an active participant in your own survival

on emotionally growing up

There’s a lot of good stuff in this weird/wonderful/experimental anthology.

I had a difficult conversation with a close family member last week. They’ve been going through it for a while now, stuck in a self-destructive loop, unable to make some of the grody-but-necessary decisions and commitments of adulthood; the kinds that require annoyingly consistent self-presence and honesty, that suck in the moment but ultimately bring about something closer to emotional peace.

Most of us have been there, to a greater or a lesser degree. The cruel trick of life is that even when you know the '“right” thing to do, it’s rarely easy to do it; humans deflect even the finest advice until they’re ready to hear. It’s a mystical, intangible thing, really — we all have to learn in our own damn time.

In this conversation, I sensed an opening for a loving nudge, so I said something I hadn’t ventured or even articulated to myself before: “My greatest hope for you is that you become an active participant in your own survival.”

It’s advice I’m trying to apply to my own life, too. I’ve been less than stellar at my own survival this week — spending too much time in my phone, not seeing friends, wallowing, obsessing, not prioritizing sleep. On Tuesday, I found out that a pitch for a project I had no business taking on (but increasingly wanted) was rejected. Between the lack of the sleep, the doom-scroll brain-rot and an already foul/sweaty menopausal mood, I immediately started to spiral, playing an old self-loathing tune: that my career is over, that I’ll never find creative work again, that I’ve calculated my professional value all wrong.

In the past, I would’ve let this discomfort ruin my night (week), found a way to take it out on my ornery teen or stressed-out husband, thrown back a juice glass or three of whatever old wine was in the fridge. But instead I put on my new (comfortable and actually cute!) shoes, popped in some headphones and walked three miles to an event I had a ticket to but had planned to blow off.

The event was a multi-media show celebrating the release of the Michelle Tea-edited anthology, Witch. It was held at the Philosophical Research Society, one of my favorite places in L.A. The show itself was filled with smart, earnestly creative, exuberant people of all ages. I sat by myself in the old-timey auditorium. In awe of a few of the performances, I cried. When I left, I felt connected and hopeful or, at least, I’d forgotten to be upset.

walls of night-blooming jasmine on my walk home

Life is hard and it right now feels harder. The outside atrocities are too heavy to bear. People are fallible and disappointing — often when we need them most. The best we can do is show up appropriately for ourselves and each other, be accountable and present moment to moment and continue to make the kinds of thoughtful, daily, adult-brain decisions that suggest we’re committed to our own survival.

Here are some other ways I’m getting through: