I would never describe myself as cynical. Yes, I have little faith in the likelihood of our coming together as a species to solve the climate crisis, make housing affordable or vote for the non-criminal presidential candidate.
But that’s based on evidence. Who could reflect on current events and feel optimistic about the future?
That’s what I might have argued before I read Jamil Zaki’s new book, Hope for Cynics. Afterwards, I felt humbled: I might be part of the problem.
Zaki – a professor of psychology, and director of the Stanford Social Neuroscience Lab – paints a confronting picture of cynicism’s hold on us, and its negative impacts for the future and our individual lives.
Over the last 50 years, we’ve lost trust not only in institutions, but also in each other. In 2018, only 32% of Americans surveyed said that “most people can be trusted”, compared with nearly 50% in 1972. A global study in 2022 uncovered the same tendency towards distrust in 24 of 28 nations.
As trust has waned, cynicism has taken root as a response to global instability, mounting threats and falling living standards.
But, Zaki argues, it’s an own goal: believing things can only get worse all but guarantees that they will, by further eroding our social fabric and discouraging us from taking action against corruption and injustice.
Expecting the worst also harms our chances of finding happiness in the now. Studies show that cynics are more depressed, drink more alcohol, earn less money and even die younger than non-cynics.
But the popular belief that cynicism is just smarter and more realistic isn’t necessarily justifiable, Zaki points out: cynics perform worse at cognitive tests and are less effective at identifying untrustworthy people and lies than non-cynics.
“By never trusting, cynics never lose,” he writes. “They also never win.”
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Zaki admits that for many years – even while professionally engaged in the study of kindness and empathy, and publicly preaching their importance – he, too, was a secret cynic.
He set out to write the book partly to understand that incongruity: “They say research is me-search,” Zaki laughs.
What he found was that cynicism doesn’t hold up to scrutiny.
Our tendency to focus on potential problems did evolve for a reason: “200,000 years ago, the person worrying about the predator on the horizon probably did better than their friend blissed out by the sunset”, he says.
But now those instincts for self-protection can lead us to fixate on the negative and overestimate the chances of frightening, but rare events.
Cynics might pride themselves on seeing the world as it really is, but humans are generally terrible at accounting for our biases and at amending our beliefs in line with evidence. “One of the central messages of psychology over the last century has been that we are much less objective than we think we are,” Zaki says.
In 2022, Zaki conducted a study of Stanford students, comparing their experiences on campus with their perceptions of the average Stanford student. Their self-reports described a warm, supportive community. But the “imagined” Stanford student was relatively hostile.
“They saw that imaginary person as much pricklier, more judgmental and less warm than anyone they actually knew,” Zaki says. The same discrepancy between real and imagined proved consistent in his surveys of school systems, government departments and private companies.
It reflects our warped view of humanity, “like an unfun fun-house mirror”, he writes: “We perceive our species to be crueller, more callous and less caring than it really is.”
In fact, there is plenty of consensus, even with people we’d identify as our opponents, says Zaki.
“Dozens” of studies have shown that Democrats and Republicans have an inaccurate picture of each other, imagining their rivals as richer, more different from them and more extreme in their views than they really are. Yet the 2021 Common Ground survey found nearly 150 issues on which Democrats and Republicans agreed. They weren’t small fry, either: two-thirds of both parties endorsed tax incentives to promote clean energy, for example.
It speaks to the “false polarisation” of society “keeping us from each other, and understanding how much we share”, says Zaki. If you knew that your views were shared by two-thirds of the population, “you’d feel much more empowered”.
While some may see optimists as naive and blindly accepting of the status quo, cynicism breeds its own kind of “dark complacency”, Zaki says. Though we’re not necessarily wrong to distrust politicians, by writing them off, we disengage ourselves. “Autocrats love a cynical population, because a group of people that don’t trust each other are easier to control.”
The widespread decline in social trust has in fact been ascribed to increasing inequality, as populations turn against each other in response to scarcity. We might even feel a “grim satisfaction” when our low expectations of humanity are proved right, Zaki says.
But that overlooks our own part in perpetuating them. “We imagine that we’re passive observers, but in fact our beliefs shape our personal versions of the world, the actions that we take and the cultures we create,” says Zaki.
“We have these toxic self-fulfilling prophecies – when we expect little of others, they notice and we get their worst.”
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People often have good reasons for retreating into cynicism, Zaki says. It is, after all, a self-protective strategy: if we don’t expect too much, we can’t be disappointed. But over time, he says, it reaffirms our sense of passivity, and “withers us from the inside out”.
What makes cynicism so seductive – and also so hard to give up – is that it relieves us of personal responsibility. It’s easier to believe that we are simply victims of the world than it is to reckon with our own part in making it better, for ourselves and others.
We may be relatively powerless over systemic issues, but “we can absolutely tend our social backyards”, says Zaki. The way we treat others and engage with the world can radiate outwards, and “turn those vicious cycles into virtuous ones”.
The counter to cynicism is not optimism, Zaki continues: it’s hope, “the idea that the future could turn out well – not that it will”. With hope, “there is room for our actions to matter”. That’s what makes it feel so daunting, he says: “Hope is hard because it demands something of us.”
As a self-described “recovering cynic”, the changes that Zaki has made in his own life have been small but powerful.
First, he has become more conscious of cynical thoughts, noticing when he is coming to “unnecessarily bleak conclusions” and interrupting them with facts. Tellingly, Zaki has noticed that this is most common when he’s sleep-deprived or stressed: cynicism is a defining trait of burnout.
He also makes a point of taking more social risks, such as asking for help and talking to new people. It doesn’t come naturally, but the result has been life-affirming. “Just last night, I struck up a conversation with a stranger that was so fulfilling,” he says.
Zaki also practises what he calls “positive gossip”: spreading word, within his circles, of acts of generosity or kindness. He describes it as “personal counter-programming” to cynicism.
“It feels safer to shut down,” Zaki says. “It’s hard to take chances, to try and keep an open mind or stay connected.”
But when we give up on each other or a better future, “we actually make the bleakest, grimmest outcomes much more likely to pass”, Zaki says.
Living in a small town, I’m already in the habit of talking to strangers, and Zaki is right: it never fails to remind me that the world is a friendlier, more cooperative place than I’d believe from scrolling X or the day’s headlines.
The key to resisting cynicism, for me, is balancing between those two seemingly contradictory visions of the world. There’s the one that’s unfair, hostile, falling apart at the seams – and the one I navigate day-to-day, where I can disagree politically with my neighbour, but still have trust that I can turn to her for help. Maybe there is more I could be doing to bring those realities into alignment, or at least closer together.
I’m somewhat chastened to recognise my own actions in Zaki’s description of cynicism as a “warm blanket” beneath which one seeks shelter from the world. But I also feel grateful to him for pointing out that it’s full of holes.
Hope for Cynics by Jamil Zaki (Little, Brown Book Group, £22). To support the Guardian and Observer, order your copy at guardianbookshop.com. Delivery charges may apply
