A Brief History of Fucks Given

What happened to our shameless?

We’re born knowing who we are. We’re authentic and shameless. Our core hasn’t been papier-mâchéd over with extra fucks given. But as we get older, layer by layer, we absorb the expectations, anxiety, and dusty ass baggage of those around us. Before we know it, we transform into adults with the same nervous laughter and calorie-counting as our ancestors. 

For a rat's nest tangle of reasons, we move further and further away from our naturally shameless self.

The shift is gradual, and we don’t even notice it’s happening when we’re rewarded for looking a certain way, saying the right things, and smiling at the unfunny. We accept the collective truths, like we ought to ‘real’ job, enter a ‘normal’ relationship, and ‘quietly’ fart behind closed doors.

We become buffed, carefully cultivated and curated versions of ourselves. And it gets scarier to tell the truth. To reveal ourselves. To be weird.

Eventually, like the many before us, we lose touch of who we are and why (against all plausible odds) we crowned earth side that fateful day in [insert your birth year here].

But just below the surface, like a boulder waiting to damage a cottager's Sea-Doo, is a looming feeling that something isn’t right. It’s a cagey dissatisfaction. A fiery boredom. An inflammatory uncertainty. And no matter what we do, who we date, or where we vacation, it hovers in the shallows. 

Sure, enough french fries and shiny new objects will temporarily suspend our awareness. But when we’re still, we can feel it provoking us. And if we allow ourselves to put down our phones, take out our AirPods, and sit in the unease for more than a nanosecond, we land on this (or something like it): we’re not doing what we’re meant to.

Ignoring our natural inclinations and honest feelings has forced us to give up pieces of ourselves. And this is a leading cause of our suffering. The malaise, acne goatee, and string of magician boyfriends are just the symptoms. 

As adults, we’ve stopped stoking the flame of our unadulterated. 

The degradation of our spirit by working barely tolerable jobs, spending too much time with people we don’t connect with, or altering parts of our personality has taken a toll. At times, it is swallowable but increasingly it screams at us to make a change, enticing us to yell out “who gives one single fuck!?” to any Mike or Doug who half-deserves it.

Eventually, we hit a crescendo—hopefully before swan diving into a mall fountain or starring in a viral video entitled “woman storms parliament in inflatable unicorn”, but definitely after over-eating, over-drinking, over-spending, over-creeping Realtor.ca (just me?), over-complaining, and over-being-over-it. But we’re not crazy.

We’ve just reached the point where it becomes too difficult to not be ourselves.

And with the realization that our happiness depends on authenticity, we come to a fork in the road. We must either: remain idle and grow melancholic with premature frown creases and a disappearing upper lip (it’s a legit phenomena I’ve been monitoring for two-plus decades), or Russian doll our own damn selves.

If we decide to pull things apart, it’s a matter of figuring who we are and reversing the damage done. It’s going full Shania Twain getting her voice back after the music industry and the adulterous Mutt stole it.

It’s shedding the fear, excuses, and extra fucks given so that we can once again sing off-tune lyrical transgressions like the beautiful Northern wildflower we are.

This methodic unravelling starts with an awareness that we’ve picked up a lot of expectations and bullshit along the way. Then, it’s spearheading our own #free[insert-your-name-here] campaign in an attempt to return to the fearless being that’s resided within us since Day 1 (before braces, Vex coolers, and trying to ‘make it’ in a blazer we forgot to snip the butt flap stitching on, veered us off course).

We need to level the oversized basic bitch McMansion we’ve been constructing in favour of something that is truly our own. We must bulldoze away the grey laminate, forrest green puffy awning things, and fly-encrusted driveway lanterns to see what’s left. We have to reveal the raw materials we’re working with, salvaging the good bones and shadowed willow tree, before rebuilding.

It all starts with the process of active undoing. And we call this our “journey back to shameless”. 

Journeying back to shameless marks the decision to stop putting up with the people, places and things that no longer serve us. It’s to trust our instincts and let our inner voice take the mic. It’s to pursue the life that our kid self would be proud of before fear and expectation took hold.

Our journey back to shameless can be marked by our number of “fucks given”—the fewer we have, the more fully we’re living as ourselves.

• “Zero fucks” is an exclusive club reserved for juice-moustached kids and fully enlightened adults who’ve journeyed back to shameless. A zero fucks person is in line with their own genius. These are the people that have put in the work and are now able to do what they genuinely love. They’re the leaders, innovators, and niche as hell enthusiasts who are proud and powerful weirdos.

• “Limited fucks” represents bèbè shameless—there’s some colouring outside of the lines, but there’s still convention and playing by the rules. This is where most people sit. They’re the people working tolerable jobs, pursuing hobbies they find interesting, but are keeping their seat warm at the convention while low-key searching for more. These people are somewhere on their meandering path back to shameless but are at-risk of deciding that comfortability and an SUV with heated seats is worth staying in the game for (these examples are purely autobiographical).

• “Peak fucks” coincides with other “peaks” (like peak ugliness in middle school) and other highly self-conscious and traumatic times. During “peak fucks” there’s worry over what others think, tailoring behaviour to match popular choice, lying, overriding intuition, and not living for oneself. These people are lost, out of touch, and not totally sure what makes living on this melting hunk of rock (with a goddamn sriracha-shortage) worthwhile.

Note: Being successful and achieving “zero fucks” are not the same thing. On paper, someone can be accomplished but this doesn’t mean that they’re close to fulfilled. “Zero fucks” represents choosing to be yourself without influence—even at the risk of losing traditionally measured success. 

By looking to our past and better understanding our tipping point from “zero fucks” into “peak fucks”—which happens somewhere between levelling a chair in homeroom class and losing a self-nominated race for valedictorian (again, autobiographical)—we can see the value in retrieving what we lost along the way.

Next week, we spend time in total weightlessness exploring zero-fucks.

Note: if you read this and you’re thinking, “is this like the THIRD intro to this book/blog thing?”, well, then Baby D, you’d be correct. A book intro is long, and I didn’t want to bore you with one long-ass post, so I split it up. I did this for *us*! And while I’d hate it if you were blowing hot air through your lower tooth seams huffin’ “get this thing going already!”, setting the stage is important.

Plus, your patience is a royal treat for which I am grateful!

And what can I say? I am natural hype man, preamble gambler (playin’ with the high-stakes risk of losin’ your interest), and an abrupt, literary Irish Goodbyer. So, thank you for committing to a flowery introduction. I love that you’re here.

XO