on the three boxes

Everybody knows the story. Three boxes. All the same height [or its variations…]. Some can see the match, while others cannot. And the reaction is always the same: “Ah, let’s fix it! Let’s give you a taller box. Let’s take the fence down. Let’s make it easier.”

I have always disliked the “boxes” story because everyone is obsessing about the props, about what’s “given or taken,” instead of seeing the field, the actual game. They never see that the field is the same for everyone. The field doesn’t slow down for the visually impaired. It doesn’t wait for someone’s dyslexia. It doesn’t shorten for someone’s fatigue or pain, for someone’s migraines or trauma. It just is. You’re either in the game, or you’re not. And yes, sometimes it’s brutal. Sometimes you bleed. Sometimes you can’t see past the first hurdle. Sometimes you need to choose to leave. But that’s the point. That’s the lesson nobody teaches: how to navigate the field as it exists. Not as you wish it would exist.

This is why I’m angry. Because I have seen bright people, capable people, creative people who stop at the first hurdle, who look at the boxes, and collapse under the weight of tape measures and endless paperwork for fixing the regulated positioning of those boxes through their own expectations of comfort. And then I see others who travelled hundreds of miles, who studied while working, who battled chronic illness, whose first language is not English, who faced fatigue, who worked their ass off while carrying life on their back and who are told, implicitly or explicitly, that their situation and hence suffering doesn’t count, that their effort doesn’t matter as much because someone else needs the bar lowered. Because they are “privileged” in being so good at managing their pain, their deadlines, and the rules, and so they shouldn’t complain.

I remember days of deadlines met, reminding myself that the game is serious, that the bar is serious, that entering into that field to play that game was my choice; and that nothing of value is given.

This is my truth: standards are standards. Integrity is not optional. Education should not bend for sentiment or convenience. It should teach resilience, accountability, stamina, the capacity to find solutions for yourself: how to live, truly live, fully, as an adult with a brain in your head and blood in your veins. You learn not by comfort, but by facing the field, by navigating the terrain, by figuring out how to get from A to B, and not whining because the path is hard.

And yet, nobody ever seems to teach this. Nobody says “You will be in pain. You will be exhausted. You will be tested in ways that you think are unfair and unyielding. And that is the point.” Instead, there are extensions, accommodations, “special considerations and circumstances,” endless compromises. Every excuse becomes a reason to bend the field, lower the bar, smooth the path. And all of it [every well-meaning, supposedly compassionate adjustment] becomes a slap to those who actually meet the challenge, every day, fully, without pause.

I have watched students hand in every excuse before their work even begins: all valid, all real and yet the standard is shifted around. That field becomes a playground of cushions, cockblocking anyone who wants to move forward. Some students have none of these things, you know, and they fight instead tooth and nail to make the deadlines, bleed for the grade, and carve knowledge out of thin air; the ones who show up.

What do they get? A bar recalculated for someone else.

How is that fair?

How is that just?

How is this educational?

I carry this anger because I know who lived it differently, with difficulty stacked against them [distance, age, menopausal exhaustion, chronic pain, travel, work, lack of means, loneliness] and still met the standards. And this is what counts. That is the point. The pain of the field is not an accident; it is the teaching. It is the test. It is the fire that forges real competence, real understanding, real human grit.

Academia, education, life: they are not meant to soften. They are meant to train. Not to coddle. Not to offer consolation. To show you that you are capable when you choose to be. That you can find your own resources, your own solutions, your own strength outside the field. That the line exists, and you must meet it, or you will never know what you are made of.

I do not care if the world labels this cruel or harsh. It is not cruelty: it is integrity. It is clarity. It is accountability. It is the only way someone becomes fully adult in thought, in action, in stamina, in moral reasoning, in emotional intelligence, in independence.

That is what I learned. That is what I still carry. That is what I show others, not by lowering the bar, not by adjusting the playing fields, not by bending the rules, not by being un-equanimous and unfair, facilitating some to the detriment of others, not by softening the game but by lighting it clearly in front of them, so they see it, and choose to meet it.

Because progressing in your studies and going to university is a free choice.

And yes, I am angry. Angry at the whining. Angry at the wailing. Angry at the belief that the rules should bend to comfort. Angry at the constant insistence that life and education should slow down, tilt, adjust, and accommodate. But that field in the cartoon doesn’t change, the rules of the game are not modified; because when the match slows, the lesson dies. When the line bends, integrity evaporates. When you stop seeing the field, you lose the whole point. You are cuddled and protected outside of the fence. You are basically given a token of presence and manipulated so well, in thinking you are actually being supported. "There, there", Sheldon would say.

So here it is: the field is fixed. The rules are fixed. The match goes on.

Everyone plays under the same sun, the same clock, the same conditions. And your integrity, your effort, your grit, your choices, your resilience, your determination: that is all that matters.

Are you in?

The cold mornings, the heavy backpack, the traffic on the M62; or even before the smell of my dad’s encyclopaedia and the school canteen, and my brain racing with deadlines, papers, readings, lectures, while my body screamed for rest… every step, every mile, every page, every word were a jolt of consciousness. I remember pacing my bedroom, speaking aloud to the air, memorising poems, praying to whatever spirit might be listening not to be called up front the following day, sticky notes clattering, crayons smudging, ideas colliding, exploding. My own pulse in my ears, tinnitus flaring like a signal. Every thought a spark, a chain reaction, a connection screaming for recognition. But boy, my mind was alive!

Through it all, I felt it: that pure jolt of clarity when a thread appears, a solution, a hidden connection, a spark that changes the way I see everything. That is the point of the field. That is the point of standards, rules, and the regulated match. That is where you meet yourself, fully. Where your creativity, persistence, stamina, courage, and ingenuity converge. Where your body, your mind, your senses, your will, and your integrity are all tested and rewarded with the deep, undeniable knowledge that you can.

Every concession, every lowered bar, every softened rule, every “we’ll adjust for you” is like a shadow creeping over that clarity, muting the jolt, smudging the spark. It is a theft of the lived moment, the experience of discovery, the recognition of your own capability. The world should not stop. The game should not bend. The match should not wait.

You show up. You meet it. You live it.

This is the manifesto: not abstraction, not argument, not essay. It is lived. It is felt. It is raw. It is the pulse in the chest, the sweat on the palms, the fire in the stomach, the tension in the mind. This is the field. This is the game. This is what it means to truly be tested, to truly rise, to truly learn, to truly live.

What is the moral and ethical value of that piece of paper you are given at graduation, if you are one of the few in a sea of people who bent every possible rule and used every possible escamotage?

Here’s the crucial point: help can exist, assistance can exist, resources can exist; those different boxes do exist, and they need to be there. That fence needs to be taken down. But outside the field, outside the match, outside the line, outside the arena. You can use them, lean on them, consult them, build ladders with them, but they should not bend the rules; they do not slow the clock, they do not lower the bar. The field itself must remain fixed.

Because when you bend the field for one, when you soften the line, you steal from others. You steal from the student who could have soared if only the rules were real. You steal from the mind that needs the challenge, that thrives in the rigour, the pressure, the fire. That extraordinary mind, the sharp, unyielding, incandescent spark of genius: they need the full field to stretch themselves, to break through, to shine. Lower the bar, and you mute them. You deny them the experience that makes them fully themselves.

So yes, support should exist, ladders should exist, help should exist. By all means, take all the fences down, but the moment that you freely choose to enter the field and play, you follow the rules of the game. Some people will work harder, some people will need external support, some people might realise that they are not cut out for it, that is not their journey; maybe not now, maybe never. Some will fail and resit, fail and resit [I know, German Literature II with Prof Kitzmueller! I have failed and resit for four years in my 20s]. But it should never interfere with the field. The field is the crucible. The game is the test. The game is where the real work happens. Where integrity, stamina, ingenuity, resilience, creativity, and courage are forged. Outside the field, you can scaffold, provide tools, give guidance, cry, kiss boo-boo away. Outside, one might need one day, another a week, some a semester to recover. Or four years. But inside the field, you meet the challenges as they exist. If for some writing an essay is an effort, then by all means audio and video presentations should be made available as an option: but to all, not just a few. And regardless of the reason.

Education. Academia. University. They are not meant to coddle. They are not meant to comfort. They are not meant to bend for sentiment, for convenience, for excuses, for suffering, for complaint. They are meant to teach life itself. And life is not fair. Life is not gentle. Life does not slow down for anyone. Life does not accommodate the hesitant, the complaining, the entitled, the unprepared; it doesn't for the disabled, the neurodivergent and nor the depressed, the anxious, the victim. Nor the healthy.

Life does not accommodate anyone.

What education should teach is not dates and data you can find in any book. Education is there to teach you how to navigate the field, as it exists, fully. How to see the line, know the rules, and meet them. How to plan, to schedule, to gather resources, to solve problems before they crush you. How to endure, to persist, to show up every day, even when the body is hurting, even when the mind is tired, even when your soul wants to give up, even when the world seems stacked against you. It teaches you to work. How to find your own boxes, your own tools, your own support outside the field; not to alter the match, not to bend the bar, not to soften the spark.

It should teach integrity. It should teach resilience. It should teach accountability. It should teach how to be fully adult in thought, in action, in moral clarity. It should teach stamina, determination, creativity, courage, ingenuity; all those human qualities that only emerge when you meet reality without bending it.

And it should do so viscerally. Not as abstract concepts. Not as moralistic slogans. Through lived, felt experience: the pounding of the heart, the ache in the bones, the sweat on the palms, the jolt in the stomach when insight hits, the frustration that makes your hands clench and your mind race. Through the good grades and the bad grades, the celebrations and the running out of a classroom in tears. It should show you that you can, that you must, and that everything else [every distraction, every whining, every plea for leniency] is outside the field.

Support can exist. Guidance can exist. Resources can exist. Ladders, mentors, tools, boxes and box-makers… all outside the match. But inside the match, in the field, on the line, the rules are fixed. And this is fair. Because fairness is not bending to limitations. Fairness is showing the same challenge to all. And from that crucible, brilliance can emerge. Geniuses can rise. The extraordinary can shine. The ordinary can become extraordinary.

And this is why I am angry. Angry at the constant demand for adjustments, for shortcuts, for cushions. Angry at the ideology that compassion means lowering standards. Angry at a world that confuses help with bending the field. Angry at every softened line that steals from someone who could have soared, and every excuse that steals from the integrity of the match.

This is my truth. I have lived it, and I have met people who faced the field, who have met the line. Who have shown up, while everything screamed for us to pause, to slow, to hide, to compromise. I will not apologise. I will not soften. I will not bend. And I will not bend the field for anyone. Education, at its finest, at its most real, at its most human, should do the same. Show the field. Show the rules. Show the match. Teach how to meet it. And let the brilliance, the integrity, the courage, the genius, and the life emerge. That is the only way. That is the only truth.

There is also freedom here. Life is not fair and does not promise comfort. Life does not demand that you stay on a path that is not yours, to run a marathon if you can barely put two steps together. Quitting is not a weakness. Leaving a course, stepping away from a challenge that is not for you: that is part of the field, too. That is discernment. That is courage. That is integrity, which one day you might use to leave a job that is not right or a marriage that is not for you anymore.

And if someone tells me I am fortunate, that I have no disabilities, no need for excuses and soft cushions to lean on: first, not true; and then, why should I apologise? Do you want me to feel guilty? I have met the line. I have played the match. I have walked through the fire. My sweat, my breath, my aching muscles, my racing mind: all these are real. And they are mine.

If I were to enrol in a marathon, not being able to run to save my life, I would need to train more, I would need probably to start going to a gym, to ask and probably pay a coach to help me, I would watch less YouTube videos on philosophy and more on choosing the right pair of shoes, or what to eat and drink before a race and how not to hurt myself. It might take me one year to train, while for others it might only be a question of weeks. Knowing my own limitations is important, but once I freely choose to enrol on that marathon, no one is going to change the rules; the ones around me will not run slower to make me happy… why should education be any different?

Have you ever seen a foreign football player be in the game with a translator in order to understand what is being shouted at him or the suggestions of his coach? In sport, the field stays constant; what changes is the league. You don’t lower the Olympic bar height because someone can’t clear it. Other leagues, groups, circuits and systems have been created, which are equally serious and demanding, with their own rules and excellence.

Education, by contrast, keeps trying to be one field for all, but then bends the rules instead of refining the system. The result is confusion about fairness: who’s being included, and at what cost to rigour?

So I stand in the field. I see the people watching standing on their respective boxes. I see the line. I see the rules. I see the race. I do not bend. I do not soften. I do not compromise. I meet it fully, fiercely, consciously. And from that run, I emerge: not just educated, not just tested, but alive. Fully alive. With integrity, with clarity, with fire.

This is the lesson.

This is the teaching.

This is the truth. And if you choose to enter the field, the match, the line, the race, you will see it too.

Now, some will read this and say I am cruel. Some will say I lack empathy. Some will say I am blind to struggle, to disability, to difference. Some will tell me I have been “lucky” and cannot understand. Some will say that my language is polarising, that I don't want to look at systemic inequities or personal circumstances, so many will offer the "Ok, then, but what about..." answer, or the "Yes, but...". All individual stories and circumstances are valid experiences, and some of them are life-changing.

I hear you. I see it. I want to acknowledge - again - that support is needed and it exists, that help exists, that ladders, tools, boxes and guidance can and should exist. But here is the distinction that matters: they exist outside the field, outside the line, outside the match. They do not bend the rules of the game. They do not lower the bar. They do not soften the fire. The field needs to stay consistent.

The spectators, the critics, the ones who complain that the rules are too hard: they are not obliged to play. They do not need to step onto the field. They do not need to meet the line. In the meantime, the match continues, unsoftened, unyielding. The integrity of the field cannot be compromised for those unwilling or unready to engage.

If you step onto the field, you meet the match as it exists. If you choose not to, if the path is not yours, quitting and renouncing is valid, leaving and relinquishing is valid, but the field itself remains intact. This is not cruelty: this is integrity. This is fairness. This is life. And if you feel anger, discomfort, or offence reading this: good. That is also part of the encounter. That is the jolt of clarity, the visceral recognition that the match is real, and that the match does not accommodate sentiment.

This is the lesson. This is the teaching.

If you choose instead to stay out of the field, be the one standing on your box or no box, or the one who make the boxes, sell the hotdogs and the coke, clean the toilets, change the lightbulbs, help park the cars, broadcast and write about the game, sponsor the club, drive the players to the next location… good! Your work is vital. Your contribution is real. Your role matters. But it is not the same as stepping onto the match, meeting the line, and facing the rules.

Recognition of one’s value does not soften the field.

This is my truth. The one I live by. I know that there are out there plenty of people in philosophy, education, psychology, analysis, etc, who hold similar convictions about standards, personal responsibility, and the sacredness of the “field” or craft. Many educators, coaches, and mentors argue the same: that accommodations can exist, but the integrity of the work itself cannot be softened for convenience. I am fortunately also in the company of creators, polymaths, artists and other visionaries who insist on showing process, and not packaging for applause and an insulting participation medal; people who prize engagement, rigour, and depth over comfort or superficial inclusion. This is my tribe.

I want to restate that help and support are valid and necessary [the right box to the right person], but the match itself must remain uncompromised.

Three boxes. Three heights. No fence.

One match.