Soulful Sundays: Antifragile

“Wind extinguishes a candle and energizes a fire.” — Nassim Taleb

A few years back I read a book called Antifragile: Things That Gain From Disorder by Nassim Taleb. The title alone intrigued me. How could something gain from disorder? His general premise is that there are three types of systems. Fragile systems are least capable of coping with chaos, resilient systems aren’t affected negatively or positively by it, and antifragile systems actually grow stronger because of it.

He illustrates this through nature. A bald eagle, an apex predator, quickly dies if moved from its ideal habitat — fragile. A robin, a generalist, survives almost anywhere but never thrives — resilient. A starling, however, is an opportunist. It thrives in disruption and multiplies wherever it lands — antifragile. Taleb’s challenge is simple but profound: strive to be like the starling.

Essentially, we gain most by preparing for the worst. To be antifragile is not to hide from uncertainty, but to train for it. This doesn’t mean digging bunkers or hoarding supplies. It means cultivating skills that tether us to life itself — cooking, growing food, building community, learning to mend what breaks. The more capable we become, the less chaos feels like threat and the more it feels like invitation.

We can also shockproof our bodies and minds through deliberate discomfort: strenuous exercise, cold plunges, fasting, stillness. These are small rehearsals for the bigger storms. Because black swan events — the kind that unravel the familiar — will come whether we like it or not.

The book also introduced me to the “barbell theory” of risk management — the art of placing most of your energy in the stable and safe, while reserving a little for the wild and uncertain. In life, this might mean anchoring in daily rituals — good meals, honest sleep, exercise, conversation — while keeping a small corner of your soul for the unknown: travel, art, risk, love.

By engaging risk intentionally, we learn to recognize which risks are worth taking — and which belong to someone else’s story.

Honestly, I still struggle to become more antifragile. My instinct is to control what I don’t understand, to brace instead of bend. But maybe the lesson is that chaos is not the enemy — it’s the teacher. Every time I’m knocked down and manage to stand again, I carry a little more wisdom, a little less fear.

Maybe that’s the heart of antifragility: not the absence of pain, but the trust that pain can refine us.

The wind is coming either way — we just have to decide whether we want it to fill our sails…or dash us to pieces.