Column
Change
Identity
Psychology
Taylor Swift
7 min read

Self-belief: what Ted and Taylor get wrong

Psychologist Roger Bretherton questions whether believing in ourselves is all it’s cracked up to be, despite what culture icons might say.

A man in a blue jumper holds a yellow sign reading 'believe'.
Ted and that sign.

Psychotherapists can be really irritating. You may not have noticed how irritating they are, but I have.  And that’s saying something. Because I am one - an irritating psychotherapist that is. In nearly two decades of practicing and training people to counsel, coach and generally therapize (I know that’s not really a word, but I can’t help irritating you by using it), I have curated an ever-growing list of the therapeutic practices by which I am most likely to be irritated.  

To my mind, the gold medal in the irritating therapist Olympics goes to a winsome and playful hypnotherapist called Stephen Gilligan. Some psychotherapists treat everything that comes out of their clients’ mouths as treasures to be prized, it clearly wasn’t the way Gilligan saw it. In fact, he developed a therapeutic strategy designed to confront any sense that it is possible to define ourselves simply. Every time a client made an ‘I am…’ statement, he would respond with a twinkling eye and a lilting voice, ‘Of course, you are [insert dramatic Pinteresque pause here], except when you’re not.’  

Consequently, the pantomime of therapy goes like this. You think you’re a failure? Of course, you are... except when you’re not. You think you’re a coward?  Of course, you are... except when you’re not. You think you’re a control freak? Of course, you are... except when you’re not. You think you’re always punctual? Of course, you are... except when you’re not. You think you’re disciplined? Of course, you are... except when you’re not. You think you’re accepting of everyone? Of course, you are... except when you’re not. You think this is all really irritating? Of course, it is... except… You’ve probably got the gist of it by now. 

But why would Gilligan, with all his charm and playfulness, risk infuriating his clients like this? Perhaps because he knows something important about human identity that most of us tend to forget. None of us can be summed up in a single sentence, and whenever we try, something grates against us. Any attempt to cram the complex fabric of our lives into the all-too-tiny suitcase of our self-definitions causes us pain. After all that’s what irritation is. It is the gnawing sense that something doesn’t quite fit.  

Psychologists note the difference between anger and irritation. When we are angry, we are usually angry at something. Someone or something has blocked our plans. We’re frustrated. It’s not right and we fight against it. There is a sense of indignation and injustice. But with irritation we’re not always sure what’s bothering us, and if we are sure what it is, we’re not sure it should bother us.  It’s the young couple whispering behind us in the cinema, the door that only closes with just the right pressure, the person who subtly insults us. Not quite enough to make us leap into action, but just enough to steal our attention. To be irritated is to be slightly annoyed that we are annoyed; to be annoyed while wondering whether we have any reason to be annoyed.

We are whole and perfect just as we are, and no can tell us otherwise. It is the gospel of self-belief, that lingers on the lips of cultural icons from Taylor Swift to Ted Lasso: believe in yourself.   

Stephen Gilligan was confronting his clients with the fact that we often wear our identities like this, like ill-fitting clothes that bulge or chafe in the places where the tailoring fails to match the way our lives really are. We can be described in many ways, but we cannot ultimately be contained in, reduced to, or summed up by any single concept. Some part of us always colours outside of the lines. The human equation always leaves a remainder.  

The idea that we are ultimately a glorious mystery, even to ourselves, is not a comfortable thing to live with. We would much rather come up with a bold simple label and stick ourselves to it. At least then we’re safe from uncertainty. At least then we’d be something. Most of us to some extent play this game, and the good news is that our culture offers us numerous ways to play it. The bad news is that none of them really work. 

Perhaps the most popular way to play the identity game is to believe that we already are everything we need to be. We are whole and perfect just as we are, and no can tell us otherwise. It is the gospel of self-belief, that lingers on the lips of cultural icons from Taylor Swift to Ted Lasso: believe in yourself.  You’d think that would be a good thing to believe, but it does run into problems, particularly when the rest of the world fails to hold the same opinion of us.  

If we believe ourselves to be wonderful in every respect it comes as a bit of a shock to discover that not all our colleagues, bosses, or friends regard us with the same breathless awe. At this point, many of us modify our view of ourselves to something more realistic. But if we are not prepared to do that, there are only a limited set of options by which to square the circle of knowing ourselves to be magnificent in a world that refuses to agree with us. We can attack the world in rage, we can flee from it in fear, we can hide from it in shame. A surprising number of people respond with paranoia. Which makes sense. If almost everyone you speak to seems intent on undermining your matchless brilliance, you could be forgiven for thinking the world was out to get you. None of these responses are good. 

Thankfully, in recent years, therapeutic psychology has issued a corrective to the shortcomings of the self-esteem movement. More nuanced practices of self-acceptance and self-compassion, recognise that it is part of being human to not always be as we would like to be, and we will certainly not always be treated as we think we should be treated. A simple grandiose belief in ourselves is too flimsy to endure the buffeting of real life. Self-belief is not enough. 

Accepting acceptance is a radical reorientation of the self because it doesn’t start with us 

Some psychologists have argued that the twentieth century should be named ‘The Century of the Self’, the historical period in which Self replaced other larger concerns, such as Country or God, as the ultimate reference point for good human living. The fact that so many of us unthinkingly endorse the need for self-belief, suggests it is a popular option in our current cultural menu of ways to live with ourselves. But it is difficult not conclude that the cultural currents in which we swim are somehow misaligned, or that we suffer from a widespread lack of imagination if the lynchpin of our aspirations doesn’t really deliver. It makes me wonder if we have taken a wrong turn somewhere. 

The Christian view of all this is that we as human beings, far from being selves to believe in, are the recipients of a radical kind of acceptance. We are not called upon to generate self-acceptance out of thin air. We have been divinely accepted at the deepest possible level, not because we are special or exceptional, but as a gift to us from a generous God. All we have to do is accept that acceptance. Which is harder than it sounds, because we’d rather believe we did it under our own steam.  

Accepting acceptance is a radical reorientation of the self because it doesn’t start with us. It starts with a God who is willing to do whatever it takes to close the distance between us and Him. If God wasn’t like this, if he was vindictive or didn’t care, or if he refused to come anywhere near us until we’d reached the required height of spiritual perfection, there would be absolutely nothing we could do about it. But as it stands, all our attempts to impress God are pretty much useless. There is little point frantically reeling in a god who is already closer to us than we are to ourselves. What’s the point of trying to justify our existence if our existence has already been justified. This is where Christianity begins, but not where it ends.  

Divine acceptance does something more. If self-belief asserts that we are what we are, and no-one can tell us any different; then divine acceptance takes us as we are but refuses to leave us there. Something happens to us when we know that we are known and loved right to our bones. We no longer fear being abandoned because of our flaws, and we start to harbour a growing hope that we may be able to overcome them. Our self-awareness improves, we see ourselves more clearly. We learn to live life dynamically, with nothing left prove, but a lot still to learn.  

Article
Change
Character
Sport
5 min read

Rugby teaches how to live for others

The unseen players, doing unseen work, witness a truth of a content life.
A muddy rugby player carries equipment off a pitch.
Quino Al on Unsplash.

It’s a Tuesday evening and I’ve got my face in the dirt, as usual.  

About two years ago I rejoined a local rugby team for the first time since I was a teenager, and this is the result, a particularly brutal training exercise involving press ups, tackle bags, intricate running patterns, and repetitive sets. The coaches push us hard on a Tuesday so that by Saturday we can perform the same tasks at a slower speed than we knock them out in training. 

Although there are the occasional jokes about the coaches’ sadistic temperaments, there is no complaining or easing off. We’re locked in on the pain of preparation for the real thing.  

It’s obvious to list the individual benefits the training brings; remembering I have a body after a long day pastoring people’s spiritual needs, physical fitness, strength and conditioning. Even if these benefits seem outweighed when you get bashed up! But I have noticed that nobody is motivated primarily by these. It is the ability to be there for your mate that motivates the lads to be gluttons for punishment, the need to be fit enough to do the dirty work so the team can succeed. 

At almost any time in a game of rugby, half the team are doing things that you don’t see. There is almost no glory in playing in certain positions, you never make highlights reels or win player-of-the-match. Your only success is the team’s success. No perfect bind on a scrum, well timed clear out at a ruck, or perfect positioning in defence ever makes a highlights reel. 

Dan Cole is a bit of a local hero in my patch, playing over three hundred times for my team, the Leicester Tigers, and winning well over a hundred caps for England, third on the all-time list. Because of his position, playing prop, and his particular skillset, he is famous for almost never being noticed, he has scored just four international tries and never, as far as I could see, been named man-of-the-match. In fact, he was widely teased by teammates and opponents for daring to score a try for Tigers over the Christmas period. (He shoved the ball over from a yard out- not a glorious finish). 

Cole doesn’t trundle around the rugby pitch for his own glory, but understands that the best gift he can give is to prefer the team to himself, doing those quiet, unseen bits of the game he excels at. After all, you don’t win all those caps without being good at something, even if most of us don’t even notice what it is.  

Nothing tests my ability to die to self than when I’m flat on my back after tackling or being tackled and I need to spring up.

When I was thinking of getting back into playing, I wondered when I opened the clubhouse door, what I would find. Within half an hour of my first session I had joined the band of brothers, nicknamed ‘Rev’ forever, expected immediately to grasp the objective of working for others just as they worked for me, despite being a newbie who spent most of the time getting in the way. 

Because of this, I have found the two parts of my life - trainee priest and distinctly average rugby player - to fit neatly together. What I preach in the pulpit on a Sunday and try to demonstrate throughout the week about the spiritual life is demanded from my physicality on a Saturday afternoon. Jesus called his disciples to die to their own desires so that they could better serve the needs of others: with the kicker being that in this service, true joy, happiness and contentment will be found. 

This is perhaps the heart of the Christian message, that loving, genuine, service of others is so close to God’s heart that it is impossible not to find wholeness in living this way. It seems to be a lesson that has been unconsciously heeded in the sport I play; nothing tests my ability to die to self than when I’m flat on my back after tackling or being tackled and I need to spring up quickly for the next phase of the game. Or chasing the play from one end of the field to another at the end of the game to get back into the line to defend. Or a man mountain running at you with the ball, and you’re desperate not to let your end of the bargain down with your teammates by failing to tackle him.  

No doubt the language for thinking about these self-sacrifices for the team given to me by my faith is helpful. But I have found the opposite to be true too. Having experienced the joy of this service to my teammates, it strengthens the value of putting my own desires aside for the good of those who need my support. When at inconvenient times family members, friends, or congregants need a meal, a visit, some advocacy, or simply to be listened to, my spirit has been strengthened for this work by the experience of playing rugby and being part of a team.  

The spiritual training I undertake; reading the Bible, prayer, and confession, and the physical training; those beastly Tuesday evening sessions, are all preparation for making the choice of sacrifice over selfishness in the moments when it counts, on and off the pitch. My body and soul are learning the same lessons from multiple sources and coming to the same conclusion: serving teammates- on the rugby pitch and in life- is the way to contentment. Even more so if we find some of those teammates hard to love. 

As the Six Nations rolls round again this weekend, we will see plenty of skill and flair from the players in certain positions who have certain gifts. But watch closely, and those players whose work you cannot see are the crucial cogs in the machine which the flair players gloss. Those unseen players, doing unseen work, teach the truth of a content life, whether they know it or not.  

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