With my veganism and other important belief systems in my life, I’ve decided that being imperfect is better than abandoning my morals altogether.
Three months ago, I ate a cheese pizza. This isn’t exactly headline news, but it mattered to me, because it broke a streak of many months, maybe years, since I’d last eaten dairy. I had been traveling and felt exhausted and defeated, and for whatever reason, the only thing that would soothe me in that moment was a real cheese pizza. I ate it, my tummy hurt, I felt bad. Then, I woke up in the morning and went on calling myself a vegan.
It wasn’t the first time I’d faltered. Although I don’t make a habit of it, since going vegan seven years ago, I’ve eaten dairy a few times, including once, when a Shinto priest offered my husband and I two small cakes during a trip to Japan. (Vegan or not, it felt both rude and disrespectful to refuse.)
These minor incidents could have been opportunities for me to give up my veganism entirely; proof that I’d “failed” or that my efforts were meaningless. But surprisingly, they’ve instead shifted my perspective: While I’ll never formally reintroduce dairy back into my diet, I’ve decided that being imperfect is better than abandoning my morals altogether.
Recently, I’ve begun trying to apply this grace to other guiding principles and belief systems in my life. There are so many things I care about that it can be difficult to do everything justice: the environment, disability, animal rights, poverty. Because of this, sometimes, it can feel as if living by any kind of set belief system is pointless, that our individual choices make no difference in the much larger fight. We are up against capitalism, war, the meat industry, violence, and some of the most anti-planet government policies we have ever seen. When you feel as if the world is crumbling around you, how much damage is an errant cheese pizza or Starbucks drink or Shein skirt really going to cause? But I believe this absolutism completely dismisses the power of our collective efforts to enact meaningful change, and how much we lose when we abandon our principles altogether.
For me, my mistakes have become a recentering reminder of why I became a vegan in the first place: as a commitment to limiting any damage to the earth and its living things, beginning with what I eat. While I ate fish until I was 10, I have never eaten meat, something that used to shock people more than it does now. My mother was a vegetarian, and when I was four or five years old, I was given the choice to add meat to my diet, but I said no. By then, I understood that it came from the same animals I liked so much, making a stance of ethical vegetarianism feel easy: I loved pigs, refused to watch Bambi, and had never even killed a bug.
Throughout my teens and twenties, as I gained new knowledge and autonomy, my beliefs continued to evolve. I donated to animal charities regularly and started to learn more about the environmental issues we are collectively facing, including how the meat and dairy industries are accelerating climate change. I gave up eggs at 13 and dairy at 19. After seeing a plaice at an aquarium, I vowed to never eat seafood again. This was in the ‘90s and ‘00s, when being a vegetarian (let alone a vegan) was far more limiting than it is today, and not exactly a popular stance. Even within my family, my mother’s choice to raise me as a vegetarian was controversial. During these years, I was ostensibly quiet about my vegetarianism, and took a similar approach when I became a vegan in my twenties. Luckily, Leicester, my hometown in the UK, has a large Hindu and Sikh population, so there were many vegetarian restaurants and supermarkets where I could eat and shop. But elsewhere, I often found myself defending my dietary choices, even when I tried my best not to bring them up.
Over the years, when asked why I ate the way I did, I’d simply say that I did not want to eat animals. But inevitably, people would push back, probing, for example, whether I would eat grass-fed beef or free-range chicken, assuming that if animals had better living conditions for their short lives, I’d agree their consumption was more “acceptable.” But their logic always posited the rights of nonhuman animals in opposition to the rights of human animals, and to me, they’re inextricable: To reject violence and exploitation means to reject it against all living creatures.
My vegan philosophy is continuously changing, but this core belief has not, even as its parameters progress. Lately, for example, I’ve been worried that eating mushrooms might be cruel because of the growing evidence of their intelligence. I’ve also become increasingly aware that other animals such as insects die as a consequence of crop agriculture. It’s difficult to know where my boundaries are, because my veganism is about minimizing harm, which means as I garner information, I reassess my choices. Still, I’m not perfect, because nobody is—especially when our food and agricultural systems make it near impossible to make faultless ethical choices. But my imperfection is also what allows my beliefs to evolve and adapt: Without room to falter, we can’t have space to grow.
Of course, I didn’t always see it this way. In fact, knowing just how difficult and conflicting our moral offerings can be, for a long time, despite mostly living as a vegan, I shied away from the label. I didn’t think I could live up to its standards and I didn’t want to feel any more cast out than I already had as a vegetarian. I couldn’t imagine giving up certain foods like cheese and chocolate for the rest of my life, and I felt embarrassed at the idea of falling short. But as my vegan philosophy evolved to leave room for faltering, I realized that my veganism could be an ideal to aim for, rather than a set state that binds me to guilt when I fail to meet it. Soon after, I encountered a Vox article titled “Vegans Are Radical. That’s Why We Need Them,” that both illustrated and illuminated this very point.
The piece touched on something I have known my whole life: Vegans are unpopular. Part of the reason is because we shine a light on much of the general population’s cognitive dissonance when it comes to animals and food, which can be a slippery slope to exposing an individual’s broader moral hypocrisy. It also explains why, growing up, I pretended to be cool and apolitical about my vegetarianism, and later my veganism—despite both being inherently political. On the outside, I acted as if I didn’t care what anyone else ate or did, but I was lying. On the inside, I cared very much, and still do.
The Vox piece also refers to veganism as an act of solidarity, which it is. By taking the stance that “animals are sentient beings with lives of their own” and imbuing “it into one’s body and everyday practice,” veganism relies on one of the most universal activities we all participate in to enact its politics: eating. But this stance of solidarity can put you at odds with those who ultimately don’t want to feel bad about what they do or eat—especially if you forgo quiet veganism, as I now have. The louder you are about your beliefs, the more you identify yourself with them, and the more shameful it is when you misstep. When I was quietly vegan, I had no one to answer to if I ate a chocolate bar in a moment of weakness.
There is an assumption that, because I am loud about my ethical beliefs, I think that I am perfect and that everyone else should be, too. But this isn’t the case. Furthermore, this aspiration to an ideal while accepting your own shortcomings applies to other values or choices people may aim for, like eschewing fast fashion or boycotting particular brands or corporations. It’s also why our mistakes can so often inspire nihilism: If we can’t change the word on an individual level, why aspire to ethical principles at all? In the end, maybe it’s because our morals are personal, and when we stray from them, we have ourselves to answer to.
When you care deeply about something, as I do, you want to solve the problem completely. And while I do not expect everyone to be vegan, I do want everyone to do what they can to reduce our collective suffering, whatever form it may take. This can feel insurmountable against the tidal wave of people, corporations, and governments that not only do not care, but seem to be actively campaigning to make the world worse than it is. But the good news is that even when you feel defeated or nihilistic, holding steadfast to radical beliefs is how we can push back. Because for every corporation lobbying against our collective well being, there is an organization or movement gaining ground or a small group of people somewhere fighting to make it better. Consider the huge wins achieved by activists against odds that once seemed impossible: improving factory workers’ conditions, regulating Big Tobacco, banning CFCs, and so many more. Small actions build into bigger and bigger wins.
Within my movement, I am inspired by those running small animal rescues and large organizations alike, from World Animal Protection and WWF to Sea Shepherd and the Animal Justice Project. Following and supporting the everyday work of farm rescues like Edgar’s Mission in Australia and Coppershell closer to home always fills me with pride. The work is often thankless, even when these movements achieve big wins, like banning animal testing in certain countries, recognizing animal sentience in the UK or ending whaling for profit. But the love that humans can have for a single lamb rescued from a slaughter auction, despite knowing they cannot save them all, always stops me from giving up.
Reflecting on my own activism over the last 32 years, while I’ve never had the stomach to hold vigil at a slaughterhouse or put my body on the line in a protest, I have stood with people who do. Veganism is, at its simplest, an act of political boycott. I put my money where my mouth is, donating regularly to vegan charities and organizations and frequenting vegan restaurants, supermarkets, and brands. I’ve also co-founded an agency that supports vegan brands and non-profits with branding and copywriting. While it never feels like enough, it’s the only way I know to live my life.
These acts of resistance against the system may be small, but they’re also part of a larger global movement to enact change. The meat and dairy industries have needed to reimagine their advertising to reflect customers’ consciousness, sometimes even tapping celebrity sponsors to polish their image. Some companies have also released plant-based alternatives and reduced their meat offerings. Many others offer buzzwords like “grass-fed” or “regenerative” beef, attempting to tap into diligent meat consumers, despite evidence that it isn’t any better for the cow or the planet. Still, these changes reveal a transformation in societal thinking, and hopefully, there will be more to come.
When I take the long view, even of my own life, there are many more vegetarians and vegans today than there were when I was a child. What’s more, there are more vegan friendly options at restaurants and bars, and fewer eyerolls when you request something plant-based, because even non-vegans might enjoy their morning coffee with oat or soy milk more than they ever did with a cow’s. It isn’t only the availability of options, but shifting attitudes. It has been years since I have sat with a group of people in a restaurant and endured a probing about why exactly I’m ordering a plant-based burger. My choices just aren’t weird or interesting anymore, and that’s a wonderful thing.
When the world isn’t changing as fast as you’d like it to, and when you know the powers that be are against you and your politics, it can be so hard to try, and to keep trying. But the combination of relinquishing perfection, alongside pursuing community and solidarity with like-minded individuals, is how we fight on, slowly and clumsily, knowing there will be missteps. Staying on a path of reducing harm and aspiring to live by our ideals does far more for our individual and collective well-being than giving up after we’ve faltered. This is how we refuse to give into nihilism. This is how we refuse to let the corporations and militaries and lobbyists win. They want, or rather, need you to believe you can’t make a difference, and so you shouldn’t even try. But before we can begin or continue persevering in any radical change in earnest, we must first reject this lie, and continue to aspire to our ethics, each and every day.
