Before we were us

I read a poem this week.

For anyone who knows me, that doesn't sound like me at all.

I seem to be doing a lot of things lately that aren't like me. Maybe I'm just getting older?

Maybe it's the constantly changing world we call life.

Maybe it's a creative frequency that I'm tuning into (again, a weird thing for me to say).

But it got me thinking. Like all good art does.

Together Apart

You don’t have to look far to see how much the world is pulling inward right now.

Borders are hardening. Nations are retreating into themselves. Isolationism is no longer fringe—it’s policy.

The language of “them” and “us” is making its way back into headlines, political platforms, and dinner table conversations.

In the name of security, self-preservation, or cultural purity, we’re shrinking the scope of who counts as “we.”

Even in economics, the trend is toward decoupling, onshoring, tightening the circle.

Tariffs are back in fashion, dressed up as resilience. Strength. Nationalism.

Collaboration—once a buzzword—now seems to be a liability.

It’s a strange paradox. At a time when our problems are more global than ever—climate change, pandemics, economic volatility—we’re acting more alone than ever.

I’ve been thinking a lot about that contradiction. And about how deeply embedded this story of separation has become.

Not just in geopolitics or trade policy, but in our everyday thinking. We’ve started to mistake disconnection for strength.

But what if we’re getting it backward?

The Illusion of Separation

Most of our daily experience is built on the assumption that we are individuals moving through space, doing our own thing, worrying our own worries.

We navigate life with a deeply embedded sense of separation. I’m over here. You’re over there. My inbox is full. Your day is your problem.

But that sense of separation is just one way of seeing things. One version of the story. And, if we’re being honest, it’s not always a helpful one.

Because the more deeply we believe in that separation, the easier it is to forget that we’re actually part of something shared. We’re all walking through versions of the same fear, love, grief, joy, longing.

We are—beneath the surface—part of one thing.

Not in a poetic, abstract way, but in a very real, material sense.

Why This Matters Right Now

It’s easy to become isolated—not just physically but psychologically.

Even when we’re surrounded by people, there’s often a subtle sense that we’re carrying the weight of the world alone. I’ve felt that. You probably have too.

It’s reinforced by the language we use, the systems we operate in, and the cultures many of us live inside: perform, optimise, achieve, repeat. Keep going. Keep producing. Stay in your lane.

But that loneliness? That disconnection? It’s not just a byproduct. It’s a signal. A crack in the story we’ve been told about what matters and how we should live.

It’s telling us something important: the self is not the whole story.

Thinking Bigger (and smaller)

What if we remembered that everything we do—every conversation, every interaction, every minor decision—is part of something bigger?

That how we treat the barista or the person behind the next desk actually matters?

That the people we love, or work with, or silently coexist beside on the tube, are part of the same whole we are?

And that maybe the point isn’t to perfect ourselves, but to see ourselves as part of something shared?

This doesn’t mean giving up boundaries, or dissolving into the collective.

It means remembering that connection isn’t a luxury—it’s a foundation. Something we already have, whether we acknowledge it or not.

So, Where Does That Leave Us?

It leaves me wondering: how do I act differently when I start from the assumption that we belong to each other? That I’m not a separate unit, but a node in a much larger pattern?

It doesn’t mean I stop being me. It just means that being me includes being part of something else too.

And maybe that’s a kind of freedom. Not the freedom to isolate and defend, but the freedom to soften, to connect, to remember.

Which brings me back to where we started.

Because the same thinking that disconnects us from each other in daily life—the quiet belief that we’re on our own—is the same thinking shaping so many of the larger political and economic moves we’re seeing just now.

But maybe what looks like strength on the surface—independence, isolation, control—is actually something else entirely.

Perhaps it’s fear? A fear of connection. A fear of asking for help.

Maybe real strength begins with remembering our interdependence?

That beneath the noise, beneath the rhetoric, beneath the performance of separation—we’re still part of the same story.

Try This

If this resonates at all, here are a few small experiments to do this week:

• Practice micro-connection: Make eye contact. Ask how someone’s day is and actually listen to the answer. It doesn’t have to be big to be real.
• Zoom out: When you feel overwhelmed, imagine yourself not as a single, stressed human—but as part of a wider whole. You’re one piece of a big, breathing network.
• Start a “we” list: Instead of just writing to-do lists for yourself, jot down a few things that involve others—small ways you’re contributing, connecting, participating in the bigger picture.
• Pause the performance: Choose one moment this week to let go of being impressive or polished. Just be present. See what happens.

We can’t undo all that’s shifting in the world. But we can choose how we show up inside it.

And sometimes, the most radical thing we can do—personally or politically—is to remember that we were never meant to do any of this alone.

Until next time,

Jon "actually a poet" Kaye

P.S. As part of my push into music composing and audio branding, I've launched a new artist project this week, called, originally I think, J.R. Kaye. The music is more atmospheric and emotional. The sort of music you can get lost inside. My first track is out but there is much more to come so would be great if you could give it a listen and follow me on here. And, as usual, spread the word. Cheers.