In physical sciences, the term resilience means “elasticity, the power of returning to original shape after compression.” The word’s roots go back to the Latin re (again) + salire (to jump or leap). This comes to mean “act of rebounding or springing back” (often to do with immaterial things).
What I like about this etymology is how it suggests resilience is not the act of being impenetrable or fully shielded against the external world, but rather our ability to be impacted, influenced, derailed, reshaped, wounded–and spring back or return to our ‘original form.’ This reading/definition is in contrast to the way we use resilience in reference to objects: when we say the rain jacket is water resistant, we don’t mean that the jacket gets soaked through but then returns to being a dry jacket. We mean that the rain jacket repels water. That it avoids getting wet in the first place.
I would argue that these kinds of ‘object’ usages have subtly shifted our perception of resilience when it comes to human applications. We now think of resilience more in terms of our ability to cut things off at the pass, our ability to simply not be swayed, rather than our ability to be deeply swayed and yet still maintain elasticity. (This is a generalization, and there are definitely thinkers who subscribe to the second view, the most famous being Brene Brown, whose research suggests that gratitude is the single largest determinant of resilience, and resilience and vulnerability are the cornerstones of courage, a view which clearly reads flexibility into resilience). But, exceptions aside, it feels safe to say that our modern, mainstream interpretation of resilience is one of the tributaries feeding into the larger cultural definition of strength as resistance, as brick walls rather than porous membrane, as single minded execution rather than shifting adaptability–as a straight line rather than the willow in the river that bends but never breaks.
Another interesting thing about resilience is its relationship to time. We do not tend to see ourselves as being resilient so much as having had resilience. The extent and limitation of our resilience is revealed to us only in retrospect. Others might observe it in the moment, but it seems that while resilience is occurring, we are blind to it. Think of a time in your life that you would characterize as the most formative phase of resilience-building. What was the story you told yourself about yourself during that time? Did you feel resilient? Did you look at yourself and think, “wow, I’m being so resilient right now”? My guess is that for most of you, the answer is no. That while the time of strain was occurring, the self-narrative was neutral at best, and negative at worst.
Resilience, then, seems to be an invisible and self-reinforcing side-effect that occurs when we are ‘punched’ by an external force and have to, through time, absorb the punch, mould around it, and continue on. No one feels good in the punch itself (I’ve often amused myself by wondering whether it’s possible, in theory, to so believe in the power of growth as a by product of discomfort and to have such a positive association with growth that the actual experience of discomfort becomes pleasurable–and if that were to occur, whether growth would no longer occur. I.e. can you game the system of pain=growth=reward?) but a complicated series of reactions and interpretations occur post-punch that define our resilience, whether we realize it or not.
The final question I’ll leave you to ponder is the idea that one returns to ‘their original form’. How literally should we take that? On the one hand, resilience seems to be a kind of protector or means by which we stay true to ourselves. It allows us to absorb the external shock and still come out the other side unscathed, as ourselves. But on the other hand, if we conceptualize resistance as a quality that is built through these experiences (and a positive one), then resilience inherently changes us through its own presence. It’s a kind of circular riddle or thought experiment: the thing that insulates us from radical change radically changes us.
As a side note: I have had a handful of requests to bring back Limns as a bi-monthly publication. I would love to do that, but request that if you enjoy these injections of curiosity, you help support the caffeine intake required to fuel it: sign up today for 10% off a monthly subscription and I will send you the beautiful Zine collection of Limn’s first year, plus I will commit to twice a month publications.