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My Post-Electoral Life

For several presidential election cycles, we’ve been told “this will be the most important election of our lives.” I think that’s just a dramatic way of saying “most scary/annoying election of our lives.” Because let’s face it, our options suck. Same match-up as last time. Only difference is that now we get to choose between a guy who gladly sponsors genocide at a very high cost to taxpayers, or a guy who will do the same while also openly calling for violence against his detractors. Not very inspiring! Have a very bad feeling the latter guy will win. He has more devoted fans. But hey, that’s someone else’s problem to solve. I’ve retired from electoral work.

I used to be one of those people who thought, “Electoral politics? What a waste of time. All these candidates have sold their souls to billionaires and corporate interests. Many of them are straight up psychopaths. Barely a difference between Democrats and Republicans, beyond the optics. Why would anyone volunteer for an election campaign?” And after volunteering for many campaigns over the course of several years, I can say I’m pretty much back to that mindset. However, I do understand why people show up for good progressive candidates. That’s what I was trying to do anyway.

Like many people I know, I got interested in electoralism because of Bernie Sanders’s 2016 presidential run. In that moment, I suddenly saw massive numbers of American voters demanding the same things I’d been wanting for years – wage increases, universal healthcare, free college tuition, etc. My excitement wasn’t so much about Bernie himself. I was moved by the sheer number of volunteers and voters who were showing up for him.

And so I allowed myself to get swept up in the left populist movement that popped off in 2016. In the years following I supported many local leftist candidates and put a ton of work into the Bernie 2020 campaign. Even after his crushing loss, I stayed very connected with electoral work. In the summer of 2020, I took my first paid organizing job, supporting a slate of not-that-impressive local candidates. I was working for a newly formed statewide organization pushing Bernie-like politics. Like them, I believed we were taking a necessary step toward defeating Trumpism while building a grassroots left movement. Sure, we were backing some so-so contenders, but that was just so we could get our footing while we cultivated our own set of bold, progressive leaders for the next cycle.

That work experience, combined with other gigs that followed, taught me a lot about the limits of progressive electoralism. For the most part, I think leftist electoral junkies mean well. But you have to drink a fair amount of Kool-Aid to work these underdog campaigns. Doing the amount of work it takes to win requires getting deliriously excited about people who are often very flawed behind the scenes or who are quite new to the game and not ready to wrestle with the establishment. And you have to perform this hype for your volunteers, so they’ll keep coming back to do uncomfortable stuff like knock doors or make phone calls. Even if you’ve got a great candidate and you actually believe the hype, you have to make it your whole world and personality for several months together. It’s highly exhausting, and I’m too old for it at this point.

There’s also an aspect to progressive campaigns that grosses me out in hindsight and that’s the culture of narcissism. First of all, most people who run for office tend to be pretty narcissistic. In my experience, the “everyday populist Joes” who seem to pop up out of nowhere (no connection to activism or movement work, no notable leadership ability of any kind) are some of the most self-involved. Oh, you think you should be an elected leader because you have good moral opinions and you “care”? These are people you can count on to get co-opted by the system if they do get elected, which they almost never do. They’re not fighters, nor do they have established communities who are willing to throw down with them when the rest of the ruling class inevitably turns on them. If you’re primarily in the game to feel special, you’re probably not gonna withstand the messy public lashings most progressives face. Most would rather get along with the other oppressors in office than make waves. 

But it isn’t just the candidates who are really into themselves. I’ve found that a lot of these progressive organizations really encouraged organizers to develop a similar sort of self-involvement. In particular, I’m talking about “story of self,” a tool developed by grassroots organizing guru Marshall Ganz. The idea is that as an electoral organizer, you need to develop a tight, emotionally impactful personal story about what made you decide to make big social change and support (insert name of whatever candidate you’re hyping). I think this tool can be a helpful activity for grounding yourself in your motivation to do the very awkward work of courting voters and volunteers. But after a certain point, focusing a lot of energy on one’s story of self feels more like theater camp. I’ve worked with people who start an introductory one-on-one meeting with a very intense presentation of their story. It’s freaking weird and alienating, man! I’ll never forget the haughty, self-important non-profit founder who deigned to give me tips about improving my story of self after I’d introduced myself in a more casual, conversational way. And then he launched into his highly polished and rather lengthy autobiography. For him, story of self was a competition. 

Frankly, I don’t think all that navel-gazing is as inspiring as some electoral organizers believe. But when you lose a lot — as one does when supporting underdog candidates — feeling like an important main character helps quell the pain of defeat. 

I recognize the irony as someone who writes prodigiously about her life and her feelings — I never want to share my story of self again. I don’t want to craft a personal narrative for the sake of advertising a candidate. In my own writing, I don’t present answers or give directions. My personal essays are just me processing life and hoping the finished product entertains or at least makes sense to others. I never got involved in politics because of one life-changing moment. I’ve been screwed by systems of oppression in the very mundane ways most people have. I think those mundane experiences we all share mean more than any personal anecdote I could proffer.

So I’m just minding my own business this election cycle, and wow, what a relief it is! I know it’s gonna get ugly, and I’m prepared to be very disappointed in some people’s choices. At the same time, I find that ever since I stepped back from all forms of organizing, I just like people more than I used to. Maybe now that I’m not so immersed in politics, I can more clearly see how everyday people get slapped by systems of oppression, regardless of whatever choices we make at the ballot box. There’s a lot of unifying energy in that outlook. Retirement has been good to me.

The author, looking absolutely unhinged on Election Day 2020.

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Being a Homebody

Whenever I’m asked to imagine living my best possible life, I always picture myself at home. In my dream I make money from writing, so I don’t need to be anywhere else. I used to imagine myself waking up in a massive A-frame cabin, writing at dawn, then taking my dog for a walk in the woods with coffee in hand. I’d wander back home, have breakfast with my family and then spend some time outside in my lush garden, where I’d write more in the quiet hours of morning. Afternoons would be devoted to entertaining visitors. I might leave at some point to fetch groceries for dinner, but my vision of those outward journeys have always been fuzzy. That action takes place offstage. In my fantasy, home is always the center of my daily activities.

It’s a funny thing having bought a house for the first time in my late 40s, because it’s changed the architecture of my dream. I no longer envision the A-frame at the edge of the woods (maybe that can be a vacation home for a more elaborate fantasy of wealth). I’m pretty enamored with the house we got. It’s in a subdivision of similarly shaped ranch style houses about a ten minute drive from downtown – not on the edge of the woods, though just a ten minute walk from a greenway trail that winds along a creek toward the city center. On mornings when I have enough time between dropping my daughter off at school and the start of my shift, I hike the long distance between home and the store where I work. My journey begins in a wetland zone with patches of ponds, damp fields, and trees. Eventually my path leads me to Old Salem, a historic Moravian settlement established 250+ years ago. I love everything about this long walk – the sights, the time to myself, the exercise, the limited automobile traffic, and the way my legs create this seamless transition between my house and my destination. Until I cross the threshold of my workplace, it all feels like home to me. 

If I ever get to the point of subsisting on a writer’s income, I’m sure I’ll have plenty to occupy the time I once spent walking to work. There’s the garden, for starters. In my vision I picture verdant abundance, but again the details are a bit fuzzy. In fact I’ve just started gardening for the first time in my life and have almost no idea what I’m doing. My plan is to just follow my friend PG’s advice – “Embrace the chaos. Throw seeds around and see what happens. Stuff will grow!” It’s an act of faith when my daughter and I bust the ground with shovels and tear up sod like we’re ripping up a stubborn old shag carpet. There’s dirt there, and we got ourselves some seeds and manure. I figure something green is bound to emerge.

As far as the indoors of my house are concerned, I’ve got that part pretty well handled. I had the good fortune of staying home with my daughter during her toddler years and commonly refer to that as my “houseboss” era. Homemaker pay sucks, but the work itself can be pretty satisfying. I enjoy tending to the place where I want to be as much as possible. I’ve memorized recipes and developed strategies for knocking out dishes and laundry expeditiously. Now that I’m clocking in 40 hours per week elsewhere, I’ve learned to accept clutter as a necessary evil. The kitchen stays messy much of the time. I just think of it as a laboratory, and I’m a wacky scientist who’s too busy to bother with upkeep.

My favorite homebody haunt is probably my couch. It’s L-shaped with a giant ottoman where I can store sweaters in summer and bathing suits in winter. My big, comfy sofa is where I view my shows while sipping mocktails or half-watch Murder She Wrote episodes while I fold laundry. Oftentimes it’s where I write my journal pages first thing in the morning, and where I sip my herbal tea at the end of the night. I decorate it with various throw blankets that I pull from a basket in the corner of the room, my wicker bucket of cozy. 

For as long as my husband and I have lived together – 18 years this autumn – I’ve tried to make our living space warm and inviting. Our location changed many times over the years, We’ve had various pets and raised a child, too. I always thought of home as a combination of our collective energy and all the stuff we’ve acquired. Now we have this defined, somewhat permanent space where we can really let it all flourish. And so I get to imagine what it would look like in this “best life vision” I entertain from time to time. The template is here. Now we get to create the rest. 

My dog Laurel, who regularly enjoys her best life at home.

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Participation Trophies

It was about twenty years ago when people my age and older began bemoaning the problem of “participation trophies.” I think this myth emerged from youth soccer culture, in which an alleged society of overindulgent moms and coaches had fallen into the disastrous habit of rewarding every child participant with a trophy – despite their ability, accomplishments, or even whether their team had won or lost. I guess the concern was that if you get a trophy just for showing up to the game, you’ll inevitably become some spoiled, entitled adult who believes you deserve the world for being just average or even flawed. Rewarding everyone also seemed a disservice to the actual strivers and winners, the truly exemplary people who could no longer set themselves apart by nabbing that once-rare prize now possessed by all. Because as we know, no one can be truly special if everyone is special.

I never really related to the old “participation trophy” gripe, though at the time it seemed like a thing I should embrace as a childless person approaching her thirties. And then life happened, to all of us. In the two decades that have passed since I started hearing grown people complain bitterly about child soccer players, I’ve seen those kids grow into adults who know very little ease. Many have amassed enormous college debt only to land jobs that no longer pay a living wage. Few can afford to buy a home or reasonably dream of retirement. As climate change has worsened, the rich have gotten way richer, and forever war has sucked away any government resources that could fund healthcare, affordable housing, or debt relief, the future looks even bleaker than the present. At this point, how could we describe any average under-40 adult in this country as “entitled”? Entitled to what, aging in dystopia?

But in spite of these hard times, and all the difficulties the Participation Trophy Generation has had to endure, I am so frequently awed by their spirit of compassion and inclusivity. I see within so many of them an openness and curiosity about sexuality, gender, race, ethnicity, and neurodivergence that simply did not come up in conversation when I was young. Their grasp on trauma and its long-term effects gives me so much hope for the healing that seems to elude many of my generation. People my age and older don’t tend to have the same capacity for examining their own mental health with candor or self-compassion. When we felt sad, overwhelmed, or confused in our youth, we were told to suck it up. Or maybe we just got the complaining beat out of us. Perhaps that’s why so many of us got bent out of shape about whether or not a child earned their little gold-painted plastic trophy. 

And sure, not everyone falls into one of these categories based on their age. I tend to think generational discourse is pretty dumb, a useful distraction from class warfare that most benefits the ruling class. We’re all peasants compared to the 1%. They love it when we fight each other over avocado toast instead of fighting them. All I’m saying is that when you tell children they are special and lovable even when they suck at soccer, they have a greater capacity for caring about their own and other people’s feelings. They’re more ready for a society where everyone gets to be themself, instead of closeting, conforming, or masking to fit in with whatever personality type is deemed “normal.” And that’s why I’m grateful for participation trophies. Maybe we could all use an award just for showing up to life. 

Various images of the Ace of Cups from my tarot deck collection

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The Worfs of the World

I’ve had a crush on Worf for decades, yet it only recently occurred to me that we have very little in common. I figured it out this winter when I rewatched the sci-fi TV series Star Trek: The Next Generation. In the two-part episode “Birthright,” our favorite Klingon security officer for the Starship Enterprise catches a rumor that his father did not actually die in battle with Romulans, but had been taken to a faraway planet. When he sneaks onto the planet’s surface, he doesn’t find his father, but rather discovers two generations of Klingons who’ve been fully assimilated by their Romulan captors. The young people do not crave battle and in fact use their ancestors’ weapons as garden tools. Horrified, Worf seeds a revolution by taking one of these Klingon kids on a hunt. This awakens a latent bloodthirst in the young man that’s just part of the Klingon genetic makeup. His warrior spirit quickly spreads among the youths, who demand to be liberated from the only home they’ve ever known. It’s a great story about incarceration and breaking the chains of internalized oppression. It also made me fully understand that Worf’s very Klingon inclination to fight is an impulse some people have and some people don’t. And I really don’t.

You see, I’m more of a Deanna Troi. She’s the ship’s counselor for the Enterprise and half-Betazoid, which gives her the ability to read other people’s emotions. She’s what’s known as an “empath.” Empathy is pretty much my whole schtick. It’s part of why I’m so introverted. I need recovery time from picking up other people’s energies, especially after they confide their struggles in me (which many are inclined to do, because I’m an attentive and kind listener). I like possessing these skills, which served me very well when I did lots of political canvassing. Grassroots organizing campaigns require all kinds of people with different abilities, and my knack for listening and connecting with other frustrated working class people definitely helped. But if I’m being completely honest, it’s the natural fighters – the Worfs of the world – who really get the movement fired up.

My husband Dan is one of these warrior types – not in a physically violent way, but in a “yells at the mayor on camera” way. He loves to pick a good political fight, and he inspires other fighters to show up for battle. Together they stop landlords from evicting tenants, they prevent our local government from selling what little affordable housing remains in this town, and they push electoral candidates to support mandatory legal services for those facing eviction. And there’s no namby-pamby, liberal, “let’s reach across the aisle and play nice with each other” spirit about this. These people are pissed off, militant, and they’re ready to yell, rally, and do direct action to win. 

I love them so much. But I am not one of them. I really tried to be that way, maybe because I took my wedding vows too literally. I so admire Dan’s fighting spirit and unquenchable thirst for justice that when I got married I said I wanted to be more like him. But I am not a Worf. I’m a Troi. And that’s okay! Worf and Troi become great friends and even engage in a brief romance. The fighters are brave with external action. People like me are brave with emotions. It takes all kinds, and life is more than a battlefield. I’m here mainly to attend to mine and other’s feelings, not to fight. But wow do I appreciate the people who are always ready to throw down. We won’t get anywhere in this class war without them. 

“Star Trek: The Next Generation,” Paramount Pictures, 1993
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Clocking Out

It’s a testament to the power of trauma therapy that I no longer look to my workplace for ego nourishment. This was not always the case. Throughout my working life, I’d often get hung up on earning praise for being a conscientious and capable employee. I call this condition “Report Card Syndrome.” As someone who earned very good grades throughout her childhood, a huge portion of my self esteem rested on those quarterly moments when my teachers and parents would take notice of my academic success. In elementary school, our achievement was graded on a 1-5 scale, while our effort was rated accordingly: H for high, S for satisfactory, and L for low. That dopamine rush I’d feel anytime I opened my report card to find its insides festooned with “1H” was a high I kept chasing well into adulthood.

In hindsight, I think it’s sad that I so dearly craved those sporadic bursts of attention. And it didn’t set me up well for the future. Eventually I had to learn that work isn’t school. There is no “1H,” just promotions and raises. For many years, I mistook moving into a management role as a pathway to attaining a greater sense of self worth. Haha! Can you imagine? I actually believed that rising in the ranks would help me feel better about myself. Because as we all know, everyone loves their manager. 

Here’s the thing – I do tend to work hard at whatever job I’m doing, because I take pride in quality output. For whatever reason, I get both kicks and a sense of calm from focusing on a task and following it to thorough completion. It doesn’t matter if it’s shelving books, wrapping hunks of cheese, folding t-shirts, or calling through a phone list, I dig the sensation I get from gettin’ shit done. And I don’t see any harm in that. Being productive doesn’t define me as a person, it just makes the daily task of earning a living a little more satisfying (especially if it makes a shift go by faster).

My problem was that I also worked hard because I deeply longed for external validation from employers and coworkers. And that had more to do with the void of self-compassion in my soul resulting from years of trauma. It’s a hole that no amount of “great job building that spreadsheet” can fill.

I’m much kinder to myself these days. I’ve found a pleasant job where I get along fine with my coworkers, I handle my tasks competently, and then I clock out at the end of the day and think about other things. There are only two types of work that actually matter to my soul: childrearing and writing, both of which I do at home. The day job is for income, not a sense of self-worth. If someone happens to throw a 1H my way when I’m on the clock, that’s a nice surprise. But an unspoken 3S is just fine, too.

My second grade report card. I was a joy to have in class.
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Pisces -> Aries Season

As I write this essay, the sun has just made its annual transit from Aquarius to Pisces, marking the start of peak Tara time. 

I adore Pisces → Aries season. This corner of the year may not be as resplendent as May, as bittersweet as October, or as festive as December, but I do feel it best embodies what I call “big Thursday energy.” I’ve always loved Thursdays because I relish the anticipation of weekend pleasure at least as much as the weekend itself. As we near winter’s end, anticipation in material form looks like dense, tiny tree buds that grow a bit fatter and fuzzier every day. Or it might be a random tuft of green stems bursting from a flattened pile of dead leaves. It’s also the post-6pm sunset that bathes my evening commute in twilight, reminding me there’ll soon be post-7pm sunsets after we move the clocks forward in a few weeks. I know that by the time the sun rolls into Taurus in late April, every living tree will be awash in blossoms or baby leaves. The pregnant earth will have delivered its infants, and I will have celebrated another birthday.

As it happens, I’ve got a lot of these two consecutive signs in my astrological chart – my sun and Venus are in Aries, while my moon, Mars, and rising signs are all Pisces. It makes sense. I’m a cross between a baby and a thousand year old soul. I embrace and act upon snap decisions that are secretly based on months or years of subconscious contemplation. My natural enthusiasm lands me in leadership positions I must eventually vacate so I can spend more time pondering the human condition. I’m very energetic until I’m not, at which point it’s time for me to stand alone, either in a hot shower or somewhere near a creek, listening to water flow over rocks. I’m the melancholy of late winter and the jubilance of early spring, all wrapped up in one.

This is the time of year I feel most alive. These two months aren’t easy per se, especially when a late winter frost halts a string of warm days or a frigid April rain tears blossoms from branches. This is not the euphoria one feels on that first warm June night when fireflies make their big debut; that’s what’s known as “big Friday energy”. What I’m celebrating right now is the raw power that fuels transformation and rebirth. My favorite day of the year is the northern hemisphere’s vernal equinox, which kicks off Aries season AND six months of light trumping darkness every day. No matter what the weather is – even if you get hit with a freak blizzard on the 20th of March – you can rest assured that going forward, the days will be longer than the nights. There’s so much hope in that knowledge, so much to look forward to – from dogwood blossoms to baseball games to tree-shaded walks on warm afternoons. Eventually the air will turn very hot and sticky, and at some point I’ll start to crave autumn’s cool, dark decay. But here at this moment, as we approach the start of a much greener season, I’m so grateful to inhabit this battered, beautiful planet for one more cycle of growth. 

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Awards Shows

Watching an awards show is one of my favorite guilty pleasures. I know awards are dumb. I don’t care. I’m in it for the spectacle — the red carpet fashions, the weepy acceptance speeches, the awkward presenter banter, the hosts who try (and often fail) to get these celebs to laugh at themselves, and especially the heavy political statements. Even when the show sucks and the wrong people win, I keep watching. 

I used to think the Oscars had the best awards show, but really it’s just the most pretentious. I’m starting to think the Grammys are the best. The format suits the medium it celebrates; half of the show is live performance. It also helps that four-time host Trevor Noah has proven himself a competent master of ceremonies who can keep the event moving without boring the audience or enraging Swifties. In the wake of an absolutely dismal Golden Globes ceremony, this year’s Grammys brought me unexpected joy. Here were my highlights:

“Fast Car” Duet I hated Luke Combs’s cover of Tracy Chapman’s “Fast Car” when I first heard it. Like, who the hell is this dude remaking a masterpiece that cannot be improved? Then I saw his Country Music Award acceptance speech and was pleasantly struck by his front-and-center gratitude and reverence for Ms. Chapman. I love that she’s getting lots more recognition, as there could never be enough. Who knew in 2024 we’d see her on the Grammys stage, performing alongside Combs with a voice as hauntingly beautiful as it was 35+ years ago? He just seemed content to bask in her presence.

The Perfect Sinéad Tribute I love In Memoriam segments, and this one was jam packed with tributes. The best was when diva extraordinaire Annie Lennox sang “Nothing Compares 2 U” in honor of Sinéad O’Connor. Lennox still sounds great and looks as beautiful as ever. And in a spirit so fitting Sinéad’s legacy, she shouted at the end, “Artists for a ceasefire! Peace in the world!” I’ve been waiting for some brave celeb to speak up for Palestine on an awards show stage. I’m pretty sure Annie was the first to do it, and I hope there are more to come 🇵🇸 

Noms and Wins I Can Appreciate I’ll often watch awards shows with little knowledge of who or what’s nominated, so I was surprised how often I said, “Oh I like that song!” My favorite going into the ceremony was Taylor Swift’s “Anti-Hero,” a tune that grew on me with slow, steady intensity. I have mixed feelings about Taylor. On one hand she’s a billionaire, so I hate her on principle. On the other hand, she does have a knack for crafting solid earworms. On the other other hand, she comes off as too wounded by her haters for someone who enjoys astronomical success. On the fourth hand, she makes some of the world’s most pathetic men lose their minds. I’ve learned to accept all this nuance and not question it. In any case, I was happy for her to win Album of the Year for “Midnights,” becoming the only artist to ever win that category four times. She works hard for it.

Yet I have to admit Miley Cyrus deserved Record of the Year for “Flowers.” That song’s a jam. Best pop disco hit since The Cardigans’ “Lovefool”. It’s not as lyrically interesting as “Anti-Hero” or SZA’s “Kill Bill” (another one of my fav nominees). But that crisp production and great growl of hers really set the song apart, which makes it a fair win. Plus it’s about choosing self love over a troubled relationship, which I dig.

My favorite win was Billie Eilish’s “What Was I Made For?” as Song of the Year, an honor she shared with her songwriting partner/brother Finneas. Their palpable shock in winning was quite endearing. I’ve found BE thoroughly likable and authentically weird since she showed up with “Bad Guy” in 2019 and have been rooting for her ever since. Even though this song wasn’t my favorite nomination, it was absolutely perfect for that montage in the third act of BARBIE. As my young coworker said about that scene, “It made my mom cry. And it made me cry!” Girl, same. That segment was equal parts pain and beauty – the two things that make me cry the most.

I’m happy to see these young women writing and performing hit songs about self-loathing, self-esteem, boyfriend murder, and depression. They’re putting all their big, weird feelings out there, just like Sinéad and Tracy Chapman did so many years ago. It feels appropriate for this absolutely insane era of human history, and I hope to see more of it.

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Imbolc

In 2024 I’ve decided to openly embrace my witchy self. It’s about time. For instance, I’ve been quietly learning about tarot for over 25 years. I also know a fair amount about western astrology, which I used to find embarrassing. I can’t help that the cyclical nature of planetary movement has always appealed to me. I’ve got a brain for seasons and calendars, always deeply aware of where I am in the wheel of the year, as well as what I was doing five/ten/twenty years ago this time. As I grow older, I feel more attuned to subtle shifts in nature’s cycles, like the difference between summer and winter’s sunrise shadows, or how the wind sounds in November versus May. I pay more attention to where the sun transits the sky and what moon phase it is. 

In that spirit, I’m very excited for a pagan holiday soon approaching. According to the ancient Celts, Imbolc (February 1) marked the start of spring, though not as we define “spring” in modern terms. Think less of tulips and bunnies, more of tiny green things shooting through frosty ground. It’s a holiday celebrating the first inklings of the warmer season ahead. Imbolc translates to “in the belly,” which refers to the first sheep milk of the season. As ewes gave birth following winter gestation, they were once again ready to produce milk – a very exciting development for their ancient human friends who’d been hibernating throughout the harsh, cold season. The taste of fresh milk was a welcome harbinger of light and growth to come.

Imbolc celebrates the ancient Gaelic goddess Brigid, who was later appropriated by Christians and transformed into a Catholic saint. Brigid was a powerful maternal figure, heavily associated with birth, fire, transformation, home life, and the protection of women and girls. Traditionally, girls would make straw dolls to represent Brigid and parade them around their neighborhoods. Learning that tidbit was the first thing that really sold me on this holiday.

I also love that Imbolc falls halfway between the winter solstice and spring equinox, which is a time of year I once found unbearable. When I lived in a harsher northern climate, I had no hope for spring on February 1st. In fact, that was just the start of the worst month of the year. But here in the Carolina piedmont, there really are hints of new life by then. The daffodil photo below is from February 7th of last year. We were still a long way from the lush buds and blooms of April, but how I remember that flash of yellow dazzling my eyes! 

Much to my delight, my twelve year old daughter recently developed her own independent interest in Celtic folklore. I told her about Imbolc and we’ve decided to celebrate it together. We’re gonna make yogurt cheese, bake soda bread, light candles, and honor Brigid in our own way. Being the homebody that I am, I can’t think of a better way to make an otherwise average winter Thursday feel far more special. 

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Feeling All the Feels

In 2023 I conquered my fear of bad days by overcoming my fear of bad feelings. I learned to embrace discomfort, grief, sadness, hurt, resentment, and disappointment as normal reactions to everyday suffering. It’s one thing to express anger or dismay about abstract, systemic injustices like capitalist exploitation, white supremacy, or patriarchy; I’d become quite adept at sharing those feelings through writing (especially via Twitter and my previous writing project, The Introverted Comrade). But when it comes to processing my personal pain, I’m still a newbie. I grew up thinking no one had time for an unhappy mood and that my only choices were to laugh my way around the unpleasantness, or maybe pretend the pain wasn’t there when I felt it most acutely. No one likes a complainer, right? And what am I if not likable?

I remember a couple years ago my therapist asked me what I do when I’m having a tough day. “Just try to push my way through it,” I replied. “Usually get really annoyed with myself for feeling bad. And then I analyze why I’m feeling that way so I can fix it.”

“Huh,” she said in that loaded, one-syllable tone that all good therapists use. She then asked, “Don’t you ever just lie around in pajamas and mope in bed all day?”

At the time, I did not. But at the beginning of 2023 I took her advice. Brokenhearted from a grievance process that saw me quitting political organizing and ending various relationships, I spent many hours in bed asking the walls around me a simple, rhetorical, “What the fuck?” I felt betrayed, attacked, wretched. I stewed. And then when I needed a break, I’d take long walks under a big, brilliant winter sky and bask in precious daylight filtered through the crisscross trellises of barren tree branches. During that emotionally dark time, I learned to love winter light and all the beauty it illuminated. You know how a hearty soup tastes extra flavorful on a cold, rainy day? The natural splendor around me seemed to shine brighter while I was actively feeling my pain. 

Let’s face it, I’ve got a big, soppy heart and a lot of feelings. The exhausting work of ignoring or intellectualizing difficult emotions sucks up so much of my attention. I notice more beauty when I let go of the restraint and just allow myself to feel it all. 

In this spirit I present my new project, Stuff I Love. You can expect a new short essay every other Wednesday, starting January 24th. In these pieces I’ll celebrate whatever awesome thing happens to delight me at the moment. As someone who’s spent a lot of time on the internet, mulling over the myriad horrors of the world, I’m excited to express an unabashed sense of pleasure for a change. Because even in the most terrible times, there’s always stuff to love.

Posted on by introvertedcomrade

Farewell

Hello Readers! I’ve decided I’m wrapping up Introverted Comrade to make space for bigger writing ambitions. Like most decisions, this seemed to emerge in a clear flash (in this case, moments after working out). But as is often the case, I notice upon deeper reflection that I’d simply been avoiding change as long as my conscious mind would allow. 

I created this website five years ago as a platform to explore both political organizing and the human condition in the midst of rapid social change. The tagline was “Building a left community, quietly.” I was trying to find my people in socialist circles while maintaining a longstanding creative writing practice. Sometimes I wrote about political organizing from the perspective of a 40-something mom in the Democratic Socialists of America. Sometimes I wrote about TV sitcoms or classic films. Many times I wrote about coping through various bigger-than-me challenges (managing winter depression became a perennial topic). These essays, which drew heavily from my personal experiences, usually harkened back to leftist values that kept me engaged in collective struggle. Looking back, I can see that the organizational shop talk essays were a way of venting. I had much more fun writing about pop culture and my twisty-turny mental health; those are also the pieces I remember best.

I quit organizing at the start of this year – another “snap” decision that spawned multiple essays about my developing mental health. Now that I’ve processed that big change, I feel myself settling into a life determined less by guilt and obligation. Instead I’m choosing a life motivated by creativity and pleasure. I’m ready to be my real self, and that person is a writer. Sure, I’ve been writing the whole time I’ve been involved with political orgs. But for so long I believed I’d have to be some terrible, selfish person to allow myself to focus more on writing than organizing. Cue the maudlin violins of latent Catholic guilt…

Thanks to a lot of therapy, I am releasing the guilt. I’m not currently interested in political organizing. While I intend to keep writing essays on other topics, this website no longer feels like the right place to showcase that work. I find myself in a calmer, more confident place where I think I’m ready to forgo the instant gratification of self-publishing on this very small platform, and instead pitch pieces to publications that reach a larger audience. I’m also beginning to envision what a book of essays might look like. It’s a very new sensation, taking my creative work seriously without panic or shame. That alone feels pretty exciting.

Thank you so much to everyone who’s read and engaged with my Introverted Comrade essays ❤ There’s no fix quite like feeling understood, especially when sharing parts of myself I used to keep hidden. That joy has played a crucial role in improving my mental health and building my confidence.

Now I’m left to wonder, did I accomplish my goal of building a left community quietly? I certainly put a lot of loving work into my local DSA chapter and other left orgs. I’ve connected with tons of people and made many friends. Some of those relationships withered over time while others grew stronger. I’m a long way from who I was in 2018. The past year alone has seen me quit three very big habits that greatly impacted my social life (drinking, Twitter, and organizing). I experience other people differently than I used to. And that’s cool, because I’ve learned community is something that tends to grow organically more than intentionally. I also suspect that by being more myself – a writer who happens to be a socialist mom – my sense of belonging in community will flourish. I’m gonna give it a shot, anyway.