A case for doing our best
Also WHAT THE F**K
Hi, friends—
Welcome to Draft 2. I started writing this last week, and planned to send it on New Year’s Eve—but then I got COVID, which, oh yeah, doesn’t care about our plans. A timely reminder, indeed!
There was a first draft, which seems relevant now. It began like this:
“Hi, friends!
WHAT. THE FUCK.”
It was followed by a rant about how no one ever warned us how hard it can be to simply exist, to show up every day for the unrelenting unfolding of life and the incessant arrival of unpleasant and inconvenient surprises that must be dealt with daily. This is now sitting in a draft titled “MESSY”, which I decided to spare you from but may or may not release for funsies at a future date—a blooper reel, why not?
But really—who told us we had this (gestures at all the everything, oh the humanity) to look forward to as adults? I don’t know about you, but I was given to understand that a positive outcome would be determined by Good Choices made in a systematic manner—not that said choices would likely arise in response to an assault of challenges that make life feel more like a series of failing, dying, and trying again, or getting stronger and levelling up only to repeat failing, dying, and trying again. Is this what hours of Nintendo in childhood were really preparing us for?
“WHAT THE FUCK” seems an appropriate sentiment for looking back on the past year; not entirely awful, but replete with dismay in the face of regular, fresh hells ranging from the severely dramatic—being forced out of my home by a mentally ill next-door neighbour who terrorised me day and night—to the deeply irritating—a chunk of beetroot falling out of my sandwich just now right onto my boob, leaving a purple stain on my white top at the beginning of a 6-hour train journey (not terrible, but… REALLY? COME ON!).
The year felt like a series of blows interspersed by a thousand paper cuts, with some good moments in between. My mantra, which I repeated with discomfiting frequency, was, “One nightmare at a time, please.” I mostly made it through on my hands and knees, and salvaged what I could.
So when someone asked me about two thirds through the year if I was happy, I had to think for a really long time before I answered, “I’m doing my best.”
2021 made me stress, grieve, rage, and repeat. An uncomfortable portion of this year was spent knowing that things needed to change; when the change came, it kicked the absolute living shit out of me. I did not handle it well. It was really hard, but—but—I tried really hard. And that is not something I can be unhappy about.
There were nights I literally sat on the floor drinking wine and eating cheese because I couldn’t bring myself to get up and cook, but I stood up and showed up for the stuff that really mattered.
To recuperate and recalibrate, I took myself far away from everyone I know for a few months. I do this, from time to time: self-imposed isolation to figure things out. It does help me to reset; but the closer I get to 40, the more I’m like, “Bitch, WTF are you doing”. Shit that was cute and adventurous when we were younger becomes old and tired real quick as we become… old and tired.
I was asked the other day how I feel about 2022, and I said I have no idea what to expect anymore. It seems futile—foolish, even—to form attachments to ideas about how I want things to be. Nothing about the last two years was what I thought it was going to be.
Two settings have become a default: letting go of expectations and being prepared. Who knows what the next curveball will be? Did I expect to get COVID over New Year? No, and simultaneously, sure. Why wouldn’t I get COVID precisely at the moment I was looking forward to doing nice things, when I had lots of personal stuff planned before I went back to work? It’s par for the course at this point, and I don’t mean that to sound jaded—it is, like so many things we don’t get to choose anymore, what it is.
The past year reminded me, not for the first time, that I handle inconvenience badly (the great thing about lessons we need to learn is we can count on them reappearing as many times as necessary until we’re finally ready to learn them 💀). I think I’ve become a lot more patient at allowing for things that weren’t in my plan, and dealing with the unexpected on the fly—a big adjustment considering my deeply anxious and insecure personality, which depends on consistency and familiarity for a sense of security.
While I’ve become more laissez-faire about life’s own agenda, I’ve started to take the fundamental aspects of mine more seriously. I’ve learned that when life comes crashing down around me, my values are the pillars left standing. I’m asking myself what I want from life, who I want to be, and what are the changes I need to make in order for this to happen.
One of my biggest epiphanies this year was that I do want kids; I want to be a mom, and I want a family of my own. I think I’ve always wanted this but sat on the fence for years out of fear—of being a bad mother, or simply of being inadequate.
(For the record, I don’t indiscriminately love children—in fact, it’s probably accurate to say I love other people’s pets more than other people’s kids.)
Lately, I’ve also started to think it’s possible that my fear is stunting me; this feeling was described so well in an episode of Deeper Dating I listened to last week:
She had never considered having a child by herself, and a friend said something to her that profoundly influenced her: “You’ve always thought about having a kid like that’s when your life stops, that your freedom stops, that your life stops because you have to focus everything on the kid… What if your life has stopped because what you really want is to have a child, and you have blocked that and not admitted it? What if your life has stopped because you’ve blocked this deep and profound longing to have a child?”
This resonated with me deeply. I increasingly feel conflicted between how highly I value my own freedom and questioning the value of a life lived only for myself. I’ve explored the abundant ways I can address the latter—a life of service aligning with causes that matter to me, for example. Over the past five years I’ve been committed to advocacy, and my most fulfilling work today is with organisations dedicated to systemic reform.
While I believe I will have a purpose-driven and meaningful life without children of my own, I know there is also a part of me that can be profoundly more, that I will never meet if I am too afraid of taking a bigger step and making a commitment to another person in my largely responsibility-free life.
And then, the not-small matter of practicalities. At 38, and without a partner who also wants children, I have to think seriously about my options and ask some big questions, such as, “How?” Timing-wise, I need to start planning for it today. Not because I feel bound by my biological clock, per se—there are many ways to become a mother—but there are many daunting logistics that will remain impossible until I begin.
I still find myself anticipating being shamed for wanting this; in truth, I am still shaming myself for wanting it. A big part of this process, which is just beginning, will be giving myself permission to want to be a mother. At this point, I don’t know what my motherhood journey will look like; if the last couple of years have been anything to go by, it probably won’t be the one I thought it would be.
Things that helped this month
Schadenfreude
As I sit on the side of a mountain, within walking distance to… nothing, and contemplate how temporarily moving to a remote location to focus on my writing has so far gone not at all to plan, I found this letter from a writer complaining because she did the same thing and is now bored to death, a reassuring and hilarious read.
“You’ve started to discover a kind of truth. It’s just not the truth you wanted to find. Which is part of what makes truth—deep emotional truth—annoying, and part of why so many of us avoid it as much as we can. Our lives are hard enough; if only we could be someone else… We want to be our heroes, but learn, through the process of emulating them, that we are actually just ourselves.”
Harlem
What I have done on the side of a mountain is watch a lot of TV. This show was so, so good and made me miss my girlfriends like hell. I wish there was more now, but apparently there will be a Season 2!
Light
True story: My first winter in Berlin (long before the plague), I went to a pharmacy to beg for medication that would cure me of my months-long cold; the pharmacist simply pointed out the window and said, “Look outside: there’s no light. Wait for spring, you’ll get better then.”
She wasn’t wrong. Winter in Berlin is a strange phenomenon; every year at autumn’s handover, the sky suddenly gets low, heavy, and oppressively dark, as if God drops the ceiling with a dramatic flourish for an untold number of months. Last year, winter lasted seven months.
Another Berlin winter was too daunting a prospect after the year I had, so the light played a large part in deciding where I was going to relocate for the winter months. When I get homesick for Berlin, vitamin D (I see you laughing, Brandi and Heather) soon cures me of that.
Anti-dick jokes
And just like that… Another famous dude turned out to be a bad guy. Now I can’t bring myself to watch the SATC reboot, and I’m not going to link to the news I’m referencing, but I will share this evergreen clip of Michelle Buteau telling guys “Nobody wanna see your dick,” because it helps to laugh.
Shopping
Listen, don’t even try to shame me. It turns out that sitting in isolation has not turned me into a Buddhist monk. What I am is bored and cold. I try to shop as much as possible on Vinted (which is where I found this perfect winter sneaker), but I’ve also bought a bunch of knitwear online. I will be living in these, which I got in three colours, all winter. This is my favourite new sweater, which I first saw on my friend Erin, and I now own in lilac and light pink and am still contemplating the other two because I want to wear them every day. I am cozy and smug and not sorry about it.
Therapy
There are two elusive things in life: a perfect sweater and a great therapist. This year, Erin introduced me to both.
Finding the right therapist is really, really hard—I’ve spent years talking to different people to find the right fit, until my friend introduced me to hers. I’m so glad I never gave up, because I’m finally getting the support I’ve always needed—and no less than four of my friends have reached out to her already.
Finding therapists through friends really does make a lot of sense; most of my close friends are also highly sensitive people prone to anxiety who face similar challenges to me, so they’re likely to benefit from the same support as I do. If you’re looking for a therapist, and haven’t done so already, do reach out to people you trust—the support you need might be right in your network.
Validation
When you’re an adult woman, you’re shamed for two things:
Not having kids
Wanting kids
People seem to be pretty into the latter these days, especially, because “it just doesn't seem responsible to bring more children into this world”. Most of my conversations to this effect are had with men, which is problematic for several reasons—among them, that it seems increasingly likely at this declining rate of babydaddies that I will have a child alone.
I’m only half-joking; if men continue to reject reproduction, it seems unlikely that women who want kids will forego motherhood entirely, and we’ll be forced to figure it out on our own. Perhaps this is how men will eventually render themselves obsolete.
I’m kidding. And yet, it’s only when I say I’ll most likely try to adopt that I’m told, “well, that’s OK”; OK for me, then, but what about any other woman who, oh I don’t know, wants to fulfil this most primal of desires? Is this to be yet another way that women’s bodies are policed?
Anyway, this New York Times article written by a philosopher (and a dad) made me feel better about it.
2022: in which we need the permission of a man to feel like we’re allowed to want kids, apparently.
Loving our men
Lest you think I’m being hard on dudes, 2021 was a year of Good Men that I got to know and love. One of the most profoundly meaningful books I began reading this year, on my friend Caitlin’s recommendation, is The Will to Change: Men, Masculinity, and Love by the late bell hooks. Life can feel an awful lot like men vs. women, and this is a beautiful and empathetic book about the importance of loving and needing men. It’s a moving read for me as a woman, but I think an even more essential read for men.
Having fun
As we faced another dark and dreary COVIDmas, Polly invited readers to share their fun in the comments of her column. It’s a really delightful read and a sweet reminder that fun is actually very easy to have.
Shiadanni
I’ve had to reactivate my Instagram a couple of times to sign into things, and keep getting sucked back in because it blocks users from deactivating again for another 10 days after (did you know about this trap? BE WARNED). The best thing to come out of one relapse was finding out about Shiadanni (thank you forever, Brandi). If you don’t already know her, watch this and this. At the end of days, it will be funny, fabulous women who keep us alive.
Chocolate for good
A couple of months ago I came across some beautifully-packaged chocolate in a boutique in Berlin, and I found out they’re made by ARTHOUSE Unlimited, “a charity that represents a collective of artists living with complex neuro-diverse and physical support needs.” Yes, I’ll buy anything that supports and raises awareness for neurodiversity—but, objectively, look at these chocolates. As well as the inspired flavours, the artwork and packaging are so incredible that I want to eat and collect every single one. They also make a whole bunch of other gorgeous merch, too!
Squash
‘Tis the season, and this is my favourite recipe so far. I’ve enjoyed improvising with ras el hanout and confit lemons, and also turning it into a stew, adding carrots and lentils. Sweet, sour, and spicy is the soul food I need right now.
Spicy beverages
I’m sick, so I’m adding pepper to my tea and cayenne to my hot cocoa. If it’s not making me blow steam out of my ears, I’m not drinking it.
Cats that helped this month
One of the best things about my winter relocation was that the cats would finally be able to go outdoors and they are… honestly, not loving it as much as I thought they would? They go outside for little walks, perhaps climb a tree, and then reappear at my windows before long to nap indoors and… use the litterbox. I’m thrilled, as you can imagine. Also, it’s reminded me that cats being outdoors literally opens the door to all kinds of fresh hell, like pests, illness, and general mess. I guess I’ll just feel less guilty when we’re back in Berlin.
I also took my niece and nephew to a cat cafe where we met a Sphinx kitten named Sir Alfred who kept booping my two-year-old niece on the nose. A recipe for instant joy? Kittens and babies.
I want to thank everyone who subscribed to The Percolate last year. 2020 was the year I lost my voice, and The Percolate was the mouthpiece I gave myself in 2021 in the hopes I’d start to hear myself again. It would have been a lot more dreary if I’d been shouting into the void, so thank you for being here with me and holding space while I cleared my throat a bunch. Your thoughts, comments, feedback, and the discussions that followed have given me so much encouragement. To those who took out a paid subscription just to support me, 2022 is the year I want to make this worth your while—I have some new formats in mind, and I’m also planning to make my posts more frequent and topic-focused.
Thank you for being here with me.
Happy New Year, and stay safe!
