A few fucks I hope to stop giving in 2025
Even one less fuck would be fantastic
Welcome to Pandora’s Box of Shit for 2025! This is the place where we take the big and small turds life hurls at us and laugh at them so we don’t cry. Just a warning that this post may break the Substack record for the most mentions of the word “fuck”. I’m not sure if anyone at Substack is tracking this important metric (a missed opportunity, if not), but I’m telling you now just in case you’re listening to the audio of this post on speaker in your car with your kid. You’re welcome. Sara
Guys, I’ve given so many fucks over the years. I can’t list them all here, but trust me, there are A LOT. I don’t know what the collective noun is for fucks, but let’s just say there have been a FANTASTICALLY FAT FLEET OF FUCKS that I’ve given since the day I was born up to right now.
The problem with constantly giving so many fucks is that it makes you very, very tired. You don’t even have enough energy for the other, better type of fucks.
Do you want to know something else I’ve realised? Many of the things I give BIG FUCKS about are completely out of my control. I’d love to see world peace, real action on climate change and an end to two-factor authentication, but sadly, I have very little influence over those things.
Given the many millions of fucks I’ve given, I figured I’d switch out the New Year’s resolutions this year for a list of big and small fucks I want to stop giving in 2025.
Let’s open the lid…
Big Hairy Audacious Fucks (BHAFs)
These are the really juicy ones that send me into an existential crisis on a daily basis.
Understanding my life’s purpose
Urgh, this one is LARGE and IN CHARGE.
I know I’m not alone, but I’ve never been someone with a clear path or purpose. I didn’t receive a divine vision about being hand-chosen by God to liberate France from English domination or be the first woman to win a Nobel Prize for my research into radioactivity — I’ve just bumped along many random paths, mostly having a great time along the way.
Despite this, there has always been this nagging sense of some great cosmic, altruistic purpose that I’m missing — a hole, a void, an abyss.
But if the universe is so powerful, why would it make it so damn hard for me to find my ONE TRUE PURPOSE?
Please, mate, there’s no need for mysteriously veiled riddles — just spell it out — like an Ouiji board that says: “YOU ARE DESTINED TO BECOME A STUNTWOMAN WHO SPECIALISES IN UNDERWATER ESCAPES.” That’s a sign I can get on board with, pardon the pun.
Naturally, I found the advice I needed about this fuck here on Substack. Anna Mackenzie's article about The Architect vs. The Archeologist framework was a revelation to me. This sums it up pretty well:
“There are two ways to think about building anything in life. You can take the planned, methodical approach of an Architect or the unplanned, exploratory approach of an Archaeologist.”
So, we don’t need to know everything, including the destination, before we start (WHAT!? I KNOW) – we just get on with it and figure it out on the way. So, 2025 will be my archaeologist era, complete with a headlamp and a small hammer.
PerFUCKtionism
Ah, perfectionism, my old friend. Pounded into me from years of competitive gymnastics (picture below for fun — no, I can not do this now without being taken to hospital, I have tried), the 1990s school system when getting a question wrong meant you were publicly shamed as a DUMB FUCKWIT and a father who left when I was three, creating a void that I would fill by attempting to be perfect at EVERYTHING so no one would ever abandon me again.
Phew, that’s a lot.
Perfectionism has probably been the single most destructive force in my life. Its insidious presence has stopped me from pursuing hundreds of potentially enjoyable things for fear of failure.
I didn’t do the degree I really wanted to do (journalism) because I feared I wouldn’t be the best. Instead, I settled for a degree I didn’t really care about (marketing) to lower the stakes. I didn’t pursue the job I wanted (writer) and instead took a job I cared less about (advertising sales) because not being perfect at something I didn’t care about wouldn’t hurt me as much.
One particularly nasty area where it shows up is in parenting. After having three kids in two years (twins, OK — it wasn’t planned that way!) I lost all sense of control of my mind, body and…bladder. Perfect wasn’t even an option. You can read all about my ridiculous expectations in my piece — My kids will eat what I eat (and other stupid shit I believed before I had kids).
For every misstep I made as a parent, I beat myself up, which made me feel like shit, which made me an even less present and “perfect” parent. And the worst part? Perfectionist parents pass this crappy trait onto their kids. So there’s that to feel guilty about as well.
As my therapist rightly pointed out, perfection is subjective. Your perfect and my perfect look totally different, plus we move the goalposts all the time, so trying to achieve perfection is futile and totally exhausting. But yet, we persist.
The good news is — I’ve done a lot of work on letting go of my perfectionism over the years. While it still pops its ghastly head up regularly (watching my kids create a dilapidated and ramshackle gingerbread house at Christmas was a particularly triggering experience), I can see it for what it is — something that stamps on my joy.
Thank you to Substacker Erin Nystrom from Human, Being, for reminding me that perfection is the enemy of progress and to my sweary friend Maggie Jon from How to Get Your SHEET Together for her sage advice on How to exorcise your wankery perfectionist demons. Both highly recommended reading/listening if you also suffer from perFUCKtionism.
So friends, this year I plan to try new things, knowing I will suck at them, but do them anyway. I want to accept that, as a parent (and a human), I will make mistakes, and that’s okay. I want to teach my kids that it’s okay, nay — GOOD, to make a messy attempt at something rather than make no attempt at all.
Caring what other people think of me
If all the fucks in the world were tallied up and categorised in a spreadsheet, I reckon this one would come up as the GOAT. Who among us — psychopaths aside — has not cared what others think of us?
We’re pack animals, and above all, we want to be accepted. But damn, I don’t need to spend 36 hours re-hashing a stupid joke I made to Sharon at the coffee shop about sex toys. Nor do I need to make an exhaustive mental list of all the possible bad-faith comments I might get on a Substack article about parenting from someone who thinks I’m a terrible parent. It’s too much.
I realise my therapist is getting a lot of air time in this piece, but if you can’t get more mileage from the dollars you’ve spent fixing your brain, then really, what’s the point? She used to say:
“What other people think of you is none of your business.”
I know. SHOCKING, RIGHT? It’s true, though. People gonna think what they think, and you can’t do jack shit about it. So for 2025, I want to stop giving such a big fuck about what people think of me and just own my shit — stupid comments, bad choices, skinny jeans — THE LOT!
Petty Little Fucks (PLFs)
Now we’ve got the big stinky fucks out of the way — it’s also time for me to stop sweating the small fucks, including:
When I miss the 20-minute perfect-ripeness window for an avocado
When I leave the toast in the toaster for an extra 30 seconds and it’s — according to the kids — inedible
The way my kids inexplicably spit a whole tube of toothpaste onto the bathroom mirror when brushing their teeth (you can read more about this phenomenon in my article about Kid Logic).
People not saying hello back when I’m walking the dog, so I have to pretend I am talking hands-free
People not waving back when I let them into traffic - YOU’RE WELCOME!
The way my partner breathes when he’s listening to a true crime podcast in bed
The way my partner breathes in bed, full-stop
Two-factor authentication
Voicemails
The potato masher jamming the utensils drawer
3 x WhatsApp class chats, 4 x sports chats, 3 x mums chats, 3 friends chats and some other fucking shit chats
Phew
FINALLY, a great big FUCKING THANK YOU!
Finally, I just wanted to say a big, sweaty, hairy thank you to all of YOU, beautiful people who’ve followed and supported me since I joined Substack in September.
I joined on a whim after not writing a single (non-marketing) word for over ten years, and your kindness, intelligence and humour have totally blown me away.
All your hearts, comments, shares and even a few hilarious DMs have put a stupid grin on my face and given me the confidence to keep writing, sharing (even when it’s not perfect) and bantering with all you beautiful people!
Thank you, and I hope 2025 has fewer fucks for you too.
Sara xo
Now I want to hear from you! What fucks would you like to stop giving in 2025? Hit me with ‘em in the comments. Let’s talk about it.
Sorry Sara, I can't stop sweating the avocado small fuck. Those bastards are in cahoots with pears to see who can take the longest time to ripen and the shortest time to go to mush.
keep up the zero fucks given programme.
Progress is in the race to zero.