I have spent the last few weeks following the student protests closely. Every morning there seemed to be something new to read, another speech to listen to, another clip circulating online, another opinion explaining what the movement was, what it wasn't, and what it ought to become. I wasn't following it because I had already made up my mind. In fact, the more I watched, the less certain I became. Every day seemed to add another layer to a movement that was far more complicated than the headlines made it out to be.

I have always believed that dissent is essential to a healthy democracy. Institutions should be questioned, governments should be held accountable, and citizens should never be made to feel that asking uncomfortable questions is somehow an act of disloyalty. If students believe the systems that shape their future have failed them, they have every right to demand answers. That part was never difficult for me to understand.

What I hadn't expected was how quickly I would find myself swinging between admiration and discomfort.

Some of the slogans were genuinely brilliant. They were witty, self-aware and surprisingly creative. They reminded me that protest doesn't always have to be solemn to be sincere. Somewhere along the way, we've started treating seriousness as the only acceptable expression of conviction, as though laughter somehow weakens a cause. Watching these students sing, joke, create memes and turn posters into satire reminded me that human beings have always found ways to laugh while resisting. We laugh in hospital waiting rooms, we celebrate birthdays during difficult years, and we continue telling stories even when the world around us feels uncertain. Joy and resistance have never been opposites.

At the same time, there were moments that made me uncomfortable. A spokesperson would make a statement that felt careless. A joke would drift into territory that felt unnecessarily personal. A placard would remind me that misogyny doesn't disappear simply because the people holding it are young. There were moments when I wished the movement had asked more difficult questions of itself, not just of those in power. Accountability is important, but what comes after accountability? What reforms are we imagining? What kind of institutions are we hoping to build? Those questions seemed less visible than the demand for resignation itself.

For a while, I found myself trying to decide what I thought of the movement as a whole. Then I realised I was making the same mistake I see us making over and over again, not just with protests but with almost everything.

We have become remarkably comfortable reducing large groups of people into neat little categories. One spokesperson says something foolish and suddenly the movement lacks depth. One student says something offensive and an entire generation becomes entitled, unserious or incapable of nuance. We do it with generations, political ideologies and social movements alike because categories are easier to process than people. "Boomers ruined everything." "Gen Z doesn't understand responsibility." "The left believes this." "The right believes that."

The irony is that movements don't have personalities. People do. Every movement contains idealists, opportunists, deeply informed people, poorly informed people, compassionate people, insensitive people, those who have spent years thinking about the issues and those who simply know that something feels broken. Why would we expect thousands of strangers to become morally consistent simply because they are marching for the same cause?

Are we expecting public movements to achieve a level of consistency that most of us haven't achieved in our own lives?

Watching students challenge institutions made me wonder how often I challenge the institutions closest to me. How often do I question the assumptions I inherited at home? How often do I push back when someone I love says something I disagree with? How often do I refuse the small acts of convenience that quietly keep broken systems alive, whether that means paying a bribe to avoid a queue or staying silent because speaking up would make dinner uncomfortable?

I am unable to fix my family, honestly.

There are conversations I know I should have and conversations I postpone because I already know how they will end. There are days when I have the energy to challenge a sexist remark or an outdated assumption, and there are days when I let it pass because I simply don't want another argument. None of this makes me proud, but it does make me a little more cautious about expecting an entire movement to arrive fully formed, internally consistent and free of contradiction.

Maybe that's my take away from these protests. I admire their courage. I still question parts of it. I still wish some of its public voices had shown greater sensitivity. I still think joy has a place in resistance, provided it never comes at the expense of someone else's dignity.

More than anything, though, the protests have reminded me that dissent is not a personality trait we either possess or don't. It is a practice. Sometimes it happens on the streets, sometimes in courtrooms, sometimes in universities, and sometimes around a dining table where the only audience is your own family. The public acts may change institutions, but the private ones change us. Perhaps both matter more than we realise.