Furthermore, the false-consensus effect causes us to overestimate the extent to which others share our beliefs and behaviors. We might assume everyone is as kind or capable as we are, making it unneeded to highlight our good deeds.

Our need for belonging also plays a crucial role. Sharing vulnerabilities fosters connection, while highlighting our successes can create distance. By focusing on our imperfections, we signal our relatability and invite empathy. This aligns with research in social psychology demonstrating that people are more likely to form bonds with those who appear vulnerable and authentic.

However, complete silence about our positive contributions isn’t necessarily healthy. Acknowledging our strengths and accomplishments is vital for self-esteem and personal growth. The key lies in finding a balance – sharing our successes with humility and gratitude, rather than boastfulness. Perhaps a subtle acknowledgement, or framing a good deed as a collaborative effort, can mitigate the risk of social backlash while still allowing us to own our positive impact.

Ultimately, the decision of whether or not to share our good deeds is a nuanced one, shaped by individual personality, cultural context, and the specific situation. Understanding the underlying psychological and social forces at play can help us navigate this delicate balance and foster more authentic connections with others.