Happy Sunday!
I want to start with an apology to anyone who felt cheated of cats in the last letter—yo, some people were mad 😳 😂
I promise this one is verily replete with kitties. There’s a gallery and everything.
Apart from cat-related complaints, I was overwhelmed by your response to the last letter. Apparently, it is not only me who is being crushed by existential weight on a daily. I heard from others who talked about their struggles with recognising and self-validating feelings, and more still who corroborated my fear of ageing with their own; one of you even asked me to print the last piece as a tiny book they could gift to friends on birthdays. I’m enormously touched by how many of you held space for these ideas, and took the time to think about and share your own.
I think the reason what I said last time resonated with so many of you is it was the sort of thing people don’t normally say out loud. One of my least favourite ways to feel is, “Is it just me?” Isolation is one of the most harmful ways to feel—we know this in a broader societal context, but I wonder how many of us think of it in an emotional context; that, when we’re feeling a certain way, not to ask “What’s wrong with me?” but instead to say, “Hey, can someone tell me I’m not insane over here?” To a large extent, I’ve been gifted with a greater curiosity for answers than a fear of exposure, and an impatience for filters that obligate me to behave a certain way or conform to expectations. I’d much rather live for the pursuit of finding my kinfolk: others who feel comfortable wearing their crazy like a name badge to make themselves identifiable to their people.
I recently listened to a wonderful conversation on a podcast where the host Glennon Doyle said, of being shamed for how we feel, “What we’re always only talking about is life… The only things that have ever happened to us are life. The only things that we have done are things that humans are capable of… Just ‘life’ and ‘humans’ is what we have experienced, and what we have been the whole way through. The beautiful thing about you knowing all of our human things is that when you get to these human things in your life, you will not feel alone and ashamed. Because you will know that all the life that happens to you and all the humaning you do… are just human things and just life. They’re nothing to be ashamed of.”
For as long as I can remember, I’ve felt, at best, different to everyone else, and at worse, insane. As I’ve started talking about it more openly, what I’ve realised about feeling like a crazy person is that the more people feel the same as you, the less it qualifies as “crazy”.
Don’t get me wrong, I’m not saying that everyone secretly feels the same way and that candour is the secret to popping the lid off the paint can (lol, that auto-corrected to “pain can”—also works) of society and revealing that we’re all the same shade of confused as hell inside. Just last night, I was talking to one of my most grounded, regulated friends who corroborated that I am, in fact, unhinged. People like her fill me with dismay that there does, in fact, seem to be a balanced baseline for existing in the world and relating with other humans.
So while I don’t have reassurance, per se, for those of us who feel like lunatics, I will say that there is enormous value in sharing the stuff we feel awkward about. I once heard a memoirist (maybe Elizabeth Gilbert, though I can’t remember exactly) say that no one wants to hear about how well things are going for you. What is someone supposed to do with that? Sharing exclusively good news doesn’t add value. Sorry to say it. It would be different if, say, someone who had only ever been struggling with something for some time shared that, finally, it worked out. That is encouraging to both people who are invested in that person’s success, and to those who saw themselves in that person’s struggles. But if we’re only ever hearing from you when you have something self-congratulatory to share, it’s hard to sustain a meaningful relationship.
Relentlessly self-centred glad tidings don’t provide any opportunity for connection and don’t make anyone else feel seen. That’s not to say we shouldn’t ever share good news and invite our community to celebrate our wins—that’s not what I’m talking about. But it seems to me that if we’re sharing with the objective of connecting with people and building a community, we have to reach out to them offering our own vulnerability—not ask them to meet us for a serving of smug pie.
Being openly flawed, of course, can make us unlikeable. I was also reminded of this when I published my last post—while, yes, it elicited a lot of lovely support, what was incredibly funny to me is that within what seemed like minutes of posting, someone promptly unsubscribed. I find this hysterical and so humbling. Then someone I’m very close to confessed not to reading it because, “It was really long, babe.” Dang.
This is the thing: My writing is not for everyone, because I’m not for everyone. The way people responded to that piece reminded me of how people respond to me: a lot of people really like me and fuck with me hard, but let me tell you, some people cannot stand me. Just the other day, I ran into a girl I’d recently attempted to befriend; I waved hello, went in to order, and turned around moments later to find she’d fled. Okay, perhaps she didn’t flee, but she certainly didn’t stick around to say hi or bye. And she was literally in the middle of a meal, so she really made a point of getting out of there.
Cue a downturned smiley face, a sigh, and a shrug: ‘twas a bummer, to be sure, but this has happened to me enough times that I’m used to it. There are people who actively avoid me because I make them uncomfortable. Why? I’m sure the list is long, and I can only surmise that it has a lot to do with my social awkwardness that some people find interesting and others find really discomfiting. I’ve noticed it seems to happen particularly with people I think are cool and really want to be friends with; I can imagine that outwardly, I turn into a giant dork and they are probably like, “Ew, get away from me you creep.” Unsurprisingly, I get on best with fellow dorks. It is high school. And high school was a nightmare. We are living in a nightmare—or at least those of us who didn’t fit in at school.
Speaking of high school, I started this morning bawling my eyes out in my kitchen, listening to MMMBop. Evidently, it reactivated a core memory, and for four minutes, I grieved for the 13-year-old who didn’t know what the fuck was going on but was hopeful for the life she had in front of her to figure it out. I don’t know if I was crying for who she was back then, or the version of her almost 30 years into the future who just… knows more. You know they say, “It gets better?” It doesn’t always. It also stays hard, we just learn how to survive and make the best of it.
“Doing our best” and “being better” don’t mean the same thing, and in my opinion, it’s equally, if not more, important to recognise and celebrate the former. I want to emphasise this: The thing about doing our best is that it doesn’t necessarily move the needle forward—in fact, sometimes it is moving backward—but we keep showing up anyway. Not just because we are rewarded by it getting better, but while knowing that it can get worse.
Can we stop to think about the nobility of that? This is why I’m not interested in celebrating the people who only seem to succeed, and I think we need to hear more about the heroism of day-to-day, arduous mundanity. To me, the most impressive success is the kind where you keep showing up even if it isn’t necessarily getting you anywhere. Can you imagine the stamina and hopefulness required? It could never be a lot of people—and you won’t convince me that the ones who just make a lot of noise about how great they’re doing aren’t distracting themselves and us from the things they’re avoiding, things they’re afraid they’ll never win.
Bet your ass I’m a hater.
Things that have helped lately
These seem to be mostly health-related this month.
A great facial
I went to the Powder Room in Mitte last week, a clinic offering Korean-style facials. It was thorough and relaxing, and my skin was textureless and glowy AF afterward. I almost exclusively use K-beauty and her technique reminded me of the last facial I had in Japan, so I loved everything about it. Worth noting: She is booked through like two months ahead, but I reached out asking to be on her waiting list and I ended up getting an appointment for the same week.
ClassPass
One thing about me is a love a good routine, and another thing about me is I respond well to accountability (side B is what I don’t respond well to, which is discipline and initiative; I can’t tell you how many times I’ve decided not to apply for a job when I saw the words “self” and “starter” put together, which no one will ever convince me is not a buzzword startups love because it lets them pretend they’re not cutting corners with investment in good management). I’m newly addicted to committing to a class at the pain of a fine if I cancel, and have figured out a schedule (early) and training (circuit) that works for me. I resisted Urban Sports Club for a long time because I object to the way their pricing model jumps for 50EUR to like 90EUR with nothing in between, also why is there something so bro-ey about that brand? Anyway, ClassPass is my girl—I love that they offer a 14-day no-strings trial, and that the flexible credits system allows you to sign up for as much as you think you need. Here’s a referral link if you want to try it out.
Collagen lattes
My friend Brandi recommended supplementing with collagen to me months ago, and Dr Sara Gottfried extols the benefits of a daily collagen latte. I believe it’s making a difference to my skin, as people have commented on how it looks. Every morning, I start with this:
1 scoop collagen powder (flavour optional)
half teaspoon matcha*
1 teaspoon coconut oil
1 teaspoon ghee
hot water
Whizz it all up with a blender and enjoy it while it’s frothy 💁🏻♀️
*Sub matcha and water for a cup of brewed coffee
Watching my glucose
One of the many things I’m learning about my body is what causes my glucose to spike, and how it makes me feel. I’m learning a lot from Jessie Inchauspé aka the Glucose Goddess, and have noticed the benefits of switching to a savoury breakfast. Removing glucose spikes to maintain energetic homeostasis is the kind of modification that is helping me to understand how my body feels at a baseline level which, surprise, is tired all the time.
Sobriety
I’m still sober, and I can’t recommend it. It’s dreadful. I hate it. I miss natural wine and espresso martinis, I miss boozy twilights on terraces, and I miss the smoking that accompanied it. If drinking and smoking weren’t bad for me, I’d do it for the rest of my life. But, doubtless, I feel better. I’m more lucid, and I can wake up early and feel how my body is actually feeling. Stupid sobriety. I guess it’s sticking.
A heavy corduroy shirt
I am obsessed with this shirt I purchased a few weeks ago and now wear over absolutely everything. The material is soft and heavyweight, and it’s the perfect oversized coverall for summer. It’s sold out in the beige shade I got, but they have it in other supercute colours—I want the blue/lilac one.
Anything Saint Levant
Currently, the new single that I am playing. He is the sexiest dude around right now, sorry to every other man. I am not the only woman who thinks so, which is why I declined to go to his Berlin show—I am firmly in my “I’m too old for this shit” era, shit which includes being surrounded by screaming young women several decades younger than I. It was overwhelming enough when I went to see 112 in Birmingham 20 years ago, and I was actually in the right demographic then—coincidentally, right about the time Saint Levant was born. Uncomfortable feelings.
Cats that helped lately
They are cuter than ever and, for the most part, calm apart from some nights when, inexplicably, I am at the mercy of their thunderous zoomies. I still haven’t worked out what causes these some nights and not others, but I suspect there may be some lunar influence at play. Can anyone with animal friends corroborate?
Here is my son helping me with my work (he is very helpful):
On one of my recent trips, I had a lovely catsitter who basically sent me a photojournal that we can now all enjoy:
Not a cat, but I was enormously helped/blessed by this giant American bulldog called Bohne (German for “bean,” but I heard a different, English word in a British accent and lost it) when he decided to come over and plonk his considerable weight on my feet recently.
That’s me for this week, unless I’m irrepressibly inspired—think of me on Wednesday, won’t you, as I spiral into my forties.
Much love,