Throwback Edition: A Case For Celebrations
Plus, how to fix a marriage, one of my favorite poems, and tiny little owls
Dearest Readers,
I come to you from my makeshift home for the coming weeks: the airport. Today, I fly from Atlanta—where I’ve spent the past week snuggling with my sisters and a big, shaggy dog—to New York, where I will spend the weekend snuggling with my best friends, eating bagels, and finally letting the sadness of *actually* leaving New York settle into my bones. Fun stuff, hard stuff—life stuff, I suppose.
Today’s throw back edition is one of my favorites and I am in a bit of disbelief that it’s already been a year since I first wrote it. In some ways this year feels like it's been endlessly drawn out, then you blink and it’s over—but that’s an essay for another day. I love this edition because of its simplicity, the obviousness that maybe isn’t so obvious until you begin to cultivate awareness around it. Since writing this essay I’ve made a habit of asking people how they celebrate life’s wins, big or small. You can tell a lot about how someone operates by their reaction to this question. And if you’re not in the habit of celebrating, remember it’s never too late to begin. You might begin today.
Though it is technically the season of celebrations, I urge you to enter the coming months and the coming year with this intention in mind: To create more moments of celebration in your life, and to redefine what constitutes a celebration. Celebrating often makes me feel like I’m grabbing life by the throat—tenderly, of course—and holding it close.
Until next time,
A Note From the Editor
Sometimes life pegs you with a lesson like a water balloon in the face at a birthday party—alarming and impossible to ignore; funny because you probably should’ve seen it coming. I was hit with such a lesson about a month ago. If life were a movie then I’d say this sequence started last November, at my local library. I was exactly one week into my freelance writing career, feeling quite uneasy about the whole thing when I got an offer to write something for a brand. It was super last minute with a same-day turnaround and the most brand-centric thing I’d been assigned up to that point. Not necessarily something I was dying to write, but when you’re starting off and you’re a writer, you don’t say no opportunity or to money.
The assignment itself was straightforward enough. I was to watch a video and write an article about it. The video featured what we call “talent” in the media industry; two likable chefs with healthy Instagram followings and well-developed personal brands. After watching the videos about 100 times in the span of a day, I rewarded myself by taking a break to peruse the talents’ Instagram accounts. By this point, I was going cross-eyed from staring at my laptop for so many hours. My butt was numb from the unforgiving library chairs, my stomach was growling with aggression and I was holding in my pee to avoid trekking down to the library’s spooky basement bathroom. As I fought my bodily urges and scrolled through two perfectly curated Instagram pages, I found myself filled with longing that tasted suspiciously like envy. I didn’t want to be an Instagram-friendly at-home chef, but I yearned for what the talent had—a personal brand others would value. A life of passion, doing the thing you most wanted to do. I offered myself no grace in this situation, just mentally filed these people away as better than me. I finished my writing, beelined for the spooky basement bathroom, then went home and ate some noodles.
Cut to: a month ago, nearly a year into my freelance writing career. My bag is packed and I’m boarding a plane for my first press trip. This is a big deal to me, as it had been vaguely on my mind since I chose to pursue a freelance career involving a good bit of travel writing—the prospect of free travel. On the plane ride over, I oscillated between feeling like a fraud and a bad bitch. I’d hype myself up and then tear myself down, for I wasn’t sure whether I was qualified to be there and I felt a little guilty for reasons I could not understand. When I met up with the cohort of other writers that first night, I instantly recognized one of the faces. How could I not—it was one of those faces I had stared at on a loop that day in the library, one whose Instagram account I had grown intimately familiar with. She was right there on the same press trip as little old me. My initial reaction was an ego reflex, remembered from the mean girl middle school days—be standoffish, don’t admit you know her. My attempted cool girl front lasted for about ten minutes before I checked myself. Things became much more enjoyable after that.
All week, the group talked about their PR-friendly writing lives. “What was the best thing a brand ever sent you?” someone asked at dinner one night, and around the circle they went. They’d been given custom suits and expensive cheese and fancy trips, private plane rides and luxury cruises. I debated whether to say “Nothing, really,” or "yogurt,” which was true, but I was saved by the bell; the theatrically served third course of our dinner and cocktail pairing arrived just before my turn.
As the days went on I felt less self-conscious and more comfortable. Turns out I didn’t care so much about press trips or free swag as I initially thought I would; I mostly just cared, care, about writing things that matter to me. I greatly respected the other writers but I no longer felt any one of them was better than me. We were all just on our own journeys, moving through with different goals and aspirations. At the end of the trip, I shared an Uber home with the talent, who I now considered a friend. We’d spent many nights chatting about life, about the stresses and pressures of seeming to have it all together. She’d been working during the entire trip—leaving our group activities a few minutes early to hop on a call, moderating a live panel from her suite, and balancing her newly acquired full-time job with all of these duties on top of the packed schedule of our trip. She had also recently achieved a life’s dream: securing a cookbook deal. We talked about what that meant to her, how exciting it was, about how long she’d dreamt of the chance to share her culture and passion with the world through a collection of recipes. As the car pulled up to her stop before our final goodbye, I felt a question bubble to the surface. “Have you celebrated the cookbook deal?” I asked. She’d gone through the brutal process of putting together a book pitch, researching literary agents, querying them, and attempting to understand her contract from the publishing house. It had been a ton of work, both physically and emotionally. “No,” she said, “I haven’t had time.”
Not a month later, a similar experience occurred with another talented writer friend who achieved a major life dream way ahead of schedule but hadn’t had time to properly celebrate because there were more deadlines, more pitches to write, more, more, more. I want to ask myself how we got here, but it is so obvious. We’ve always been here. Here is the hustle culture of America, of our competitive, globalized world. Here is a life constantly observed, constantly measured and monitored. Here is the empty promise of internet accolades; when they don’t come we feel worthless, when they do we feel nothing. Here is the perpetual state of striving because nothing we do will ever be enough, nothing we produce will fill the hole. We’re mining for gold in a bamboo forest, deep-sea fishing in a McDonald’s ball pit. We’re baffled because the promise we’ve been fed isn’t delivering. The medicine isn’t working, we’re doing and doing and not feeling any better. And it is by the design of this ruthless setting that we forget the important stuff. We forget life itself is worth celebrating.
And celebrate we must. We must dance when we hear music that compels us to move. We must gather our oldest friends around the table for dinner on mismatched plates, gather our newest friends over plastic cups of wine. We must celebrate milestones with the same vigor we pour into reaching them—an elaborate picnic with all breakfast foods for a book deal, a game of Twister at sunset for an accepted pitch. an art-filled gathering in the park for a published short story, a naked dip in the ocean for the end of one life and the start of another. A party where everyone has a chance to be the proper DJ, ten-minute sets each with costumes and projected images. A karaoke night of exclusively Paul Simon songs. Yoga in the garden, a cake tasting when no one’s getting married, a game of Uno where everyone is required to speak with an English accent. A marathon of old cartoons with sugary cereal and pajamas, an evening of slow dancing in the kitchen with all the lights off and candles lit. A weekend in the woods with big, elaborate breakfasts and nighttime rituals around the fire. Burning old promises, planting new ones.
Celebrations need not be fancy or forced, they can take whatever shape and color suits your fancy. And really, you don’t need a reason to celebrate. It can be your birthday or it can be a Tuesday with perfect weather. Celebrate your first gray hair or a new laugh line or a lost tooth. Celebrate the end of a week when you cried for seven days straight. Celebrate learning to properly cook eggs without drying them out, celebrate filing your taxes or making a new friend or keeping a plant alive for a whole month. Make celebration a habit, a priority. Celebrate your friends when they don’t make it a point to celebrate themselves. Celebrate yourself. Your sweet, capable self, for carrying you through another day. Celebrate with abandon and frequency. Shout it from the rooftops. Tell everyone you’re celebrating and invite them to join you. And when life bogs you down, when you accomplish something big or small and can’t seem to take a moment’s pause to acknowledge it with fanfare, think of the last line of this letter: “Life may not be the party we hoped for, but while we are here, we might as well dance.”
Cheers, my dears, and as always thank you for reading. I’m celebrating my official one year of freelancing by having some friends over at my new place in Costa Rica for the first time tonight. I hope you find a small way to celebrate today or this weekend. Any reason will do.
Three Pieces of Content Worth Consuming
Toby’s Genius Way of Making Friends. You probably don’t know this unless you regularly read Cup of Joe, but the Toby referred to in the headline is this new York-based lifestyle blogger’s son. I loved this one for two reasons: one, every time I’ve written about friendship in this newsletter I’ve gotten dozens of replies from people who are struggling to make adult friends, who want to make new friends, etc. I liked this simple, three-step approach to friendship—leave it to a kid to simplify something adults overcomplicate. Also, I loved the reminder about learning to chill out and be spontaneous when it comes to planning.
Laudation (A Poem). Pretty sure I shared this poem when I first read it, but it’s worth sharing again. A reminder to notice—and dare I say, celebrate—all of life’s little pleasures. Smells, places, virtues, flowers. If you’re the artistic type it’s also a fun exercise to write your own version of this poem with all of the things you love most. Just follow his format.
How Long Does It Take To Fix a Marriage? Give the Gottmans Seven Days. I love reading about relationship theories—what makes them stick, what works and what doesn't. That's especially true when it comes to marriage, the seemingly impossible, yet expected task of being committed to one person forever. In this piece, the author and her partner attempt to complete a challenge by the Gottmans, a couple who have dedicated their lives and practice to the psychology of marriage. The Gottmans sound like characters—they claim to be able to predict whether a couple's marriage will last after observing them for just 15 minutes—but I loved learning about their methods. The biggest takeaway is the simplest: The best way to make a marriage last is by matching bids for connection, which is a fancy way to say meeting and acknowledging their enthusiasm throughout the regular days.
Perhaps You Should… See Where You Feel (Emotions)
I haven’t stopped looking at this chart since one of my internet writer friends, Claudia Dawson, shared it in her newsletter last week. A very cool visual tool demonstrating where emotions are felt in the body.
**Bonus Content** (Little Startled Owls)
I think owls are my new favorite animals.
Also, the utter insanity, I want to learn how to do this, truth, and I love this moving art, which reminds me of one of my favorite short stories of all time.
A Quote From A Book You Should Read:
“What Ryan had learned from this is that your failures keep returning to you, while your successes are something you always have to convince yourself of.”
-Outline by Rachel Cusk
This newsletter is best served with a side of conversation, so drop your opinions, reflections, and thoughts in the comments below and let’s get to talking.
Or, share the most thought-provoking piece from today’s edition with someone you love, then call them up to discuss, debate, and percolate. As a wise woman once said, “Great minds discuss ideas.