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The Spinoff
22-07-2025
- General
- The Spinoff
Do self-help books actually help?
Josh Drummond explores the enduring appeal of self-help books and asks what they're really doing for us. This self-help book isn't like the others you may have read. Those didn't help, did they? Well, you're in luck. This self-help book will actually help. That's how a lot of self-help books begin. I would know; I've read a truly upsetting number of them. 'But why?' is an excellent question. A few years ago I started an experiment: I would read self-help books, analyse them with a sceptical eye, but still try to put their lessons into practice. I'd blog about it, or rather, Substack about it, which was the style at the time. Readers could thrill to my adventures as I became… I'm not sure what. The terms of reference were always a little hazy. I know what I wanted to get out of it, though; the experience of being consistent with something. Which, apart from things like eating food and going to the toilet, is something I have never had. The experiment has, by nearly all possible measures of success, been a colossal failure. The only thing I've managed to be consistent with is inconsistency, and relatively few lessons from self-improvement have been put into place. This is a shame, because self-help remains incorrigibly popular. And despite my failure there is one thing that I do feel wildly overqualified to discuss: the form and content of self-help books; and the itches that readers seek to scratch with them. At the time of writing, Mel Robbins' awkwardly-titled self-help tome, The Let Them Theory, is dominating sales charts. To be clear: I haven't read this book and I'm not planning to. I don't need to, and neither do you. If there's one thing that I've learned about self-help books it's that nearly all of them are one or several core aphorisms stretched across hundreds of needless pages, like butter scraped over a factory's worth of bread. (Others are remixes of stuff like Stoicism that, while genuinely useful, was old when Romans were discussing it.) In the case of The Let Them Theory, everything you need to know and possibly more is contained in the first four sentences of the back cover blurb. What if the key to happiness, success, and love was as simple as two words? If you've ever felt stuck, overwhelmed, or frustrated with where you are, the problem isn't you. The problem is the power you give to other people. Two simple words – Let Them – will set you free. That's it. That's the book. I hope you find something fun to do with the dozen or so hours that I have just saved you. I'm being serious; I have nothing but disdain for the sort of people who try to render down most books into bite-sized but nutrition-free chunks (ChatGPT, give me a hundred-word summary of The Brothers Karamazov including bullet points of the three main themes) but self-help is an exception. Even the good self-help books should be substantially shorter. The mediocre ones would benefit from being bullet points. The bad ones would be better off as actual bullets; I've certainly felt the urge to shoot them out of an old-timey circus cannon when reading. Of course, this raises the question: if self-help is just obvious and often very old aphorisms repeated and remixed into a slurry, then why is it so popular? It turns up some strange answers. The idea of the 'first ever book' is a contested notion, but one of the serious candidates is a Sumerian tome called The Instructions of Shuruppak. This book was already centuries old when the internet's favourite copper merchant Ea-nāṣir wrote his famous complaint letter, and in its opening passage it claims to be even older. In those days, in those far remote days, in those nights, in those faraway nights, in those years, in those far remote years, at that time the wise one who knew how to speak in elaborate words lived in the Land… The instructions of an old man are precious; you should comply with them! You should not buy a donkey which brays; it will split your midriff. Shuruppak is an example of what's called 'wisdom literature,' which can be found in many places, including religious texts like the Bible. My contention is that this stuff is basically self-help, and that humans have been gravitating to that particular form of words since we've been able to write. Look at that introduction again; even the repetition is present! And if you skip to verse 65, there's this: The eyes of the slanderer always move around as shiftily as a spindle. You should never remain in his presence; his intentions should not be allowed to have an effect on you. There you go. That's The Let Them Theory, in the oldest book known to humanity. Saved you a click. If you accept that wisdom literature shares DNA with self-help, we can agree that the genre has essentially always been with us. But that doesn't explain its eternal appeal. To attempt that – and in the navel-gazing spirit of self-help – I'm going to start with me. My first self-help book was something my parents got me when I was about 12. I've forgotten the title, and I'd rather not remember it. It was some kind of Christian approach to improving your self-esteem, and to a kid who was incredibly self-critical, it seemed like a godsend. To me it promised something I'd long dreamed of: the cheat code to how people worked. If I could crack that – and the book hinted tantalisingly that I might – then I might understand how to make it so people were less mean to me, and perhaps even how to be less mean to myself. That, and I read every book I touched. I used to read the phone book. It was better than some of the self-help I've read since. I've since learned something that will probably not surprise anyone who read the previous sentence or so but still came as a shock to me: that I am autistic, and I have ADHD. As a kid, my parents were keen to avoid labels like 'Asperger's Syndrome' (as my flavour of autism was then called) worrying that it would attract bullies. They found me anyway; it turns out children who wear the same flight jacket to school every day in 1994 kind of print their own labels. Without a more accurate understanding of why I was the way I was, books offered an escape and an explanation. I don't know how I'd verify this, but one of my pet theories of self-help's perennial popularity is that the world is stuffed with non-neurotypical people who are desperate for an instruction manual, a way to carve off the square-peg points of their personalities with a prose adze, in order to fit into society's round holes. Even for so-called neurotypical folks, self-help's appeal might be easily understood given the right framework. We all inhabit bodies that evolved to gather food, to hunt, to socialise in close proximity, often outside. Today, many of us spend our waking hours almost entirely indoors, alternating between a big screen where you are entertained, a medium screen where you work, and a small screen where you incur psychic damage. Across all three screens, a lot of time is spent reading. Small wonder that so much self-help concerns itself with fundamental human needs: eat! exercise! socialise! avoid things that harm you! Here is my book-cover-blurb-worthy hot-take: Self-help functions as a virtue simulator, a way to feel good about yourself for a few hundred pages as you embody the hero of a better life. In that respect, self-help is essentially the same as fiction; only (often) less well-written. While reading, you are the person who keeps a tidy house or keeps time or keeps track of personal finances. But upon finishing, the prose fragments into figments of your imagination, and you return to being the person you already are. I am painting a pretty dire picture of self-help, but that's not really my intention. A lot of the actual advice given in self-help isn't bad so much as it is belaboured. Some of it is excellent! The more deliberate, meditative forms of self-help — such as Stoicism — have a lot of value. There is of course some terrible self-help advice out there, such as Jordan Peterson's commandment: 'Put your life in perfect order before you criticise the world.' If followed, this would ensure no-one (including Jordan Peterson) did anything, ever. Objectively bad advice aside, the difficulty lies not just with the fact that the world is complicated, too much so for any one or even several books. It's also because of something true a psychiatrist told me – in the moment before he recommended a self-help book – 'You can't out-think the thinker'. Perhaps, if we're being honest, we might admit self-help comes from that specific hope. That through the mere act of reading, of thinking someone else's thoughts, we might become someone else. Obviously that's an unfair expectation for any book, but I still think that's the subconscious substrate of the genre. The fundamental problem, since the Instructions of Shuruppak, seems the same: prose, on its own, is a poor teacher, and it's a mistake to put the prose cart before the actually-doing-shit horse. Imagine trying to learn to play the violin, or to do woodworking, from a book of inspirational stories about virtuoso violinists or woodworkers. The idea is absurd, and yet that's what a lot of self-help consists of. I'm sure that some folks do triumphantly snap shut their copy of Rich Dad, Poor Dad and immediately set about building an extortionate rent-seeking empire, but most probably don't. For the rest of us, the idea of improving by yourself is inherently flawed; it requires a community. Whether you're learning an instrument or forming atomic habits, you'll do better if you're doing it with others, while taking deliberate, somatic action that's much more than turning pages or imbibing inspirational TikToks. Perhaps this isn't like the other self-help articles you've read. Perhaps it's exactly the same. But when you shut the book, close your browser, or end the scroll, it will still be true that the best help comes from other selves.
Sydney Morning Herald
20-06-2025
- Entertainment
- Sydney Morning Herald
I was at the airport and did the opposite of the Let Them theory – I have no regrets
Now the paint-by-numbers fever dream has left me and there may be no more Mission Impossible films to look forward to, I've been trying to find the next diversion to get me through winter. And I think I'm onto something. Or rather, my friend Amy is. She lives in Boston, has great teeth a great sense of humour and, it turns, out, great life hacks. Watching her two sons' ice hockey practice, Amy complained to another mum about how her bust is so big that her bra straps cut divots in her shoulders. The friend was bemused. Said she never wears a bra, especially in winter when you have on five layers. Asked why Amy would ever wear one unless meeting the bank manager. The conversation spurred Amy to do two things. First, abandon a bra unless she's working out. Second, ask why it took her until she was 40 to question doing something every day which she hated. Now, she asks, 'Who says?' when making decisions. Who says you have to wear a wretched undergarment just to create a pleasing silhouette? Who says you have to have porridge if you want pancakes? Loading It's the opposite to Mel Robbins' popular Let Them theory about letting go of the need to control others. You're letting go of others controlling you! So, I've been trying the Who Says game – starting small, but it's addictive. Who says heels are out? Who says you have to chop off your hair because Leslie Bibb did? Who says Steve Winwood is daggy? Who says you can't be sexy AF staring down 60 or super happy wearing comfy elastic waist pants? Who says we need a 10-step skincare routine and to move out of the way of bigger people on the footpath?
The Age
20-06-2025
- Entertainment
- The Age
I was at the airport and did the opposite of the Let Them theory – I have no regrets
Now the paint-by-numbers fever dream has left me and there may be no more Mission Impossible films to look forward to, I've been trying to find the next diversion to get me through winter. And I think I'm onto something. Or rather, my friend Amy is. She lives in Boston, has great teeth a great sense of humour and, it turns, out, great life hacks. Watching her two sons' ice hockey practice, Amy complained to another mum about how her bust is so big that her bra straps cut divots in her shoulders. The friend was bemused. Said she never wears a bra, especially in winter when you have on five layers. Asked why Amy would ever wear one unless meeting the bank manager. The conversation spurred Amy to do two things. First, abandon a bra unless she's working out. Second, ask why it took her until she was 40 to question doing something every day which she hated. Now, she asks, 'Who says?' when making decisions. Who says you have to wear a wretched undergarment just to create a pleasing silhouette? Who says you have to have porridge if you want pancakes? Loading It's the opposite to Mel Robbins' popular Let Them theory about letting go of the need to control others. You're letting go of others controlling you! So, I've been trying the Who Says game – starting small, but it's addictive. Who says heels are out? Who says you have to chop off your hair because Leslie Bibb did? Who says Steve Winwood is daggy? Who says you can't be sexy AF staring down 60 or super happy wearing comfy elastic waist pants? Who says we need a 10-step skincare routine and to move out of the way of bigger people on the footpath?
The Guardian
04-05-2025
- General
- The Guardian
In a culture obsessed with positive thinking, can letting go be a radical act?
Have you ever been in the middle of difficult life circumstances to be told 'let it go' or 'don't dwell on it' as if it were a simple choice? Such advice can have the effect of minimising our distress and abruptly changing the subject. Yet it is not the phrases themselves that are troubling – there is real substance to them – but the missed opportunity to grasp the true meaning of what Buddhist teacher Tara Brach calls 'radical acceptance'. Radical acceptance represents a fundamental principle in both Buddhism and modern psychology and is neatly summarised in the psychotherapeutic expression 'the only way out is through'. In a culture that emphasises positive thinking, many tend to avoid, repress, or downplay negative emotions and complex life events. Acceptance offers a powerful alternative. It encourages us to acknowledge and allow challenging states of mind and paves the way for greater wholeness, healing and ease. However, acceptance cannot be achieved instantaneously or via platitudes, nor can it be attained through willpower alone. It requires consistent effort and repeated application. In an era where viral self-help mantras like Mel Robbins' 'Let Them' theory seem appealing, it is tempting to seek quick fixes to complex problems. However, authentic radical acceptance involves more than detaching from others' behaviours; it requires accepting one's own fluctuating mind states and engaging with the world from a place of wisdom, flexibility and humility. When my immediate family member died recently after a prolonged period of illness, the dimensions of my grief were (and continue to be) varied – sometimes jagged, sometimes soft and sometimes hard to accept. Yet I reminded myself that nothing was wrong. This was not a mistake. It was exactly as it was. Over months, I noted 'anguish', 'desperation', 'bargaining', 'funny story', 'loving memory', 'fretting', 'attempt to fix', and so on. With time, a relationship of friendliness emerged and, alongside it, a growing acceptance of what had initially felt unbearable. The practice is to accept each small, containable moment over and over rather than being lured into a grand narrative about a catastrophic life event. According to Brach, radical acceptance invites us to pause, recognise and allow whatever arises within us with a spirit of tenderness and care. It can take the form of a gentle 'yes' or a knowing bow to our predominant experience, whatever shape it takes. As we learn to accept complicated and unwanted feelings such as confusion, disbelief, despair, judgment and resistance, we gradually relate to our circumstances with realism and courage. We notice our thoughts, yearnings and corresponding body sensations and set aside our desire to control or improve our situation. With time, we sow seeds of compassion, even joy, amid difficulty. And our wisdom grows. Of course, this is easier said than done. Even in spiritual circles, there is a tendency to bypass difficult experiences or unacceptable emotions. The late Buddhist psychotherapist John Welwood coined the term spiritual bypassing to warn against misusing spirituality, even popular psychology, to avoid the necessary emotional and psychological work required for healing. While certain interpretations of spirituality can make us feel good or righteous in the moment, they can also serve to control and avoid what is happening beneath the surface, which has been proven to result in undesired psychological outcomes. So, what does it mean to practise acceptance without bypassing intolerable experiences and feelings? The first step is admitting that what we are going through is hard and that it is very human to resist what is painful. We might start by saying, 'I am suffering right now' or 'This is hard, and I don't like it'. Next, we strive to set aside our desire to replace negative experiences with positive ones. While this may seem at odds with the pursuit of happiness – particularly if we equate happiness with pleasure – it offers a more realistic and potentially fruitful way of being with our human predicament. As we become more willing to accept the unacceptable, buried, unconscious memories and feelings may emerge and ask to be held in loving attention. You might wonder: what if things are genuinely catastrophic? What if I am faced with circumstances I cannot possibly accept? The answer lies in abandoning the struggle. In Buddhism, we are encouraged to 'let things be' – a phrase many Buddhist teachers prefer to 'letting things go'. This means seeing each moment, whether pleasant or unpleasant, as complete and whole, reflecting the flow of causes and conditions that constitute it. Let it be! You don't have to enjoy every part of reality – in fact, things would get boring and you might get very disappointed if you only welcomed pleasant experiences – but instead, you can allow it to unfold as it will. As Rumi writes in his beloved poem The Guest House, 'This being human is a guest house … the dark thought, the shame, the malice, meet them at the door laughing, and invite them in.' He calls on us to invite all 'unexpected visitors' in – it's a radical proposition. Buddhist monk Ajahn Sumedho captures the heart of radical acceptance with the instruction, 'It is like this right now. Life is like this right now.' In moments of distress, we might repeat these words. The striking part of his suggestion is that you do not have to do anything in particular. Life flows on and you meet it precisely as it is. With time, you may come to realise that you are not the boss of your life or anyone else's. And that fact in itself may offer you inexplicable relief. Dr Nadine Levy is a senior lecturer at the Nan Tien Institute. She coordinates its health and social wellbeing program and the graduate certificate in applied mindfulness
