I'm eating chicken again and no one cares.

And I guess, neither do I. How do we straddle apathy with activism when it feels like the world is burning?

[Via Pinterest]

For the last decade, I’ve flip-flopped between a vegetarian and a pescatarian diet – staunch on the belief that I would

probably never eat a land animal again.

I still remember the moment I announced to my Mum that I wanted to ‘go vego.’

I was 15. Allow me to set the scene.

Most of my best girlfriends had committed themselves Veganism. I was staying up late at night watching Cowspiracy alongside a myriad of other animal-activist made Youtube documentaries uncovering the truth about slaughter houses, and in the thick of this era, we’d just bought a family dog.

The tipping point arrived and suddenly, I couldn’t stomach the thought of eating roast Lamb while my precious new puppy sat breathing gently in a warm bed beside the dinner table.

That was it. Until just recently, when an all too delicious-looking chicken cotoletta sandwich sat before me on a lunch break. My friend offered me a bite.

Usually, I would decline such a gesture and keep munching on my own dietary-friendly food. But on this day, tentatively, I scanned the sandwich shop to see if anyone was watching, (reader, they obviously weren’t) and chowed down.

Suddenly my Sicilian veg and ricotta focaccia didn’t taste nearly as appetising.

[Pictured: the reason for the downfall for decade-long commitment. Carlito’s, you’re on notice…]

It’s been over since then, really.

For the past couple of weeks, tremors of guilt have surfaced. I’ve bargained internally, swearing I’ll only eat chicken if I really want to, like at a swanky restaurant or something. I’ve eaten veggie sausages for dinner then haphazardly reached for grilled chicken BBQ leftovers the next morning – taking them to work for lunch ‘only-because-i-was-in-a-rush-and-forgot-to-meal-prep.’ I’ve even murmured justifications and disclaimers under my breath before reaching for a skewer offered up to me at a work photoshoot. Who cares, right?

Weeks later, I tried to release the shame around the death of my pescatarianism and sheepishly announce my changed diet to the aforementioned vegan girlies of 2015. I braced myself for some gentle scolding, but instead, was met with a rather supportive, if not, blasé response. It was a totally judgement free zone:

‘So fair enough.’

‘Literally who cares.’

‘I eat dairy literally all the time now, so…’

‘You’ve gotta do what you’ve gotta do.’

‘Lowkey same, I’m actually going to have fish tonight at dinner.’

My point is, introducing chicken back into my diet was not NEARLY as big of a deal as my teenage self would like to have thought.

Eating that Carlito’s chicken sandwich was way too bloody easy. And as I write this, I realise that all the work I did as a young adult to resolve my cognitive dissonance around animal cruelty, speciesism and minimising our environmental impact through an intentionally plant-based diet, has slowly been eroded away.

*Sigh.* I’ve become more apathetic than I would like to be.

The 15 year-old me I described earlier believed that every soul on this earth is gifted the potential to make an impact. The whole power-of-the-individual mindset coursed through her veins, and she was hell-bent on living her damn values. She was already plotting how she’d raise her kids on tofu and various legumes to ensure their protein intake would be as tip top as their omnivore peers. Did you know some of the world’s most elite athletes are vegan? Bless her. She had nothing else to worry about.

21 year-old me took every opportunity to use any platform afforded to her for activism. She piped up about politics unabashedly at dinners and explained exactly why she opted for the vego option when probed – stats at the ready, even if this were guaranteed to make things awkward. She wove feminism into every piece of writing ever submitted. She overshared massively in the name of making her readers feel seen and validated. At university, she devoted more time to creating safe spaces for women to be empowered through student union events than she did studying. The list goes on. She cared so much.

[Oh, you just HAD to be there.]

25 year old me still cares, to extent. But at the end of the day, she does a lot less about it. She probably understands more about why the causes she believes in are more important than ever. But she’s so exhausted, and she’s learned a lot of hard truths about the world. To her, not eating meat feels less about an act of activism and more like a force of habit. She works full time, she tries her best and she’s run out of steam. She remembers why 15 year-old and 21 year-old me lived their values loud and proud – unmovable and strong. But she can’t help but feel like no matter how many chicken sandwiches she’s declined in the last ten years, the world is still burning (see: the news cycle). So, she may as well eat for true enjoyment every once in a while.

[Well, yes. Exactly.]

I’m not surprised 25 year-old me feels slightly apathetic - I think maturing is realising we all need a little apathy to cope with the bin fire that’s currently ablaze. I also have a suspicion that the rise of therapy speak and a societal shift towards individualism has crept in on my utilitarian spirit.

Opting-out in the name of self-care consistently cushions the fall out of my dwindling ethical compass. I feel less inclined to do hard things in the name of the greater good. I allow creature comforts like Lit Fic, TikTok, White Lotus, pop culture and pilates to take precedence over the values that require me to sacrifice and step up – letting the prioritisation of pleasure muffle the guilt of wanting to do more. To act more.

Is my dwindling activism a result of the siloed nature of being in my mid-twenties? Is having less access to community group-think to keep me accountable the reason I don’t spring at the chance to post or protest? Or is my innate altruistic spark simply flickering to a dying flame beneath the weight of the world?

I don’t know. But I miss caring more. I really do.

So, where do I go from here? I thought I might get to the end of this newsletter and have answers. But truthfully, I don’t.

What I do know, is I’d like to get back in touch with the person who believes every individual has the power to create a positive ripple effect. Who knows that any act of kindness, of thoughtfulness, of empathy for those who need advocacy, has the potential to move mountains.

Buried beneath the layers of apathy - she’s down there, waiting for me.

I think I might find her by reading more widely. By not rage-quitting half way through reading the daily depressive set of headlines. By researching policies thoroughly ahead of the upcoming election, and talking to my peers about the big issues we should be aware of. By decreasing my screen time. By journalling more. By getting angry more often and then doing something about it. By challenging my biases. By speaking up. By harnessing my maturity to pick my battles and fight hard for the ones I choose. I’ll find my new line and tow it with vigour.

And in the midst of the search party, I’ll probably break for a chicken sandwich or two.