Like Water Off a Duck's Back

Welcome to The Brighter Side of Everything.

This newsletter serves a simple purpose → To help you build optimism, resilience and a solution-focused perspective.

Each week, I’ll share actionable insights that not only brighten your day but position you to be a leader within your own life and seize life’s opportunities.

Read time: 20-30 minutes.

Hello, Brighter Side readers! ☀️

Welcome to our newest subscribers and thanks again to those who continue to read along.

As I type this, Toronto is in the midst of hosting the World Cup, which has been a great reminder of the power of these events.

A reminder that we have more in common than we don’t and the recognition of our shared humanity brings people together in ways that make your heart sing.

Functional societies thrive on collaboration and empathy and Toronto is all of that right now.

I’m also buzzing after a visit from a lifelong friend that lives on the other side of the world so it’s been a wonderful few weeks.

Righto, ever had an offhand comment rattle around your head for days?

Long after the person who said it likely forgot all about it?

This week is about letting those moments slide right off you.

Like water off a duck's back.

Expect a few ducks, a little science, and my own bald head coming along for the ride.

See you on the Brighter Side,

Chris

P.S. Please feel free to send me feedback on how I can improve. I respond to every email.

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Someone says something sharp.

It stings.

Just a small comment, tossed your way in a meeting or buried in a reply, but somehow you're still carrying it three days later.

You replay it on the drive home.

You rewrite your response in the shower.

The person who said it has probably long forgotten it but you're the one still holding it.

Most of us know this feeling well.

A single piece of criticism can outshine a hundred kind words, and too often, we let it.

Then there's the other kind of person.

The one who hears the same comment, nods, and moves on like nothing happened.

It rolls right off them.

Like water off a duck's back.

I should confess a bias before we go any further.

I’ve always been strangely fond of ducks.

I grew up in and around farms in regional New South Wales, Australia and my mum was fascinated by ducks.

She even kept ornamental wooden ducks dotted around the house.

A couple of lifesize ones standing guard by the fireplace, and others claiming shelf space where they could.

I can't tell you exactly why they captivated me, but they definitely found their way into my psyche.

And my soft spot for them has never worn off.

So… when a lesson about staying composed happens to star a duck?

As you can imagine, I’ve always been an easy sell.

I've also spent most of my working life leading teams in different corners of the world.

The kind of roles that come with an audience, and an audience always has opinions.

I've had my work picked apart in rooms full of people.

I've made calls that didn't make sense to anyone watching from the outside.

When I was much younger, I lived far too close to that noise.

I'd replay a small piece of pointed feedback for a week, mining it for proof that I'd been found out.

It took both time and experience to learn what I now think is one of the most useful skills a person can build.

Not how to avoid criticism.

How to let it pass through you, without leaving a mark.

Our brains aren’t neutral scorekeepers.

They're wired to protect us and tend to weigh the negative far more heavily than the positive.

Psychologists refer to this as negativity bias, or as one review of the research put it, proof that bad is stronger than good.

It's the reason one spiky remark can drown out a weeks worth of praise.

It made sense once upon a time.

Our ancestors who fixated on every threat and problem tended to survive a little longer than those who shrugged everything off.

A useful instinct in a world of predators becomes a heavier one in a world of opinions and performance reviews.

So the sting itself is normal but we have the power to address (and alleviate) the lingering effects.

The instinct, though, only explains half of it.

The cognitive behavioural therapist Michael Neenan, in his book Developing Resilience: A Cognitive-Behavioural Approach, makes a deceptively simple point.

Events don't disturb us.

The meaning we attach to them does.

The same offhand comment can flatten one person and barely register for another.

The words remain the same, the story we wrap around them changes.

That gap, between what was said and what you decided it meant, is small.

But it's where much of your mental freedom lives.

Let me give you a personal example.

I've been bald for most of my adult life.

My hairline started its retreat early, and I went the way of my father.

It suits me, so that helps.

It's also easy to look after and I haven't paid for a haircut in twenty-five years.

It's simply become part of who I am.

None of that though, stops the occasional self-appointed comedian deciding that "baldy" is a devastating put-down.

Or that a crack about my shiny head is breaking fresh comedic ground.

Years of it have taught me something very useful.

Those comments have almost nothing to do with me.

They tend to surface from somewhere unsettled in the other person, an insecurity or an old wound looking for an outlet.

Which brings me to the second big idea, the one that shifts everything once it sinks in.

Criticism usually says more about the critic than the person on the receiving end.

Psychologists have measured this.

In a 2010 study, researchers led by Dustin Wood found that how we describe others says more about us than about them.

People who habitually see others as cold or dishonest tend to be less happy and less settled themselves.

The critique is often a self-portrait.

Most of the time, folks are just reacting out of their own stress, their own mood, whatever they happen to be carrying that day.

A lot of what gets thrown your way was never really aimed at you at all.

Think back to the last comment that really stung.

How much of it was about you, and how much was about them?

Don’t take this as permission to wave off every piece of feedback.

Some (well delivered and thought through) criticism is a genuine gift.

The honest, well-meant kind is often quite valuable, and those who care enough to offer it are rare.

The skill lies in telling the difference, and only holding on to the parts that actually help.

Let the rest float right by you.

We often overlook the most valuable aspect of the duck reference.

A duck isn't born waterproof.

It has to become waterproof.

Tucked away near its tail sits the preen gland, which produces a waterproofing oil.

Several times a day, ducks work that oil through every feather with its beak.

That daily, unglamorous maintenance is a big part of why the water beads up and rolls away.

Skip it, and the duck gets waterlogged like anything else would.

Emotional resilience works the same way.

Nobody is born with feathers that shed criticism.

You build the coating a little at a time, through practice and self-awareness.

Which is great news.

It means the unbothered people you admire aren't from a different species.

They've just been oiling their feathers longer than you have.

A while back I also wrote about the swan, who often appears calm on the surface while paddling like mad underneath.

The duck is its scruffier cousin.

Both making the situation look effortless, while neither actually is.

There’s also a trap here that’s worth acknowledging.

Allowing things to slide off your back doesn't mean you're devoid of emotion.

Far from it.

In his research, Michael Neenan pushes back on the idea that resilience is just bouncing straight back up.

As though the hard thing never touched you or impacted you.

A duck still feels the rain.

The water just doesn't soak all the way through to its skin becuase it has developed the skills needed to stay dry.

Similarly, resilience involves developing the skills and strategies to manage adversity and life’s challenges effectively.

Allowing you to withstand life’s difficulties without being overwhelmed by them.

The most resilient people I know aren't made of stone.

They still feel the sting, but decline to let it ruin the rest of their day.

Because the day you go numb to the rough stuff is the same day you go numb to the good.

Here are some methods that have helped me over the years:

Pause before you absorb: When a comment spikes your heart rate, count to five before you do anything with it. Most of the damage happens in the reaction, not the remark.

Consider the source: Would you take directions from this person on anything else? Feedback from someone who knows your work deserves real weight. A drive-by from someone who doesn't can be left behind.

Mine the one percent: Look for the useful parts inside the criticism, hang on to that, and let the other 99% wash away. Even awkward comments can sometimes reveal a truth.

Anchor somewhere they can't reach: Keep a short, honest list of things you value in yourself that have nothing to do with anyone's approval. Your curiosity, your kindness, even your stubbornness. When the noise builds, read through your own list before you reach for theirs.

Protect the new stuff: When an idea is fresh, share it only with people who'll handle it with care. Early on, ideas need oxygen far more than they need critique.

None of these methods will turn you to stone.

They just help give the water somewhere to go.

I think about ducks more than I'd care to admit, and here’s what I’ve learned.

The unbothered aren't lucky, they aren’t special and they aren't cold.

They've just stopped agreeing to carry things with them that were never theirs to begin with.

Every comment you let slide off your back is an active choice to prioritise your own peace over external noise.

You won't get it right every time, no one does.

I still catch myself ruminating about an interaction now and then.

With each practice, your feathers become a little more waterproof, and the water has a little less to cling to.

So the next time a sharp comment lands, and you feel that pull to carry it with you for a week?

Let it bead up and slide off.

I’d like to think those wooden ducks by the fireplace would approve of the way I've come to handle these moments as an adult.

Feel the rain, just don't let it soak in.

You’re worth so much more than the insecurity and thoughtlessness of others.

And now I’m talking to ducks.

Time to see myself out 😂

If this week struck a chord, Brené Brown’s take on critics is the perfect companion to today's piece. It’s a bit longer at 23 minutes, but is time well spent:

Lastly, let’s have some fun. Don’t believe me about the ducks? Check it out for yourself:

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🤲 Not All Acts of Kindness Give the Same Happiness Boost - New research finds the lift we get from doing good grows when we go a little beyond what's expected, vary how we help, and see genuine appreciation in return — and that even small gestures count. Read more →

😂 Your Brain Has Separate Circuits for Belly Laughs and Polite Chuckles - Reviewing decades of evidence — including epilepsy patients whose brains were gently stimulated before surgery — scientists found that genuine, helpless laughter runs on a different neural network than the polite, conversational kind, and only the spontaneous sort actually lifts your mood. Read more →

🧈 Why Butter Is Yellow - Butter gets its distinctive yellow hue from carotenoids in cow feed. Since butter is 80–85% fat and milk is only 3% fat, the carotenoid concentration is about 28 times higher in butter, making the colour visible. Grass-fed cows produce yellower butter because fresh grass contains more carotenoids than dry grain or hay. Read more →

⚽ Why Watching Sports Makes People Happy - Research shows watching sports lowers anxiety and the stress hormone cortisol, increases life satisfaction more than many people expect, and creates powerful social connection — even heading to a pub alone, you're suddenly surrounded by people who care about the same thing you do. Read more →

July, 1969.

An absorbed nine-year-old boy sits on the floor of a farmhouse in southern Ontario, watching on a grainy television.

In front of him, two men in white suits are bouncing joyfully across the surface of the Moon.

In that moment the boy decides, with complete certainty, that he is going to be an astronaut.

There's just one problem.

He's Canadian.

Canada has no space agency, no astronauts and (at the time) no plans for either.

No Canadian had ever flown in space, and as far as anyone could tell, no Canadian ever would.

This boy decides to become one anyway.

His name is Chris Hadfield.

So how do you train for a job that doesn't exist in your country?

Well, if you ask him?

You just start acting like it already does.

Hadfield had no astronaut programme to apply to and no Canadian to copy.

So he came up with his own simple question and asked it over and over for the next twenty years.

What would an astronaut do?

An astronaut would study hard, so he studied hard.

An astronaut would keep fit and stay calm under pressure, so he learned to.

He became a fighter pilot, then a test pilot, learning to fly aircraft no one had flown before and, more importantly, learning to handle the moments when things go wrong at the speed of sound.

He prepared, in other words, for a job that might never exist.

It was an enormous gamble on himself.

For most of his young life, the most likely outcome was that he would do all of this and the door to opportunity would never open.

In 1992, more than two decades after that night on the farmhouse floor, Canada's space agency began looking for a new group of astronauts.

Thousands applied.

Hadfield was one of just a handful chosen.

The boy who’d built his whole life around an impossible dream had been preparing for this exact moment, the entire time.

In 2001 he became the first Canadian ever to float outside a spacecraft, helping to install the Canadarm2 on the International Space Station.

Think about that for a moment.

A Canadian, in open space, fitting a Canadian-built robotic arm onto humanity's home in orbit.

Then, in 2013, he was handed command of the entire Space Station.

The first Canadian ever to command it.

The dream that was believed to be unreachable had not only come true.

He was now running a Space Station.

Plenty of astronauts have flown through space over the last 50-60 years.

Hadfield though, chose to do something a little different with the view.

He decided the wonder was too impressive to keep to himself.

From the Space Station he posted photographs of the Earth at night, of rivers and deserts and city lights, and wrote about them with the awe of someone who couldn't believe his luck.

He filmed short videos answering real questions that kids had actually asked.

Kids just like him at nine-years-old.

What happens when you cry in space.

How do you brush your teeth.

What happens when you wring out a wet cloth with no gravity to pull the water down.

And on his final night in orbit, he floated in front of a guitar and recorded a cover of David Bowie's Space Oddity.

It was the first music video ever made in space, and it has since been watched hundreds of millions of times.

For a whole generation, he made space feel human.

Close enough to touch, and wondrous enough to dream about.

From the outside, his fame appeared like it had arrived overnight.

A singing astronaut, suddenly everywhere, at the age of fifty-three.

But as you now know, it was the exact opposite of overnight success.

Behind those few viral minutes sat more than forty years of unglamorous work.

Endless study.

Thousands of flying hours.

The endless drills, run again and again so nothing in a real emergency would come as a surprise.

He even has a rule for arriving somewhere new.

Aim to be a zero.

Not a minus, who creates problems, and not yet a plus, who saves the day.

Just a steady, useful zero who learns the room first and earns the right to add value later.

There's no scandal in Hadfield’s story, and no dark chapter.

What there is, underneath the joy, is a staggering amount of preparation that almost nobody saw take place.

You can start before the door exists: Hadfield began living like an astronaut years before Canada ever had one. You don't always need the opportunity in front of you to start becoming the person who could seize it.

Competence is the cure for fear: Hadfield wasn't fearless, he just made sure he out-prepared his fear. Drilling the scary parts time and time again until they felt familiar. Most of our fear is just a gap that exists where readiness should be.

Wonder is meant to be shared: He could have kept that view to himself. Instead he handed it to millions of us, and made the whole world look up again.

I've had astronauts on my mind lately.

Earlier this year I (and much of the world) watched the Artemis II crew loop around the Moon and come safely home.

Four people, including Canada's own Jeremy Hansen, travelling further from Earth than any human ever has.

What’s stuck with me wasn't the rocket or the records they shattered.

It was them.

The humans.

The sheer joy on their faces.

The optimism.

The way four people could carry that much mental weight and still look like they were having the time of their lives.

Completely devoted to what they were doing and each other.

That’s the exact spirit Chris Hadfield handed the world a decade earlier.

And it's no accident that a Canadian was on that crew.

Hadfield helped pry open the door that Jeremy Hansen just walked through.

Here's something I keep returning to.

You don't need a rocket to live with that kind of wonder and dedication.

The joy those crews carry around with them each day is contagious, and it's available to any of us who decide to pour ourselves fully into something we care about.

This nine-year-old boy on a farm decided to reach for the stars when everyone could have told him not to bother.

Not the saying, he reached for the actual stars.

What have you recently talked yourself out of, simply because the door isn't open yet?

Pick your impossible thing, and start aiming for it today.

Doors swing open for those who are prepared far more often than you'd think.

If you've ever doubted that an impossible dream is worth chasing, give this interview with Chris eight minutes of your time:

Some bands you stumble across, others come to you via someone you trust.

My younger brother introduced me to Sigur Rós many years ago.

And I’m so glad he did, because I've loved them ever since.

Of all their records, Takk... is the one that's remained in my regular rotation.

Sigur Rós are a post-rock band from Reykjavík, Iceland.

They've been making music together since the mid-nineties, often singing in Icelandic and sometimes in a made-up language of their own.

They call it Vonlenska, or Hopelandic.

It sounds odd written down but in practice you don't notice.

Jonsi’s voice becomes another instrument and the emotion comes through whether you understand the words or not.

Takk... is their fourth album, released in 2005.

The title means "thanks" in Icelandic.

If their name is new to you, their music almost certainly isn't.

The track Hoppípolla, which translates to "hopping into puddles,” exploded globally after the BBC used it in their Planet Earth documentary.

It’s also featured in films, ads and has become the cinematic shorthand for wonder.

But this album provides so much more than just that one song.

There's no other band that sounds like Sigur Rós.

Their music builds the way weather builds.

Quiet at first.

A few sparse notes, then a slow gathering.

And then something breaks open and gorgeous sounds flood the room.

Sæglópur and Milanó are a couple of songs that do this to me.

Every single time.

I've been fortunate to have visited Iceland three times now, and every time I land there, the music makes more sense.

The landscape, the people (and the music) all feel like they were made from the same materials.

With the same patience and wide open spaces.

In saying that, you don't need to know anything about Iceland to feel it.

But if you ever do go, this album is the perfect soundtrack as you explore the place.

You'll hear the moss, the mountains and the geothermal steam.

Takk... builds an environment that you find yourself living inside before you realise.

It’s an incredible experience.

Sigur Rós provide a unique sound, here’s a few ways to get the most out of them:

Listen in full: Takk... is sequenced as a journey. Hoppípolla is the song most will recognise but the slow swell of Glósóli at the start and the quiet farewell of Heysátan at the end are what earn the album its full weight. It’s a stunning piece of work.

Give it your attention at least once: This isn't background music, at least not the first time through. Headphones on, no distractions, an hour to yourself. Every listen after will feel different and add more layers to the experience.

Don't worry about the lyrics: You can't translate most of them anyway. The feeling it provides is the most powerful thing. Trust it.

See them live if you ever can: I've seen them live multiple times and every one of those shows is still with me. A Sigur Rós live show fills every corner of you.

My wife walked down the aisle to Hoppípolla.

That tells you all you need to know about how much this album means to me.

Some of you may remember I've mentioned this song before, without ever naming it.

This was the one.

But there have been many other moments that have stayed with me.

I remember being at one of their live shows, so absorbed in the music that when a beautiful dragonfly started circling the sky around our group.

It almost felt staged.

Or seeing multiple couples move to the front and start ballroom dancing to the music at an amphitheatre outside of Portland, Oregon.

That's what this album does.

It overcomes you in small, surprising ways.

Sometimes it's the music itself.

Sometimes it's a dragonfly.

Sometimes it's at the end of the aisle as a person you love walks towards you.

If you've never heard a Sigur Rós record, start here.

If you have, you already understand.

Takk... remember, is Icelandic for "thanks."

I wish I could say the same to them.

Please share; I'm always keen for great suggestions.

The North Wind and the Sun once argued over which of them was stronger.

To settle it, they spotted a traveller on the road below and agreed on a test: whoever could get the traveller to take off his coat was the winner.

The Wind went first.

It blew and howled and battered the man with everything it had.

But the harder it blew, the tighter he wrapped the coat around himself.

Then the Sun took its turn.

It simply shone, warm and steady.

Before long the traveller, comfortable and unhurried, slipped the coat off on his own.

Force made him cling.

Warmth made him let go.

Each of us likely reach for the wind more often than we'd like to admit.

When someone won't budge, the instinct is to push harder, and almost always, it makes them hold on tighter.

Back in the 1960s, psychologist Jack Brehm gave that reaction a name: reactance.

When people feel their freedom to choose is under threat, when they feel pushed or cornered, something in them pushes back to protect it.

Often by doing the exact opposite of what's being asked.

You see it everywhere.

A teenager who digs in the moment a request becomes an order.

The work colleague who resists a perfectly good idea because it was forced on them.

The friend who defends a position more fiercely the harder you argue against it.

Their coat is held a little tighter.

Warmth works because it takes the threat out of the equation.

When people don't feel pushed, they have room to move, and they'll often arrive at the very place you were hoping to lead them.

Except now it's their decision.

The Sun didn’t try to exert dominance over the traveller.

It made him want to change, all by himself.

Catch yourself reaching for the wind: Repeating yourself louder, piling on more pressure. Those are gusts of wind. When you notice them, let that be your cue to ease off rather than blow again.

Trade the demand for a question: People lower their guard when they feel safe rather than cornered. "What would make this easier for you?" opens a door that "just do it" slams shut.

Let them arrive on their own: The quickest way to lose someone is to make them feel they've lost. Leave room for the other person to reach the answer themselves, and then, let them keep the credit when they do.

I run into this lesson most often as a parent.

When one of my kids digs their heels in, every instinct I have says to push.

But any time I lean on the wind, their coat goes on tighter.

The resistance hardens, we both end up frustrated, and nothing actually shifts.

The moments that work look nothing like that.

A softer tone and some real curiosity about what's going on underneath, instead of a demand that they fall into line.

Nine times out of ten, the thing I was trying to force happens on its own once the pressure lifts.

But this also reaches well beyond parenting.

The harder you push a person, the more of their energy goes into pushing back.

Warmth is what keeps another person's defences down, and a lowered guard is the only state in which anyone ever really changes their mind.

So this week, when you hit resistance, fight the urge to blow harder.

Be the sun.

Stay warm and steady, and give the other person room to come around on their own.

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It's a powerful cycle of hope and optimism.

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