A Note for You, If You’re Having A Bad Day
Dear Friend,
The first time someone told me “we can do hard things,” I really needed to hear it. I was newly pregnant, and, well, it was hard. It was harder than I’d hubristically thought it would be. My relationship with my body has always been fraught, and, while I thought I was emotionally and physically ready to share it with another human body 24/7 (how amazing! how miraculous!) the reality was less shiny and goddess-y and more puke-y and depressing. I texted my friend who is a doula and who has also birthed two babies, and they were understanding and compassionate; they validated that everything I was feeling made sense and was totally normal, and that they were sorry I’d been unprepared for this, but that it wasn’t my fault, because the media — social and old-school — is woefully misleading about what it’s like to be pregnant. And then they said, “But you can do it. We can do hard things.” And it helped.
This is a sometimes-if-not-often useful mantra. Coming up against a growing edge is necessarily hard, and it hurts. But it’s a growing edge. If you stay engaged with it, you’re going to grow. Nine times out of ten, you’ll look back at the hard part and think, “I’m so glad I went through that, because now here I am.” Sometimes, the growing edge is uninvited. You get sick; someone dies; someone leaves; something breaks. If you’re facing a moment like this — as is so unfortunately common for a human — I hope you’ll take a beat to let me remind you that you can do hard things.
Then there are the other ways we try to grow. Personally, I feel like I’m constantly trying. I want to change my habits. I want to be more resilient. I want to be able to do 100 push-ups. I want to have more productive tomatoes. I want more meaningful publications, more exceptional achievements, more money, more prestige, a healthier body, a sounder mind. And sometimes, “we can do hard things” feels like an inner voice that’s scolding me rather than holding me. Like, “We can do hard things! Why aren’t you doing harder things! You should be working harder and doing more! Ohhhh, you got UNCOMFORTABLE? So you STOPPED? Suck it up, you whiny loser! You can withstand some discomfort! Everyone can!” (Is this familiar to you?)
That voice has taken my friend’s gentle messaging around being pregnant, and sold it to a college prep charter school, where it’s been photocopied, co-opted, and refitted to create impossible standards and to re-sort priorities. (Or, replace “charter school” with “hustle culture” or “achievement focus” or “capitalism” or whatever you want. Replace it with “Dan my mean swim instructor.”) One of the core values at the charter school where I worked in New Orleans was “Sacrifice: Without struggle there can be no progress.” Yes, sure, OK — but is progress always necessary? What about the things that are already working fine? What about enjoying the progress you’ve already made?
The phrase isn’t “You MUST do hard things, ALL THE TIME, or YOU’RE WASTING YOUR LIFE, you loser!” You can do hard things. And when hard things aren’t required, I think a valuable question is this one:
I mean, sure, you possess the physical capacity to do easy things. But do you ever let yourself? How often? Do you sometimes lie down outside when it’s sunny and think about whatever you want to think about? (If you’re not sure where to start when it comes to easy thinking, I like to start by thinking about burritos. I find that taking a long think about a burrito will lead to so many lovely, interesting brain-rooms.) What’s a list of things that you enjoy doing, that you might be willing to declare yourself already good-enough at?
For a while, I read everything I could read about baking sourdough bread. I wanted to make the perfect loaf; I wanted to feel what it was like for a bakery-approved creation to emerge from my own oven. I made a loaf a week, and for a long time, the result steadily improved. And then, at some point, I plateaued. My sourdough felt nearly perfect, but always a little tough underneath. And here I was at a crossroads. There were more things I could learn; I could continue to tell the people who ate my bread that yes, it was good, thank you, but I thought it could be better. Or I could just enjoy my bread. What would I really achieve if I got the bread I wanted to get out of my own oven? It would have been satisfying — but also, there is a nice artisanal bakery two miles from my house, and for five dollars, I can have the loaf of bread I want to eat any day I want. In the meantime, I can enjoy the ritual of making (still-excellent) bread. I’ve even started adding a little bit of instant yeast to my dough, which makes everything faster and easier, because WHY NOT? See what I’m saying?
You can do easy things.
Another, more controversial example: There was a point in my teaching career where I realized that I was the teacher I wanted to be. I didn’t want to be promoted to a leadership position; I didn’t want to change up my pedagogy. I wanted, instead, to spend my time enjoying my students and being totally present with them. I wanted to feel rested when I entered the classroom, so they’d sense that I had energy for them. I was not interested in writing an action plan about what I needed to do differently in order to be a more effective instructional leader. I’d continue to survey my students at the end of the year to make sure they felt they were getting what they needed, adjust when necessary, and largely stay where I was.
In general, this mindset feels impossible to me, and I’m telling you versions of bread-making and teaching that serve the narrative that I’m already good at doing easy things, but the truth is I’m not. Paradoxically, it’s hard to do easy things. “Harder, better, faster, stronger” is the heartbeat of capitalist systems, and while I think it has its place, I also feel like that message is too loud. My first graders needed to understand that they could play; but instead, they were taught that they had to work harder to close an education gap that really had nothing to do with them as individuals. They were children.
So much of YOU is still a child, too. You might have a deficit of play to make up, if you’ve spent your whole life living inside of sacrifice in the name of progress. I like progress fine, but other species that have not been so obsessed with it appear to live without its very real consequences: abuse, bigotry, and long legacies of emotional trauma. (They also live without milkshakes and
‘s Substack, so it’s not like that’s all good.)If there’s any space for ease, for pleasure, for feeling good, for staying put, for savoring, and for settling, I hope you’ll take it — even if just a small amount.
In Chicago, it’s sunny. I write this to you after having let my students leave early on the condition that they spend some time outside. How’s the weather where you are? What would it mean to enjoy it?
Love,
Sophie
Parenting Paragraph
(This is about new parenthood, and really it’s just about my little daughter person who keeps growing, holy shit.)
My sister sent me a message this morning where she said something along the lines of, “I love this age of baby. They’re so cute and so amazing, and they’re becoming whole people.” T is 17 months old and it’s been a while since you’ve gotten an update. She loves to sing along to music videos. She likes Taylor Swift and Beyoncé, and Sesame Street and some of the Super Simple Songs (the ones about ducks and about peek-a-boo interest her; the ones about colors and feelings do not). She mostly doesn’t know what the words are, but she knows the rhythm and cadence of the songs, and I can’t get over how brilliant I feel this is. She can also count, definitely to three, and sometimes to ten. She can count while pointing to objects, showing that she knows what counting is. Also, to Luke’s and my total elation, she’s into birds. Like, a LOT. Nothing makes her happier in the world than watching the juncos out the window. // I’m finding parenting hard, and I don’t like that it’s something I’m supposed to do with just one other person. I have regret about not helping my friends who had babies before me more insistently. I had it in my head that they’d ask, but of course they didn’t, because no one ever modeled asking for help with childcare. Whenever we get even a small amount of help with childcare, I feel like a broken part of me has become whole, which makes me believe that on a deep and spiritual level, this is just not solo-person or couples-only work. I want this to change. I don’t believe for a second that the things we take on in our lives HAVE TO BE unsustainable.
It’s Sunny Outside
When it was really rainy a few months ago, I decided to put a sale on paid subscriptions. Now it’s sunny, and I feel like that is also a good reason for a sale on paid subscriptions. Paid subscribers get access to a soft, sweet community; seven more recommendations a week; and little extras like ‘zines and playlists and a quarterly book club where we meet over Zoom. If you’ve been thinking “maybe maybe maybe…” about signing up for the paid tier, the sun is the sign you needed! This is the link for 20 percent off all paid subscriptions for the rest of this week. (Also, if you subscribe to the “Founding Member Tier,” you can change the cost to anything above $50, and I’ll send you a package in the mail in about two weeks, full of goodies that only go to this very small and special group.)
I read this piece with care and delight. Thank you. "'Harder, better, faster, stronger' is the heartbeat of capitalist systems" made me slap the desk in frustrated recognition. What might happen if we lovingly un-enrolled ourselves from the relentless pursuit of better/more?
It's taken me a long time to even recognize the irrational depths of my commitment to self-improvement.
Last night I went over to my sister-in-law and brother's house so I could visit with them and their new baby (13 days old). The baby nursed, farted, and burped, then passed out HARD in my arms. I just held her while she slept, and looked at her with wonder. That was enough.
I get confused easily, and I have questions about the fun mail teir. I know that I am currently at $5 a month. The page shows monthly, annual, get mail membership, and free. Is all I have to do to ensure that I get fun mail, subscribe on the get mail membership and change it to anything over $50? And then, last question, will it bill me all at once but I'm covered for a year?