As tools such as ChatGPT, Copilot and other generative artificial intelligence (AI) systems become part of everyday workflows, more companies are looking for employees who can answer “yes” to this question. In other words, people who can prompt effectively, think with AI, and use it to boost productivity.
In fact, in a growing number of roles, being “AI fluent” is quickly becoming as important as being proficient in office software once was.
But we’ve all had that moment when we’ve asked an AI chatbot a question and received what feels like the most generic, surface level answer. The problem isn’t the AI – you just haven’t given it enough to work with.
Think of it this way. During training, the AI will have “read” virtually everything on the internet. But because it makes predictions, it will give you the most probable, most common response. Without specific guidance, it’s like walking into a restaurant and asking for something good. You’ll likely get the chicken.
Your solution lies in understanding that AI systems excel at adapting to context, but you have to provide it. So how exactly do you do that?
Crafting better prompts
You may have heard the term “prompt engineering”. It might sound like you need to design some kind of technical script to get results.
To get the most out of your AI conversations, it’s important that you convey a few basics about what you want, and how you want it. Our approach follows the acronym CATS – context, angle, task and style.
Context means providing the setting and background information the AI needs. Instead of asking “How do I write a proposal?” try “I’m a nonprofit director writing a grant proposal to a foundation that funds environmental education programs for urban schools”. Upload relevant documents, explain your constraints, and describe your specific situation.
Angle (or attitude) leverages AI’s strength in role-playing and perspective-taking. Rather than getting a neutral response, specify the attitude you want. For example, “Act as a critical peer reviewer and identify weaknesses in my argument” or “Take the perspective of a supportive mentor helping me improve this draft”.
Task is specifically about what you actually want the AI to do. “Help me with my presentation” is vague. But “Give me three ways to make my opening slide more engaging for an audience of small business owners” is actionable.
Style harnesses AI’s ability to adapt to different formats and audiences. Specify whether you want a formal report, a casual email, bullet points for executives, or an explanation suitable for teenagers. Tell the AI what voice you want to use – for example, a formal academic style, technical, engaging or conversational.
In a growing number of roles, being able to use AI is quickly becoming as important as being proficient in office software once was. Shutterstock
Context is everything
Besides crafting a clear, effective prompt, you can also focus on managing the surrounding information – that is to say on “context engineering”. Context engineering refers to everything that surrounds the prompt.
That means thinking about the environment and information the AI has access to: its memory function, instructions leading up to the task, prior conversation history, documents you upload, or examples of what good output looks like.
You should think about prompting as a conversation. If you’re not happy with the first response, push for more, ask for changes, or provide more clarifying information.
Don’t expect the AI to give a ready-made response. Instead, use it to trigger your own thinking. If you feel the AI has produced a lot of good material but you get stuck, copy the best parts into a fresh session and ask it to summarise and continue from there.
Always retain your professional distance and remind yourself that you are the only thinking part in this relationship. And always make sure to check the accuracy of anything an AI produces – errors are increasingly common.
AI systems are remarkably capable, but they need you – and human intelligence – to bridge the gap between their vast generic knowledge and your particular situation. Give them enough context to work with, and they might surprise you with how helpful they can be.
The authors do not work for, consult, own shares in or receive funding from any company or organisation that would benefit from this article, and have disclosed no relevant affiliations beyond their academic appointment.
To love and be loved is something most people want in their lives.
In the modern world, we often see stories about the difficulties of finding love and the trials of dating and marriage. Sometimes, the person we love doesn’t love us. Sometimes, we don’t love the person who loves us.
Ancient Greeks and Romans also had a lot to say about this subject. In fact, most of the issues people face today in their search for love are already mentioned in ancient Greek and Roman literature.
So, what did they say? And is the advice they put forward still relevant for modern people?
Advice for finding a lover
The Roman poet Ovid (43BCE–17CE) wrote a poem called The Art of Love (Ars Amatoria). In it, he offered advice for those who are still single.
First, Ovid says, you should make an effort to find someone you’re interested in. Your lover “will not come floating down to you through the tenuous air, she must be sought”.
As suitable places to find a lover, Ovid recommends walking in porticos and gardens, attending the theatre, or (surprisingly enough) lingering near law courts.
You need to catch someone’s eye and then invent an excuse to talk with them, he says.
Seek your lover in the daytime, says Ovid. Be careful of the night. You won’t choose the right person if you’re drunk. And you can’t see their face properly if it’s too dark – they might be uglier than you think.
Second, Ovid says you need to look presentable. Make sure your clothes are clean and you have a good haircut. Moreover, keep yourself groomed properly at all times:
Do not let your nails project, and let them be free of dirt; nor let any hair be in the hollow of your nostrils. Let not the breath of your mouth be sour and unpleasing.
Ovid’s The Art of Love may be regarded as a kind of love manual. But aside from making personal efforts to find a lover, people could also use matchmakers.
However, matchmaking was a difficult process. Sometimes matchmakers didn’t tell the truth about the situations of the parties involved. So the Athenian writer Xenophon (430–353 BCE) says people were sometimes “victims of deception” in the matchmaking process.
What if you’re not in love?
The ancients recognised that not being in love can be a problem. They thought it bad for your mental and physical health, but also for society more broadly.
For example, the Roman writer Claudius Aelian (2nd–3rd century CE) in his Historical Miscellany says soldiers who are in love will fight better than soldiers who are not in love:
In the heat of battle when war brings men into combat, a man who is not in love could not match one who is. The man untouched by love avoids and runs away from the man who loves, as if he were an outsider uninitiated into the god’s rites, and his bravery depends on his character and physical strength.
According to Aelian, the Spartans had a punishment for men who did not fall in love:
Any man of good appearance and character who did not fall in love with someone well-bred was also fined, because despite his excellence he did not love anyone […] lovers’ affection for their beloved has a remarkable power of stimulating the virtues.
So, when two people are in love, they can inspire each other and bring out the best in one another. Being in love can help a person become better and achieve more.
Fighting for and keeping a lover
If we are lucky, the person we love will also love us back, and we won’t have any love rivals.
But what happens when the person we love is also loved by someone else? We may need to put in more effort to win the affection of that person, but sometimes this brings us into conflicts.
For example, the Roman orator and politician Marcus Tullius Cicero (106–43 BCE), in his On the Orator, tells how Gaius Memmius, Roman tribune of the year 111 BCE, apparently took a bite out of his love rival’s arm, “when he had a quarrel with him at Tarracina over a girlfriend”.
Some ways to keep one’s lover interested that are mentioned in ancient sources include showing off one’s wealth.
For example, in one of the plays of the poet Alexis (375–275 BCE) a young man who is in love puts on a large banquet to impress his girlfriend with a display of wealth. Engagements were at that time sometimes cancelled if it turned out the husband was too poor.
Of course, things did not always work out, and people had grievances against former lovers. One particularly famous invective was from the poet Martial (38–104 CE) to a woman called Manneia:
Manneia, your little dog licks your face and lips. Small wonder that a dog likes eating dung!
Timeless concerns
Today, we often see debates about whether it’s better to stay single or get into a relationship.
The same goes for antiquity. In the 4th-century BCE play Arrephoros or The Pipe Girl by poet Menander, one character says:
If you’ve got any sense, you won’t get married […] I’m married myself – which is why I’m advising you not to do it.
Others lamented that they missed their opportunity for love. So the poet Pindar (6th–5th century BCE) wrote a poem regretting that he could not make the much younger Theoxenus his boyfriend:
You should have picked love’s flowers at the right time, my heart, when you were young. But as for the sparkling rays from Theoxenus’ eyes, whoever looks on them and is not roiled with longing has a black heart forged with cold fire out of steel or iron.
Clearly, finding a lover was as difficult then as it is now.
Konstantine Panegyres does not work for, consult, own shares in or receive funding from any company or organisation that would benefit from this article, and has disclosed no relevant affiliations beyond their academic appointment.
Imagine your friend hasn’t replied to a message in a few hours. Most people might think, “they are probably just busy”.
But someone with attention-deficit hyperactivity disorder (ADHD) might spiral into a flood of thoughts like, “they must hate me!” or “I’ve ruined the friendship!”
These intense emotional reactions to real or imagined rejection are part of what’s called rejection sensitive dysphoria.
The term isn’t a formal diagnosis, but it’s gaining traction in both research and clinical work, especially among adults seeking to understand themselves better.
So, what is rejection sensitive dysphoria, how does it relate to ADHD, and how can we handle it with more compassion?
It’s more than just disliking criticism
Everyone feels hurt when they’re criticised or left out. But rejection sensitivity dysphoria isn’t just about “not liking” feedback. The word dysphoria refers to intense emotional distress.
People with rejection sensitivity dysphoria describe overwhelming reactions to perceived rejection, even if no one actually said or did anything cruel.
A passing comment such as “I thought you were going to do it this way” can trigger feelings of shame, embarrassment or self-doubt.
The emotional pain often feels immediate and consuming, leading some people to withdraw, over-apologise or lash out to protect themselves.
The ADHD brain and emotional hypersensitivity
ADHD is often associated with attention or impulsivity, but one major (and often overlooked) component is emotional dysregulation: difficulty managing and recovering from strong emotional responses.
This isn’t a character flaw; it’s a neurological difference. Brain imaging studies show people with ADHD tend to have differences in how their amygdala (the brain’s emotional alarm system) and prefrontal cortex (which regulates impulses and emotions) work together.
The amygdala is the brain’s emotional alarm system. The prefrontal cortex regulates emotions. chaiyo12/Shutterstock
The result? Emotional experiences hit harder and take longer to settle.
A 2018 study highlights this imbalance in emotional control circuits in people with ADHD, explaining why intense feelings can seem to “take over” before logical thinking kicks in.
What does the research say?
Recent research from 2024 reports a strong link between ADHD symptoms and rejection sensitivity. It found students with higher ADHD symptom levels also reported significantly more rejection sensitivity, including a heightened fear of being negatively evaluated or criticised.
Further evidence comes from a 2018 study which showed adolescents with ADHD symptoms were far more sensitive to peer feedback than their peers. Their brain activity revealed they were more emotionally reactive to both praise and criticism, suggesting they may perceive neutral social cues as emotionally charged.
This reflects what I see daily in my clinic. One 13-year-old boy I work with is creative, empathetic and full of potential, yet social anxiety tied to a deep fear of rejection often holds him back. He once told me, “if I say no, they won’t like me anymore”. That fear drives him to go along with things he later regrets, simply to keep the peace and avoid losing connection.
This constant social hypervigilance is mentally draining. Without support, it can spiral into shame, low confidence and ongoing mental health struggles.
Adults with ADHD aren’t immune either. A 2022 study explored how adults with ADHD experience criticism and found many linked it to persistent feelings of failure, low self-worth and emotional reactivity – even when the criticism was constructive or mild.
One client I support – a high-achieving professional diagnosed in her 50s – described learning about rejection sensitive dysphoria as “finding the missing piece of the puzzle”.
Despite consistently excelling in every role, she had long felt anxious about how she was perceived by colleagues. When she received a minor, formal complaint at work, she spiralled into intense self-doubt and shame.
Instead of brushing it off, she thought: “I’m too much”. This belief
had been silently reinforced for years by her emotional sensitivity to feedback.
What helps?
If you experience rejection sensitivity dysphoria, you’re not alone, and you’re not broken.
Here are some tools that may help:
name it. Saying to yourself, “This feels like rejection sensitivity,” can give you distance from the emotional flood
pause before reacting. Taking slow breaths, counting backwards, or stepping outside are simple grounding strategies that help calm the body’s stress response and restore balance to your nervous system. Research shows slowing your breath and grounding your senses can help shift your body out of fight-or-flight mode, supporting clearer thinking and emotional regulation
challenge the story. Ask yourself, “What else could be true?” or “How would I speak to a friend feeling this way?”
consider therapy. Working with a psychologist who understands ADHD and rejection sensitivity dysphoria can help untangle these reactions and develop healthy, self-compassionate responses. The Australian Psychological Society has a Find a Psychologist service: you can search by location, areas of expertise (such as anxiety, ADHD, trauma) and the type of therapy you’re interested in
start early with kids. Helping children with ADHD learn emotional language, boundary-setting and resilience can prevent rejection sensitivity from becoming overwhelming. For parents, resources such as Raising Children Network and books like The Whole-Brain Child by Daniel Siegel and Tina Payne Bryson offer practical ways to teach these skills at home
communicate gently. If you work or live with someone who has ADHD, try to give feedback clearly and kindly. Avoid sarcasm or vague phrasing. A little extra clarity can go a long way.
Rejection sensitivity dysphoria isn’t about being fragile or “weak”. It’s about how the ADHD brain processes emotional and social cues. With insight, tools and support, these experiences can become manageable.
Victoria Barclay-Timmis is a clinical psychologist and works in private practice.
Hundreds of years ago, it was common for married couples among the European upper classes to have separate bedrooms. Sleeping separately was a symbol of luxury and status historically reserved for royalty and the very wealthy.
Nowadays, it’s common for married couples and other couples in relationships to sleep in the same bed. But sometimes – for reasons from conflicting schedules to snoring to sleep talking – couples might choose to sleep separately in pursuit of a better night’s sleep.
This is known as “sleep divorce”. Though I prefer the term “sleep separation”, as this doesn’t have to be a permanent arrangement – but more on that later.
So why might couples choose to sleep separately? And what does the evidence say about the effects on sleep quality if you sleep alone versus with a partner?
Why do couples opt for a sleep separation?
Couples may choose to sleep apart if one partner’s sleep is disturbing the other’s, or both are disrupting one another. This can happen for a variety of reasons.
These include waking up frequently in the night, mismatched body clocks (for example, one person coming to bed later than the other), conflicting schedules (for example, shift workers), snoring, twitching legs or sleep talking.
Parents with babies and young children may choose to sleep separately to avoid both partners’ sleep being disturbed.
Those with conflicting preferences for sleeping environments, such as one partner liking a cool room with a fan and the other preferring warmth, may also decide to sleep apart.
What are the benefits of sleeping alone?
Many couples say they prefer to sleep – and sleep better – next to their partner.
But when scientists measure sleep objectively, such as via an electroencephalogram (EEG) to assess brain waves, the data actually shows poorer sleep quality when co-sleeping. So sleeping alone may, in fact, mean better quality and longer sleep.
Research also shows when one member of the couple has a sleep disorder, such as insomnia or sleep apnoea (where breathing is frequently interrupted during sleep), these people often inadvertently wake up their partnerwhen they wake in the night. So sleeping alone could be a good idea if your bed partner has a sleep disorder.
Finally, anyone who has struggled with their sleep will know anxiety around sleep is common. Many clients I have seen who experience insomnia report sleeping alone can alleviate some of their anxiety because at least they know they won’t disturb, or be disturbed by, their partner.
Are there any downsides to separate sleeping arrangements?
Some people dislike sleeping alone, reporting comfort, and feelings of safety and protection when sleeping alongside their partner – and loneliness when they don’t.
Sleeping separately also requires two rooms, or at least two beds. Many couples may not have these options available to them in their home.
Sleeping separately is often stigmatised, with some people seeing it as the death of a couple’s sex life. But while sleeping in separate beds may provide fewer opportunities for sex, this doesn’t necessarily mean the end of intimacy.
Sleeping apart could mean some couples actually have more sex. We know better sleep is linked to more positive feelings about relationships, so it’s possible the desire to be intimate could increase after a good night’s sleep in separate beds. Sleeping apart may even mean some couples have more energy to be intimate.
Nonetheless, if you choose to sleep separately from your partner, it’s important to have an open discussion and prioritise opportunities for connection and intimacy. One client I worked with referred to “visiting rights” where her partner came into her bed for a short period before sleep or in the morning.
Who should potentially consider a sleep separation?
You may wish to think about a “sleep separation” if you are disturbing each other’s sleep, have young children, or have different preferences in terms of temperature, light and noise, which are causing issues.
Ultimately, if sleeping in the same bed is leading to poor sleep then sleeping apart, if it’s possible, could help.
If you can’t sleep separately there may be other ways to reduce disturbance from a partner such as using an eye mask, white noise or earplugs.
If you decide to try a sleep separation, remember this can be a flexible arrangement or “re-set” and doesn’t have to be permanent, or every night. Some couples find sleeping separately during the working week but sharing a bed on the weekend works well for them.
Lastly, it’s important to talk to your GP about any persistent sleep problems, such as snoring, insomnia, or unusual behaviour during sleep (for example, shouting or walking around), as there may be an underlying sleep disorder which needs treating.
Alix Mellor works for the Monash University Healthy Sleep Clinic at the Turner Clinics as a provisional psychologist.
Source: The Conversation – Global Perspectives – By Samantha Chan, Immunology and Allergy Lead, Snow Centre for Immune Health, WEHI (Walter and Eliza Hall Institute of Medical Research)
As the number of people with allergies grows worldwide, scientists are trying to work out precisely how and why these conditions – such as asthma and eczema – develop.
One long-standing idea is the “hygiene hypothesis”. This suggests our modern indoor lifestyles are to blame, as they limit our early exposure to germs and allergens which help train the immune system.
But growing evidence suggests having a pet may counter this effect. As any pet owner knows, our furry friends bring a lot of mess, germs and fur into our homes – along with the cuddles.
So, does spending time with animals lower children’s risk of allergies? Here’s what we know.
How allergies develop
During early childhood, our immune systems learn what to attack and what to ignore to stop us getting sick.
Evidence suggests early exposure – to family members, food, germs, dust, dirt, pollen and pet dander (skin flakes) – shapes this immune response.
Allergic conditions develop when the immune system overreacts to harmless substances, such as dust, pollen or certain foods. These reactions can affect the skin, airways and gut.
Dogs bring both love and mess – which might be just what a developing immune system needs. Samantha Chan/Author provided, CC BY-NC-ND
However, we still don’t fully understand why some people develop allergies while others don’t.
Scientists have identified genes linked to allergic conditions. But most have subtle effects on the immune system and act as “risk factors” – they increase the chance of disease but don’t cause it outright.
Recent research suggests exposure to bacteria in our environment could be another major factor.
From birth, our bodies are colonised by bacteria, especially in the gut. This community of microorganisms is known as the microbiome.
Ongoing “crosstalk” between the microbiome and immune system is crucial for healthy immune function. When this balance is disturbed, it can contribute to inflammation and disease.
The effect of our early environment
In the last few decades, studies of children raised on farms gave us some of the first clues that early environments can affect allergy risk.
Compared to children raised in cities, children on farms are less likely to have allergic conditions such as eczema and asthma. This is especially true of those in close contact with animals.
Notably, farm-raised children tend to develop a more diverse microbiome than children raised in urban environments. This may help make their immune system more tolerant to foreign substances (such as bacteria and dirt) and less likely to develop allergies.
However, across the world children are increasingly living in urban areas.
This means a pet may be the closest contact they have with animals. So, does this still lower their risk of developing allergies?
Some studies indicate children with pets may be less likely to have allergies.
However this evidence hasn’t always been easy to interpret.
It can be difficult to tell whether lower allergy rates are due to the pets themselves or other factors, such as location, lifestyle or a family history of allergies.
A review of results from 23 studies found children exposed to dogs early in life were significantly less likely to develop eczema.
Another 2025 study analysed genetic data from more than 270,000 people. It found a gene linked to eczema only increased risk of eczema in children who hadn’t been exposed to dogs.
This suggests early dog exposure may help protect children who are genetically more likely to develop eczema.
What about asthma?
When it comes to asthma, the story gets trickier.
One 2001 study followed more than 1,000 children in the United States from birth to age 13. It found those living with dogs indoors were less likely to develop frequent wheezing – a common asthma symptom – but only if they didn’t have a family history of asthma.
A Korean study from 2021 found those who had dogs during childhood were less likely to develop allergies. But they had a slightly higher risk of non-allergic wheeze — a type of breathing difficulty usually caused by airway irritation or infections (not allergens).
This suggests while growing up with a dog may protect against allergic conditions, such as asthma, it may increase the chance of certain non-allergic respiratory symptoms.
What about cats?
It’s challenging to tease apart the specific effects of cats versus dogs, since many early studies grouped all furry pets together.
But in studies that have looked at them separately, living with cats didn’t seem to reduce allergy risk.
One potential reason is cats and dogs carry very different microbes, which may influence how they shape the household environment.
If you’re already thinking about getting a dog, there’s decent evidence early exposure could reduce your child’s risk of eczema, and possibly other allergic conditions too.
It’s not a guarantee, but a potential bonus – alongside companionship, joy and never having to worry about what to do with leftovers.
And if a dog’s not on the cards, don’t worry. Spending time outdoors, encouraging messy play, and avoiding overuse of disinfectants can all help build a more resilient immune response.
Samantha Chan has served on advisory boards for CSL Behring. She is in receipt of funding from the Allergy and Immunology Foundation Australia and Walter & Eliza Hall Institute. She is affiliated with the Australasian Society of Clinical Immunology and Allergy, American Academy of Allergy, Asthma, and Immunology and European Academy of Allergy and Clinical Immunology. She is a physician for the Snow Centre for Immune Health, funded by the Snow Medical Research Foundation.
In the past five years, Jo Douglass has served on advisory boards, provided advice or undertaken presentations on behalf of Astra-Zeneca P/L, GSK, CSL, Stallergenes, Immunosis P/L , Novartis and Sanofi. She is in receipt of funding from the Medical Research Future Fund for studies in allergic asthma. She is a clinical co-director of the Snow Centre for Immune Health, funded by the Snow Medical Research Foundation.
Reunited twins Esther (left) and ShuangjieBarbara Demick
At the end of a long road trip through rural China in 2009, American journalist Barbara Demick had an encounter that would change the course of her life. In the previous days, she had interviewed several parents whose children had been forcibly removed from them by government officials. Demick suspected there may be a link between the missing children and China’s booming international adoption industry.
She had enough for her story, but some instinct compelled her to follow the next lead to remote Gaofeng Village, high in the mountains of Hunan Province.
Her driver could only take her so far. The dirt road ended at a stream, where she was met by local woman Zanhua Zeng and her daughter Shuangjie. They guided her across a makeshift bridge and into the village where “everything was in the process of falling down or going up”.
Zanhua Zeng and daughter Shuangjie, meeting Barbara Demick in a moment that would change all their lives. Barbara Demick
There, she learnt about two-year-old Fangfang, daughter of Zanhua and twin sister of Shuangjie, violently taken from her aunt’s care in 2002. Government officials had told the family they were in breach of China’s One Child Policy and were not allowed to keep the baby. They had no idea what had happened to their daughter and sister.
Zanhua’s parting words were: “Come back again and next time bring my daughter.”
Review: Daughters of the Bamboo Grove: From China to America, A True Story of Abduction, Adoption, and Separated Twins – Barbara Demick (Text)
Extraordinary consequences
At the time, Demick had no premonition of the significance the Zeng family and their story would play in her life – and those of many others. But in writing a front-page report for the Los Angeles Times about the links between China’s stolen children and international adoptions, including a small piece about the missing twin Fangfang, she started a chain of events with extraordinary consequences.
Fangfang (renamed Esther), in the referral photo supplied by the orphanage.
For Zanhua and Shuangjie, it would eventually lead to a reunion with Fangfang, accompanied by Demick, who helped organise it. She was to develop an enduring connection with the family – and with Fangfang’s adoptive American family, too.
Daughters of the Bamboo Grove does what the best stories do: humanises a big issue. In this case, China’s one child policy and the international adoption industry it created.
Demick’s book is a story of China, and of incomprehensible government control. But as told through this case of the separated twins, it’s also a story of family, identity, loss and resilience.
It’s personal and moving, but also thoroughly researched, strengthened with compelling and confronting statistics and anecdotes.
The twins’ meeting as young women was documented by Barbara Demick for the Los Angeles Times.
Demick outlines the population growth that led to the introduction of the One Child Policy in 1979 and the rise of the State Family Planning Commission, set up to enforce the law limiting most Chinese families to one child.
“Family Planning morphed into a monstrous organization that dwarfed the police and military in manpower,” she writes. “By the 1990s, it was estimated that eighty-three million Chinese worked at least part-time for Family Planning.” (By comparison, China’s combined armed forces were estimated to number roughly three million at the time.)
The organisation was “intrusive in the extreme”, with female workers having to report when they had their periods and, in some cases, show their blood-stained sanitary pads. After giving birth to their first child, women were forced to have an IUD or were sterilised.
People who violated the law received fines of two to six times their annual income. If violators were civil servants, they could lose their jobs. In rural areas, where people were less reliant on government jobs, the policy was implemented with “brute force”.
People were beaten. Sometimes their homes were demolished or set on fire. “If you violate the policy, your family will be destroyed,” read a sign on a wall not far from the Zeng’s home. Family Planning officials regularly checked even the most remote villages, sometimes tipped off by neighbours.
If a woman was discovered to be pregnant after having a child, she would be forced to undergo an abortion. The methods were “crude, often barbaric,” Demick writes. “Doctors would sometimes induce labor and then kill the baby with an injection of formaldehyde into the cranium before the feet emerged.”
Although Chinese people, particularly those from rural communities, often wanted to have bigger families, they had no power to fight the authorities. Those who tried to quietly subvert the system were ruthlessly punished.
These practices were so common, they were generally accepted. But when government officials started to take babies from families who had defied the policy, resistance grew. Other families started reporting cases like what had happened to Fangfang. Family Planning had forcibly removed children, refusing to provide any details about their whereabouts.
Officials miscalculated in 2005 when they dared to take a boy, Demick writes. He lived in a town, attended school and was not as poor as some of the other affected families. The school made a complaint, which was supported by a local politician. The boy was returned to his family after 29 days.
Hearing about this case emboldened other families to mobilise and fight back. These were among the first families Demick met when she travelled to cover the story of the missing children in 2009.
Child trafficking by ‘good Samaritans’
In the meantime, news was starting to emerge about the child trafficking of children through Chinese orphanages, with “good Samaritans” who “rescued” babies being paid increasingly large amounts of money. “The orphanages were competing with one another to procure babies,” Demick writes.
Chinese babies were in high demand for international adoption, and it had become a lucrative business. One Hunan orphanage director later told police they started a service to allow foreigners to adopt babies in 2001; they were charged a US$3,000 cash donation per baby. In some cases, the babies genuinely needed homes and families, Demick writes, but the payment was “in effect a bounty that incentivised a wave of kidnapping of female babies and toddlers”.
Shaoyang Social Welfare Institute, where Esther spent the last six months of her life in China. Barbara Demick
It gradually became clear that many of the children removed by Family Planning officials were among the wave of Chinese babies and toddlers adopted by families from other countries, all of whom paid significant fees to do so, as well as donating to the orphanages. It was later revealed that orphanages routinely fabricated information about how and where the babies had been reportedly left.
By the time Demick’s reports were published in 2009, nearly 100,000 babies had been sent out of China, more than half to the US. The worldwide number would reach 160,000 by 2024, when China ended its international adoption program.
Demick’s story about stolen babies, plus other reports from within China and elsewhere, stunned the international adoption community and parents of Chinese adoptees around the world. Until then, China was perceived to be the most ethical choice for international adoption. For adoptive parents who now feared their adopted children could be taken from them, the revelations were terrifying, Demick says.
Marsha and Esther (background) in their Texas kitchen. Barbara Demick
One of these parents was a Texan women named Marsha. She and her husband Al had adopted two Chinese girls: Victoria in 1999 and Esther in 2002. Through developing connections among families who had adopted from China, Demick came across Marsha – and realised Esther may be Fangfang: the missing twin.
She was correct. However, the story was far from resolved, which explains, in part, why Demick had plenty of material for her book.
Reporter as dogged detective
Daughters of the Bamboo Grove is a testament to dogged reporting. Demick’s skills as a researcher, interviewer – and effectively, a detective – imbue the book with substance and credibility.
She handles difficult subject matter sensitively, portraying the Zeng family in China and adoptive mother Marsha in the US with empathy. She acknowledges the challenges they faced and recognises their devotion to their children.
Her descriptions of the twin sisters, Shuangjie and Esther, are perceptive and gentle. Restraint is a powerful writing tool and Demick uses it here to great effect.
This is the moment where the twins first meet, outside the Zeng family home in China:
When everybody was out of the van, the two of them stood next to each other, side by side, facing the photographer. Nobody embraced. Nobody spoke. I imagined the twins as bride and groom in an arranged marriage, meeting for the first time, willing to pose for the photographer but not yet able to engage in conversation.
Twins Esther (left) and Shaungjie, separated most of their lives, meet for the first time since babyhood. Barbara Demick
Demick came to this story with the perspectives and limitations of an American journalist, but has gone to remarkable lengths to hear and convey the voices of Chinese people impacted by the One Child Policy.
At the same time, she challenges Western paternalistic ideas around adoption, questioning the view expressed by many she encounters that the Chinese children adopted by Westerners were lucky, guaranteed to have better lives elsewhere.
China’s One Child Policy was not formally abolished until 2015. In its 35 years, it did almost unimaginable damage, concludes Demick:
the policy shattered marriages, led to the deaths of countless children and suicides of parents, and left China with a population expected to continue declining into the next century. It was all encompassing, leaving almost everyone a victim or perpetrator or both.
For the hundreds of thousands of children sent out of China during this period, the legacy of One Child endures. As Demick writes, they are
citizens of their adopted countries but tethered by blood to another family and country they struggle to comprehend. Living in this in-between space between worlds.
In dedicating Daughters of the Bamboo Grove to Chinese adoptees around the world, Demick says she hopes in some small way it helps them to understand where they came from, and how they got to where they are today.
Kathryn Shine does not work for, consult, own shares in or receive funding from any company or organisation that would benefit from this article, and has disclosed no relevant affiliations beyond their academic appointment.
In the new Netflix documentary Shark Whisperer, the great white shark gets an image makeover – from Jaws villain to misunderstood friend and admirer.
But the star of the documentary is not so much the shark, but the model and marine conservationist Ocean Ramsey (yes, that’s her real name).
The film centres on Ramsey’s self-growth journey, with the shark co-starring as a quasi-spiritual medium for finding meaning and purpose (not to mention celebrity status).
The film, and some in it, are happy to attribute Ramsey’s success as a shark conservation activist to how driven and photogenic she is. Ramsey says “People look first and listen second. I’ll use my appearance, I’ll put myself out there for a cause.”
Her husband, the photographer Juan Oliphant, enthuses she is good for sharks partly because she is so beautiful and uses all the attention she attracts in the selfless service of sharks.
The image of the long-haired, long-limbed young woman in a bikini swimming above an outsized great white shark is not a new one.
Primal fears and fantasies
Since Jaws (1975), generations have been fascinated and titillated by filmic images and promotional materials of bikini-clad young women juxtaposed with dangerous sharks.
The heroine of Deep Blue Sea (1999) is a neuroscientist – however the film and its promotional materials still require her to appear in a wet t-shirt and underwear while pursued by a massive shark monster.
The Shallows (2016) presents countless images of its bikini-clad heroine, with partially exposed bottom and long legs marked by bite marks as a kind of meat to be consumed – not least by the voyeuristic lens of the camera.
The poster for 47 Meters Down: Uncaged (2019) features a bikini-clad young woman with legs dangling precariously in front of the gaping jaws of an unnaturally large great white.
I have previously explored the psychosexual symbolism of these films and images. These films were never really about actual sharks. They are about very human fears and fantasies about being exposed and vulnerable.
Whisperer and the Ocean Ramsey website tap into the collective fascination with dangerous sharks fuelled by popular culture. Many online images show Ramsey in a bikini or touching sharks – she’s small, and vulnerable in the face of great whites. As with forms of celebrity humanitarianism, what I have dubbed “sexy conservationism” leaves itself open to criticism about its methods – even if its intentions are good.
The paradox of Shark Whisperer – and indeed the whole Ocean Ramsey empire – is it both resists and relies on Jaws mythology and iconography to surf the image economy of new media.
Saving, not stalking
Ramsey and Oliphant are on a mission not just to save individual sharks, but to change the public perception of great whites to a more positive one.
This mission is reiterated in Shark Whisperer and in the Saving Jaws documentary linked to the website, which also promotes a book, accessories and shark-diving tours.
Shark Whisperer both resists and relies on the mythical status of the shark brought to us by Jaws. Netflix
It is reassuring to know proceeds from the bikini you buy from the official website are donated to shark conservation. But the (often sexualised) media attention which fuels the whole enterprise still depends on tapping into the legacy of popular culture representations of great whites as fearsome monsters.
In footage, Ramsey seems to spend most of her time with smaller tiger sharks, yet her website and the Shark Whisperer film foreground her rare close encounters with an “enormous” or “massive” great white as the climax and cover shot.
Shark Whisperer also includes the kind of “money shots” we have come to expect: images of a large great white tearing at flesh (here, a whale carcass) with blood in the water. Images like these arouse our collective cultural memory of the filmic great white as the ultimate bestial predator.
In its climactic scene, Whisperer strategically deploys eerie music to build the suspense and foretell the appearance of the enormous great white which rises from the depths. Again echoes of Jaws are used to stimulate viewing pleasures and sell the mixed messages of sexy shark conservation.
A story of (personal) growth
The self-growth narrative which underpins Whisperer will feel familiar to shark film fans. Jaws was always about overcoming fears and past traumas, as in the scene where Quint and Brody compare their real and metaphorical scars.
The poster for the 2022 film Shark Bait. IMDB
Over the past decade, a new generation of post-feminist shark films have used sharks as metaphorical stalkers to tell stories about women overcoming past trauma, grief, “inner darkness” or depression.
In The Reef: Stalked (2022) the heroine must overcome the murder of her sister. In Shark Bait (2022) the heroine must rise above a cheating partner. In The Shallows, the heroine is processing grief.
Whisperer also leans into the idea of Ramsey fighting inner demons on a journey to self-actualisation.
And while Ramsey has undoubtedly raised the profile of shark conservation, as a model-designer-conservationist-entrepreneur she has also disseminated another more dubious message: that the way to enact influence and activism is through instagrammable images of beautiful models in high risk situations.
Happy endings
The end credits of Whisperer are a montage of happy endings: Ramsey frolics with sharks and shows off her diamond ring. There is even an ocean-themed wedding scene.
Yet beneath all the glossy surface lies a sombre reality: globally at least 80 million sharks are killed every year.
The Ramsey website and the film rightly remind us of this. They also remind us that, thanks in part to the hashtag activism of Ocean Ramsey and her millions of fans and followers, Hawaii was the first state in the United States to outlaw shark fishing.
So, Ramsey may be right to argue her ends justify the means.
Susan Hopkins does not work for, consult, own shares in or receive funding from any company or organisation that would benefit from this article, and has disclosed no relevant affiliations beyond their academic appointment.
The “mushroom murder trial”, as it has popularly become known, has gripped Australia over the past 11 weeks. More than that, it’s prompted worldwide headlines, multiple daily podcasts, and even YouTube videos of self-proclaimed “body language experts” assessing defendant Erin Patterson’s every move.
There’s an ABC drama series in the works. Acclaimed Australian author Helen Garner has been in the courtroom.
But why did this tragedy, in which three people died and a fourth was lucky to survive, grip the public consciousness in way no other contemporary Australian case has?
On July 29 2023, in a sleepy town called Leongatha in the foothills of the Strzelecki Ranges in Victoria, a very normal woman called Erin Patterson made an ostensibly very normal lunch of beef Wellington.
She was cooking for her in-laws, Gail and Don Patterson, Gail’s sister Heather Wilkinson, and Heather’s husband Ian. Erin’s estranged husband, Simon Patterson, was also invited, but chose not to attend.
Simon and Erin had two children, a boy and a girl, who did not attend the lunch either.
Shortly after the lunch, all four guests were admitted to hospital with suspected gastroenteritis. Erin Patterson also presented to hospital, but refused to be admitted.
Within a few days, Gail, Don, and Heather all died as a result of what was later confirmed as poisoning with Amanita phalloides, better known as death cap mushrooms.
Ian survived, but he was lucky. He spent seven weeks in hospital and needed a liver transplant.
The questions became, how did the mushrooms get into the beef Wellington? Was this an awful accident or something more sinister?
Public obsession
These questions became the focus of very significant public and media attention.
Erin Patterson spoke to the media in the days after the incident. She presented as your typical, average woman of 50.
That is, in my opinion, where the obsession with this case began.
This case had the feel of a Shakespearean drama: multiple deaths within one family, death by poison, and a female protagonist.
The juxtaposition between the normality of a family lunch (and the sheer vanilla-ness of the accused) and the seriousness of the situation sent the media into overdrive.
Then there were the lies. Patterson lied about foraging for mushrooms, and about having cancer to encourage the guests to attend.
The location also played a huge part. Leongatha is known for its staggering natural beauty and thriving food and wine scene. It’s hardly a place where the world expected a mass murderer to live.
However, the perception that rural areas are utopias of safety and social cohesion, and cities are dark and dangerous places, is a myth.
One study by the Australian Institute of Health and Welfare paints a different picture.
For serious assault cases that resulted in hospitalisation, for major cities the rates were 65 per 100,000 people. In rural areas, this rose to 1,244 people per 100,000. And for murder, in very remote areas the rate was five per 100,000 population, but fewer than one per 100,000 in urban areas.
Then there was Erin Patterson’s unusual behaviour. She disposed of the desiccator in which the mushrooms she had foraged were dehydrated. She used multiple phones, one of which underwent multiple factory resets on in the days following the lunch. One of these resets was done remotely after police seized her phone.
There are also the much-discussed plates. The court heard she prepared her meal on a different-coloured plate to those of her other guests so they were easily identifiable.
The public latched onto these details, each providing a new talking point around water coolers or spurring new Reddit threads dedicated to unpacking their significance.
The courtroom as a stage
Ultimately, after three months, Erin Patterson was charged with three counts of murder and one count of attempted murder. She pleaded not guilty.
The trial lasted 40 days. The prosecution alleged Patterson intentionally poisoned her guests, whereas the defence suggested it was all an awful, tragic accident.
The jury took six and a half days to deliberate. During that time, various media outlets did everything they could to keep the story on the front page.
Bizarre pieces began appearing online from credible sources such as the ABC, profiling people who had attended court. They included stories of people turning down work to attend the court daily, cases of friendships blossoming during the trial between regular attendees, and the outfit choices of locals turning up every day to watch the drama unfold.
There were also articles profiling local cafe owners and how they felt about being at the centre of the legal theatrics. The daily podcasts continued even when news from the courtroom didn’t.
The vibe felt more appropriate for a royal visit than a triple murder trial.
It seemed everyone in Australia was gripped by one event, united in a way few other things could manage. We all waited with bated breath to see what the 12 men and women of the jury would decide.
The end to this strange and unique criminal case came on Monday July 7.
The result? Guilty on all four counts. Erin Patterson is formally a mass murderer, though many in the court of public opinion had reached the same conviction months earlier.
Leongatha will always be known for being the setting of (arguably) the most infamous multiple murder case in Australian history. It will join Snowtown in South Australia (home of the “bodies in the barrell” murder case), Kendall in New South Wales (where William Tyrrell disappeared), and Claremont in Western Australia (the murder or disappearance of three women) as places forever linked to tragic crimes.
While the trial is over, there’s much more content still to come, the public’s appetite yet to be satiated.
But the final word should be saved for the Patterson and Wilkinson families. This is an awful tragedy, and there are no winners. Ian and Simon have lost loved ones. The Patterson children have lost grandparents and now have to come to terms with the fact their mother caused those deaths intentionally.
Amid the spectacle, it’s easy to lose sight of the humanity at the centre. As the media spotlight dims, may the families get the privacy and respect they deserve.
Xanthe Mallett does not work for, consult, own shares in or receive funding from any company or organisation that would benefit from this article, and has disclosed no relevant affiliations beyond their academic appointment.
For a long time, universities worked off a simple idea: knowledge was scarce. You paid for tuition, showed up to lectures, completed assignments and eventually earned a credential.
That process did two things: it gave you access to knowledge that was hard to find elsewhere, and it signalled to employers you had invested time and effort to master that knowledge.
The model worked because the supply curve for high-quality information sat far to the left, meaning knowledge was scarce and the price – tuition and wage premiums – stayed high.
Now the curve has shifted right, as the graph below illustrates. When supply moves right – that is, something becomes more accessible – the new intersection with demand sits lower on the price axis. This is why tuition premiums and graduate wage advantages are now under pressure.
According to global consultancy McKinsey, generative AI could add between US$2.6 trillion and $4.4 trillion in annual global productivity. Why? Because AI drives the marginal cost of producing and organising information toward zero.
Large language models no longer just retrieve facts; they explain, translate, summarise and draft almost instantly. When supply explodes like that, basic economics says price falls. The “knowledge premium” universities have long sold is deflating as a result.
Employers have already made their move
Markets react faster than curriculums. Since ChatGPT launched, entry-level job listings in the United Kingdom have fallen by about a third. In the United States, several states are removing degree requirements from public-sector roles.
In Maryland, for instance, the share of state-government job ads requiring a degree slid from roughly 68% to 53% between 2022 and 2024.
In economic terms, employers are repricing labour because AI is now a substitute for many routine, codifiable tasks that graduates once performed. If a chatbot can complete the work at near-zero marginal cost, the wage premium paid to a junior analyst shrinks.
But the value of knowledge is not falling at the same speed everywhere. Economists such as David Autor and Daron Acemoglu point out that technology substitutes for some tasks while complementing others:
codifiable knowledge – structured, rule-based material such as tax codes or contract templates – faces rapid substitution by AI
tacit knowledge – contextual skills such as leading a team through conflict – acts as a complement, so its value can even rise.
Data backs this up. Labour market analytics company Lightcast notes that one-third of the skills employers want have changed between 2021 and 2024. The American Enterprise Institute warns that mid-level knowledge workers, whose jobs depend on repeatable expertise, are most at risk of wage pressure.
So yes, baseline knowledge still matters. You need it to prompt AI, judge its output and make good decisions. But the equilibrium wage premium – meaning the extra pay employers offer once supply and demand for that knowledge settle – is sliding down the demand curve fast.
What’s scarce now?
Herbert Simon, the Nobel Prize–winning economist and cognitive scientist, put it neatly decades ago: “A wealth of information creates a poverty of attention.” When facts become cheap and plentiful, our limited capacity to filter, judge and apply them turns into the real bottleneck.
That is why scarce resources shift from information itself to what machines still struggle to copy: focused attention, sound judgement, strong ethics, creativity and collaboration.
I group these human complements under what I call the C.R.E.A.T.E.R. framework:
critical thinking – asking smart questions and spotting weak arguments
resilience and adaptability – staying steady when everything changes
emotional intelligence – understanding people and leading with empathy
accountability and ethics – taking responsibility for difficult calls
teamwork and collaboration – working well with people who think differently
entrepreneurial creativity – seeing gaps and building new solutions
reflection and lifelong learning – staying curious and ready to grow.
These capabilities are the genuine scarcity in today’s market. They are complements to AI, not substitutes, which is why their wage returns hold or climb.
What universities can do right now
1. Audit courses: if ChatGPT can already score highly on an exam, the marginal value of teaching that content is near zero. Pivot the assessment toward judgement and synthesis.
2. Reinvest in the learning experience: push resources into coached projects, messy real-world simulations, and ethical decision labs where AI is a tool, not the performer.
3. Credential what matters: create micro-credentials for skills such as collaboration, initiative and ethical reasoning. These signal AI complements, not substitutes, and employers notice.
4. Work with industry but keep it collaborative: invite employers to co-design assessments, not dictate them. A good partnership works like a design studio rather than a boardroom order sheet. Academics bring teaching expertise and rigour, employers supply real-world use cases, and students help test and refine the ideas.
Universities can no longer rely on scarcity setting the price for the curated and credentialed form of information that used to be hard to obtain.
The comparative advantage now lies in cultivating human skills that act as complements to AI. If universities do not adapt, the market – students and employers alike – will move on without them.
The opportunity is clear. Shift the product from content delivery to judgement formation. Teach students how to think with, not against, intelligent machines. Because the old model, the one that priced knowledge as a scarce good, is already slipping below its economic break-even point.
Patrick Dodd does not work for, consult, own shares in or receive funding from any company or organisation that would benefit from this article, and has disclosed no relevant affiliations beyond their academic appointment.
Could you ever be truly alone in the woods of ancient Greece or Rome? According to myth, the ancient world was filled with wild animals, terrifying monsters, and mischievous deities. Among them were nymphs: semi-divine female figures that personified elements of the natural world.
But nymphs offer us more than just stories of sexy nature spirits.
They can reveal how ancient people thought about their world and connected with their landscape through mythology.
Personifying elements of nature
Nymph was a broad category in myth. It encompassed almost every semi-divine woman and girl in myth, including a number of goddesses. The sea goddess Thetis and the underworld river Styx were both sea nymphs as well as goddesses.
Nymphs were typically portrayed as young, exceptionally beautiful women in art and literature. The word “nymph” in ancient Greek could even be used to mean “young girl” or “unmarried woman” when applied to mortal women.
Despite this etymological connection, many nymphs were married or mothers or gods. Amphitrite was the wife of Poseidon, and her sister Metis, the personification of wisdom, was Zeus’ first wife, according to Hesiod’s Theogony. Maia was the mother of Hermes, the messenger god.
What links all nymphs was their connection with the natural world. Nymphs typically personified elements of nature, like bodies of water, mountains, forests, the weather, or specific plants.
One of the most quintessential nymphs was Daphne (or Laurel, in Latin). According to the Roman poet Ovid in his poem the Metamorphoses, Daphne was a stunningly beautiful nymph who lived in the forest.
Daphne had chosen to follow in the footsteps of Artemis (Diana), the goddess of the hunt, by being a huntress and abstaining from sex and marriage. But her beauty would be her downfall.
One day the god Apollo saw Daphne and immediately tried to pursue her. Daphne did not feel similarly and fled through the forest. Apollo chased and nearly caught her.
But Daphne’s father Peneus, a river god, saved his daughter by transforming her into the laurel tree.
Like many nymphs, Daphne’s myth was an origin story for her namesake tree and its significance to the god Apollo.
But her story also followed one of the most common tropes in nymph myths – the trope a nymph transformed into her namesake after running away from a male deity.
Different nymphs for trees, water, mountains, stars
There were even special names for different types of nymph.
Daphne was a dryad, or tree nymph. Oreads (mountain nymphs) are referenced in Homer’s Iliad. There were three different types of water nymph: the saltwater oceanids and nereids, and the freshwater naiads.
Nymphs lived in the wilderness. These untamed places could be dangerous but they also held precious natural resources that nymphs personified, such as special trees and springs.
Spring nymphs personified one of the most precious resources of all: freshwater.
It was hard to find freshwater in the ancient world, especially in places without human infrastructure. Cities were often built around springs.
The nymph Arethusa was the personification of the spring Arethusa in Sicily. Today, you can visit the Fountain of Arethusa in modern day Syracuse.
No matter where you looked in the ancient landscape, there were nymphs – even in the sky.
The Pleiades and Hyades were two sets of daughters of the god Atlas who eventually were transformed into stars.
Their myths gave an origin for two sets of constellations that were used for navigation and divination.
The Pleiades and Hyades constellations were visible to the naked eye, and can still be seen today.
Although myths may feel like a fictional story told to kids, nymph myths show that ancient myth is inseparable from the ancient landscape and ancient people.
The natural world was imbued with a divine presence from the gods who physically made it – Gaia (Earth) was literally the soil underfoot. Nymphs were a part of this divine presence.
This divine presence brought with it a very special boon: the gift of inspiration.
Some writers (such as Plato) referred to this sort of natural inspiration as being “seized by the nymphs” (νυμφόληπτος or nympholeptus).
Being present in nature and present in places with nymphs could bring about divine inspiration for philosophers, poets and artists alike.
So, if you ever do find yourself alone in a Grecian wood, you may find yourself inspired and in good company – as long as you remain respectful.
Kitty Smith is a member of the Australian Society for Classical Studies and of Australasian Women in Ancient World Studies.
