The Hedgehog, the Fox, and the Existential Crisis I Had While Chopping Zucchini

"The fox knows many things, but the hedgehog knows one big thing."

— Archilochus (Greek poet and early overthinker)

I stumbled upon that quote the other evening while searching for something else entirely—namely, the difference between zucchini and courgette (spoiler: they're the same thing, but one sounds like it wears a beret). That’s when I fell down a rabbit hole of philosophy, hedgehogs, foxes, and the rather pressing question: Which one am I?

As someone who’s dabbled in coding, candle-making, fiction, film, furniture design, and an unfortunate attempt at flamenco dancing, I instinctively thought: obviously, I’m a fox. I sniff around, I dip my paws into everything, I overcommit to everything from skincare routines to conspiracy documentaries. Last week I took a six-hour research on how Prussian blue became the colour of death. Why? I couldn’t tell you. The week before, I tried learning Japanese calligraphy and managed to give myself a mild wrist sprain.

The fox in me loves learning. Loves the buffet. But somewhere between course three and course chaos, I began to wonder—am I nibbling on too many appetizers and skipping the main course of life?

Enter the hedgehog. The calm, single-minded creature who picks one big thing and does it with quiet, stubborn intensity. You know the type—people who always knew they wanted to be cardiologists or sitar players or professional chess prodigies before they turned five. They don’t dabble. They commit. They aren’t making vision boards—they are the vision.

And here’s where it gets tricky. Society loves a hedgehog. The world applauds consistency. You say “I’m a screenwriter-slash-interior-designer-slash-sanskrit-learner,” and people look at you like you just confessed to keeping pet ghosts. But say “I’ve been doing equity research for 11 years,” and suddenly everyone’s nodding like they’ve just tasted a really nice aged cheddar.

But foxes—ah, we live messy, curious, accidental lives. We are the ones who forget to turn the stove off because we’re busy Googling “how do astronauts scratch their noses in space.” We are the ones who say “yes” to strange things, like visiting an alpaca farm on a Tuesday or signing up for a silent retreat even though we talk in our sleep.

And yet, as I sat there that night, now three zucchini in and not a single dish to show for it, I realised—maybe the game isn’t about choosing one. Maybe it’s about knowing which side of you to lean into, and when. When writing, I become the hedgehog: I vanish into words, into silence, into the slow ache of chiselling a sentence until it sighs just right. But when I’m living—truly living—I let the fox take over. I let her wander. Flirt with a new city. Start a new book, I may never finish. Change my furniture layout at 2 a.m.

We don’t live in a binary. We live in a beautifully confused in-between. You don’t have to know your one big thing to be whole. 

So, to all the fellow foxes out there: don’t feel guilty for loving too many things. And to the hedgehogs: your focus is a superpower. The rest of us admire you while we attempt to bake sourdough, write a haiku, and do yoga all at once.

Me? I’ve accepted that I’ll likely die with 47 tabs open in my browser and my life. But what a ride it’ll be.

 ---Sam
(Serial dabbler. Accidental philosopher. Still deciding whether to be a hedgehog tomorrow or just buy a beret and fake it as a French fox.)