Sometimes, freedom of speech does not begin in parliaments or protests, but at the family kitchen table, where curiosity is welcomed, different voices exist, thoughts can change, disagreement is allowed, and no one is silenced for thinking differently. In my family, as a child, I had a voice. That may not sound remarkable now, but in the Sixties, and in Australia, it mattered. My family talked at the dinner table, nightly. Inside my parent’s home, conversation was expected. We talked. We disagreed. We questioned. And, perhaps most importantly, we were listened to. Silence was not seen as neutrality, but as disengagement. My parents believed that understanding the world, and questioning it, was part of civic responsibility. The world was shifting at speed, and we felt those tremors even from the relative distance of the southern hemisphere. The rise of feminism was reshaping expectations of women’s lives, work, and autonomy. The Vietnam War conscription where birth dates were drawn from barrels determined who was to enlist in the armed forces. Futures were altered by chance. Whether one supported or opposed the war, the questions it raised could not be ignored. At the same time, the space race filled newspapers and television news with images of possibility, where human ingenuity was reaching beyond Earth, while the Summer of Love in San Francisco and wider countercultural movements challenged authority and tradition. Idealism and anxiety coexisted. Hope and uncertainty went hand in hand. In Australia, these global currents collided with local realities. In Australia, we were debating what kind of country we wanted to be. Conversations about governance and democracy were not abstract. The idea of a social safety net, such as healthcare, education, and support for those in need, was being discussed, and argued over. Living in South Australia at that time added another layer. There were conversations about civil liberties, cultural life, and social reform that felt unusually bold for their time. Indigenous rights, long ignored or sidelined, began to enter mainstream conversation in ways that were confronting and overdue. Questions of justice, recognition, and historical responsibility were no longer avoidable. Talking about these issues at home was a way of acknowledging that democracy was unfolding in multiple layers. I did not grow up to share my parents’ politics. Nor did I adopt their religion. That divergence was not treated as defiance, betrayal, or failure. It was treated as development of thought. My parents did not demand alignment; they encouraged independent voices with articulation. To express a point of view, we were expected to explain it, not loudly or theatrically, but with rationale, respect, and responsibility. Rationale, respect, and responsibility: that triad mattered. Freedom was important, yes, but not carelessness or recklessness. Expression was important, yes, but not contempt or cruelty. Looking back now, I see how unusually formative that was. Many people learn very early to edit themselves at home: to soften opinions, to keep the peace, to leave some topics untouched and unspoken. For some, the family home becomes the first place where silence feels safer than speech. For me, it was the opposite. Home was where children could try out an idea, where we could be wrong, where we could change our mind, and where disagreement did not equate to rejection. That foundation stayed with me long after I left my parent’s house, even when I entered professional, social, and public spaces, where freedom of speech felt more conditional. We were also free in other ways: free to roam, free to be, and free to explore the world beyond the house and to return with stories, questions, and impressions of our own. But those freedoms came with an understanding: we had to listen as much as we spoke. We did not judge others simply for holding different views. With the freedom to hold an opinion came the obligation to recognize the humanity of those who disagreed. As I age, I realize that talking and listening gave us permission to think independently: permission to disagree without rupture, and permission to participate in the world without needing to echo the voices that came before us. Talking and listening were not seen as political argument, or an attempt to persuade or convert others. Talking and listening were simply a daily reminder that it was acceptable to have a voice, and that learning when to use it, and to use it well, begins early in life. But it’s never too late to begin. Can’t see the whole article? Want to view the original article? Want to view more articles? Go to Martina’s Substack: The Stories in You and Me More Paris articles are in my Paris website The Paris Residences of James Joyce You're currently a free subscriber to The Stories in You and Me . For the full experience, upgrade your subscription.
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Wednesday, 7 January 2026
In my family, we had a voice
Sunday, 4 January 2026
What will you value most in 2026? I already know my answer.
What will you value most in 2026? I already know my answer.… the human touch is becoming increasingly rare …
I already know that I will value the human touch more than anything else in 2026. The human touch is something increasingly rare, increasingly precious, and increasingly noticed when it appears. The world keeps getting faster and more efficient. We are encouraged, or almost trained, to interact with systems rather than with people. Online shopping replaces browsing. Apps replace conversations. Even when I make the effort to go in person to the supermarket or shop, I am often guided straight to a screen – to find something, to pay for it, and to leave feedback. Self-checkout. Scan. Pay. Feedback. Leave. Sometimes I stand there and think, quite genuinely: Is there a human here? It is becoming more difficult to know who actually works in a store. It’s harder to know whom to ask for assistance. Harder to catch someone’s eye without feeling like I’m interrupting. The architecture of modern life seems designed to remove the need for contact, and quietly, almost politely, it does so, without people’s consent. And yet. When a human does appear, when someone assists me at a counter, brings a coffee, helps with a question, or acknowledges my confusion, I notice it immediately. I feel more reassured that help is coming. I notice too that I now express my gratitude differently: more frequently, more strongly, more genuinely. “Thank you” has become a fuller sentence. Eye contact lingers. Smiles are less rushed. A conversation usually follows. At this point, I sometimes ask myself: Why does this matter so much to me now? I am not an extrovert. I am, if anything, an aging introvert. I don’t want crowds. I don’t want noise. I don’t want constant interaction. But I think that as I age, I become more attuned to what is real rather than convenient. Small, genuine, human moments reassure me that I still belong to the living fabric of the world. A brief exchange, a shared smile, a few kind words are not draining; they are anchoring. They don’t overwhelm my nervous system; they calm it. I am grateful that someone is present, and that I am still seen. It’s not because the assistance itself is extraordinary. It’s because their presence is. It is a human choosing to engage, a human choosing to help, and a human choosing to be there. In a digital world, this is no small thing. I don’t want more convenience in 2026. I don’t want more automation, more frictionless transactions, more invisible processes that leave no trace. I want moments that tell me I am not moving through life alone or unseen. I want the personal touch. I want the human touch. I want a human, flaws and all. I want conversations that aren’t optimized, interactions that aren’t scripted, and help that comes with a face and a voice. Perhaps valuing the human touch also means offering it more deliberately: being present, being patient, being kind in ways that aren’t efficient but are meaningful. Perhaps it means resisting the urge to disappear behind screens when a human moment is possible. So, if you were to ask me what I will value most in 2026, I wouldn’t say productivity or growth or innovation. I would say this: The quiet relief of realizing there is a human here. Can’t see the whole article? Want to view the original article? Want to view more articles? Go to Martina’s Substack: The Stories in You and Me More Paris articles are in my Paris website The Paris Residences of James Joyce Invite your friends and earn rewardsIf you enjoy The Stories in You and Me , share it with your friends and earn rewards when they subscribe.
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Cross Fit for the Mind
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petrini1 posted: " For Week 7, the theme of genealogist Amy Johnson Crow...
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The power pose of personal peace - with psychological benefits ... ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ...
