Penguin Push

I work on a campus with 24-hour staffing. Every morning, I watch the waves of nurses, IT, and sanitary crews emerge from the parking structures and edge up to the sidewalk. At first, it’s just a polite shuffle to make space. We are conscious of not blocking the path, but that moral high ground fades with every new arrival.

We all believe in the rules of the light. We don’t cross the invisible line; the ones who do are barbaric. However, inside that moment, the dynamic shifts. In the winter, you can see it clearly under the collective cloud of mouth heat: the “Penguin Push.”

The crowd pushes without pushing. The person who arrived first—the one who has done nothing but cede ground—is slowly squeezed to the brink. There is no violence, just a constant "body agreement" to move forward. Then, it happens. The person on the edge can’t hold on any longer. Their foot slips off the curb, landing in the street with a panicked back-step. Immediately, the shuffle fills the void.

I know this panic well because I have been the guy in the street. I’ve looked back at the wall of parkas with genuine betrayal, my ankle rolling on the asphalt, wondering why the collective consciousness of the sidewalk decided I was the one who had to go.

But if I’m honest, I’ve been the guy in the back, too. I’ve been the one checking my phone, shuffling my feet to keep warm, and inadvertently contributing to the crush. I didn't mean to push anyone into traffic. I just saw six inches of open concrete in front of me and instinct took over.

That is the dark reality of the Penguin Push: The inverse is never true. We never preserve space if we can take over someone else's.

We treat personal space—in traffic, in conversation, in relationships—like a gas. We expand until we hit resistance. We don't stop shuffling forward because we think it's polite; we stop because there is literally nowhere else to go. We assume the person on the edge will hold the line. We rely on their friction to keep us safe in the warm middle.

Until, of course, they step back. And then we all shuffle forward, staring at the light, waiting for our turn on the edge.