Edition #171: Nice To Meet Me

Waking up in my adult body with my adult brain. Plus, mac and cheese from Etsy, tales of a Trad Wife, and an Olympic tearjerker.

A Note From the Editor

What stories follow you over the slopes of days and the valley of years? We all have stories we tell ourselves about ourselves, narratives constructed to make sense of who we are in this vast world. Sometimes these stories motivate, other times they paralyze, often, they do both.

I have one such story. It has been the subject of many therapy sessions—with the cute blonde therapist who once read me this poem over Zoom, so cheesy and tender that I cried, and with my older, dark-haired therapist who I wasn’t sure I trusted. Each time I recited the story it felt like a game of telephone. The message wasn’t getting through clearly.

I’m not doing enough. 

What do you mean? What are you not doing enough of? 

I’m just….not doing enough. I claim to have these dreams for my life, most of which involve writing, creating, producing, but all I do is think about them. I don’t write as much as I should. And when I think about everything I need to do I get so tired that I want to lie down.

The dark-haired therapist once asked me what doing enough would look like. I wasn’t sure. Probably, I needed to be writing creatively for 2-3 hours per day, or 5 hours per day, and at the exact same time each day. Each time I attempted to strong-arm myself into a hyper-regimented creative writing routine, I would be filled with such a great sense of dread that the writing became a knife at my throat. Sharpened by me, held by me. I would feel bad before, during—though that would eventually subside if I kept at it long enough—and after this scheduled writing time. The act of writing never dispelled that feeling, whether I wrote for two hours or five, three days a week or six.

Writing, as it were, had become the core facet of my identity. When traveling around the world, people would ask me what I do, “writer,” oohs and ahhs. At a party, people would ask me what I do, “writer,” oh, cool! Dates would ask me what I write about, how I got into it, if I’m any good. You leave behind one thing—an apartment in New York, say—and you cross New Yorker off your Who I Am list, writer swells. Single, no pets? Writer swells. Spend the vast majority of your free time reading and writing? Writer swells. When my writing practice wasn’t reaching the murky, undefined level of rigor I felt was necessary to justify the identity, or when I wasn’t proud of anything I was working on or anything I had recently produced, my ego would go into full panic mode.

As Eckhart Tolle puts it:

“As long as a condition is judged as “good” by your mind, whether it be a relationship, a possession, a social role, a place, or your physical body, the mind attaches itself to it and identifies with it. It makes you happy, makes you feel good about yourself, and it may become a part of who you think you are.” 

We all craft a public-facing identity around the aspects of our life situation we designate as good. It’s the three descriptor Instagram bio culture: Mother, ENTJ, health coach. Founder, retired pro golfer, HBS alum. Writer, explorer, sister.

It’s just as easy to construct an identity around the aspect of our life situation we identify as bad. These tendencies are not mutually exclusive; our life stories are sculpted from the good and bad aspects of self. The good is more prominently on the display, the bad is typically unrecognized, often internalized, and occasionally on display. In my case, Not Doing Enough became a core facet of my identity through constant reinforcement. I wrote it in my journal, I said it over and over to my therapists, I shared blurred edges of the sentiment with those closest to me.

Tolle has more thoughts on this:

“Most people are in love with their particular life drama. Their story is their identity: Their ego runs their life. They have their whole sense of self invested in it. Even their—usually unsuccessful—search for an answer, a solution, or for healing becomes part of it. What they fear and resist most is the end of their drama.” 

The end of the self-created drama, of experiencing life through the reality-warping 3D glasses of the stories we tell about ourselves, is a version of death. Even if we are unhappy with the story, a part of us is afraid of letting it go, of killing that particular version of who we think we are.

When I finally recognized how deeply I was identifying with Meghan The Writer Who Never Makes Enough Time to Write, and when I realized that line of thought was doing nothing but making me feel bad and keeping me stuck in the muck of mind, I knew I had to give it up. Detach myself from the narrative. Naturally, my ego piped up. Can’t be that bad if it’s gotten you this far, right?

If you stop thinking this way, you might not get anywhere.

You need the pressure you put on yourself, it’s what makes you successful. Stop applying it and you’ll start losing.

______

I got curious about all the ways I was defining myself. I decided to inspect them, taking a mental inventory and acting not as a harsh critic but as a curious anthropologist. My inverse identities, the ones that created drama and made me feel badly, came easy: I’m not doing enough. I’m from Florida, a hot, stupid state and I never really learned math in Florida public school, I had a hard childhood, I don’t have a relationship with my father, I never want to live a suburban life, America isn’t it. The positive parts of my identity didn’t come to mind as quickly.

In one of his beloved lists of life advice, author and human fountain of wisdom, Kevin Kelly, says: 

Try to define yourself by what you love and embrace, rather than what you hate and refuse.

In our culture of digitally expressed anger requiring no real-life backing, building an identity around what you hate is a passive, automated act. We mostly share the things that enrage us, disparaging the people and causes and companies we stand against. This constant reinforcement of Us Vs. Them anger imprints onto our identities. That is why the things I *don’t* do and *don’t* stand for had a far stronger pull than the things I do do, the things I do stand for.

A funny thing happens when you bring full awareness to something; it ceases to have power over you. When I fully ingested the idea that my constructed identity was mind-made, that it wasn’t actually me because the real me is a vaporous soul that doesn’t need an exceptional writing habit or a specific job or a perfect partner or an ideal location to make it whole—the pressure of doing enough ceased like music at a stadium show suddenly cutting out. Suddenly, silence. In that silence, the absence of low-grade disappointment.

Miraculously, this mental silence cleared out space. I am no longer paralyzed, no longer overthinking every word I do or do not put on the page, no longer needing a pristine routine to justify my existence. A good way to create lasting change: grow tired of your own bullshit.

______

Throughout the past three weeks I’ve spent in Florida, I keep having this bizarre sense of meeting myself for the first time. It’s as though I’ve just woken up from one of those 20 minutes naps that lasts three hours, or like Jennifer Garner in 13 Going On 30. I have suddenly arrived in the present moment, in my adult body, and (unlike Garner) with my adult mind.

Nothing is different but everything is different. Even Florida is different. I don’t feel the piping hot disdain I once felt, despite the sticky heat and the clap of evening thunder and the bugs that fly straight into my face. The old judgment has transformed into an open-mindedness. Most surprisingly, I am meeting my parents once more.

When I went to my father’s house, there was an absence of tension in my body. Something like ease. I told him about my Costa Rica plans, how he should get a passport and come visit. He didn’t say no. I think we were both surprised.

In casual conversation, I mentioned how I liked my coffee super dark. A few days later, my dad told my mom the coffee he made was extra strong today and that she might want to water it down. My mom asked why he made it stronger than usual. 

“That’s how she likes it,” he said, motioning toward me. 

An ordinary miracle, my dad knowing how I take my coffee. Meeting him, and myself, at that moment, two entirely different people from who we had been. Had I continued to be unknowingly invested in the identity I built upon our shared history, had I continued living in my childhood experience instead of in real life, right now, I might’ve missed it. I wouldn't have been in Florida for three weeks because I hated Florida, wouldn't have been sitting on my dad’s couch because my dad and I didn’t have a relationship, wouldn't have casually mentioned how I take my coffee because we didn’t talk about such ordinary things. And I might’ve missed it.

______

Whenever possible, try to let go of your stories. First, shine a light on them. Don’t judge, just notice. Second, detach. Bundle them up in blankets and place them in a wicker basket. Kiss their foreheads and push them gently out to sea. Arrive in your body, in the present moment, and observe. You might be surprised by what you find. It’s been waiting there for you all along.

Cheers, my dears, and as always thanks for reading. This weekend is my last in Florida before heading back to New York for the next few months. I have a lot of writing to do, but between that, I plan on going swimming, meeting my friend’s sweet new baby, and taking myself on an old-school shopping trip to the mall. Have a sweet weekend! Pay for the person in line behind you at the drive-through, recite a poem aloud, take an afternoon nap on a blanket in the sun.

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Three Pieces of Content Worth Consuming

1. Order Your Next Mac and Cheese From…Etsy? The feel-good story we all need! My super talented friend, Ali Francis, indulged her curiosity after discovering lasagnas and all sorts of prepared dishes being sold on Etsy, and the result is a beautifully human story that proves not everything needs to be shiny and #brandbuilding. After reading this, I decided I’m going to replace my Goldbelly gifting habit with food gifts from Etsy. Support small businesses!

2. Poem: i am running into a new year. I’m a staunch believer that everyone should know at least one poem by heart. This is one of my memorized poems— I used to have it written out and taped up on my mirror in my New York apartment. It comes from arguably the best collection of poetry ever published.

3. Meet the Queen of the ‘Trad Wives’ (and Her Eight Children). This story. Wow, wow, wow. Reading it made me realize I wasn’t totally clear on the cultural nuance of “Trad Wife”—not just a woman making dinner and being submissive, but all that with an all natural, milk straight from the cow, barefoot toddler aesthetic. The way the “Trad Wife” in question, a woman with a massive following, couldn’t get a full answer out without being interrupted. The way her billionaire’s son of a husband literally tricked her into a first date and insisted upon marriage a year later, ending her career as a ballerina. Just…wow.

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Perhaps You Should…Have A Little Olympic-Themed Cry

My eldest brother, also known as the biggest sports fan that ever lived, showed me this video the other day while we were watching the Olympics. Don’t ask, just watch and maybe cry.

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**Bonus Content** (Molly Gordon is Cute)

Molly Gordon is charming, she doesn’t seem to be particularly great at applying makeup, and she uses a bunch of ol’ reliable Benefit products from the early aughts. Same, girl!

I’ve now added this body oil, this water tint, and this lip/cheek stain to my to buy list. Curious about the TheraFace.

Also, is fluffy white actually a flavor? This cover is so good I listened to it six times in a row while lying on the floor last night. Currently in my BookShop cart: this novel, this collection of poetry, and this read-a-few-lines-a-day book.

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A Quote From A Book You Should Read:

“To prolong doubt was to prolong hope.”

-Jane Eyre by Charolette Brontë

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