Woman at the Protest
What my therapist says about despair.
This week, I tell my therapist it feels weird to talk about my “regular” stuff—the stress of being visible online coupled with a persnickety feeling of never actually being worthy.
I don’t want to talk about self-love when the world is burning, I tell her.
She doesn’t hesitate: If Elon and Trump could love themselves, they wouldn’t be harming the whole world. Self-love isn’t a nice-to-have. It’s at the epicenter, the origin of all collective healing.
My therapist, btw, is really fucking rad.
Last weekend, I attended the No Kings protest in downtown Portland. I often feel as if protests are futile but then I remember how good it feels to be surrounded by thousands of bodies rising up. I remember how human heartbeats sync together in a crowd.
Lately, I’ve been chewing on author Chinua Achebe’s, words:
Nobody's going to say if you struggle, you will succeed. It would be too simple. But even if we are not sure how it is going to end, what success will attend our enterprise, we still have this obligation to struggle.
So these days, I’m struggling. And I’m obligated to keep struggling even though I vacillate hourly between resolve and despair.
Last night, I re-read Jack Gilbert’s poem, Brief for the Defense. It feels fitting for a moment when pleasure feels truly obscene in the face of growing fascism, climate collapse, televised genocide. Jack says:
"If we deny our happiness, resist our satisfaction, we lessen the importance of their deprivation. We must risk delight. We can do without pleasure, but not delight. Not enjoyment. We must have the stubbornness to accept our gladness in the ruthless furnace of this world."
Still, it’s hard to swallow that. On really impossible days, I say to my therapist what I can’t admit to anyone else: Sometimes, I think the only sane instinct in response to the unfathomable suffering in the world right now is to go outside and light myself on fire.
She gets that devastating look in her eye and says: You're right, you must light up. Burn with your entire being. Be the brightest living light you can be.
The call ends and I cry all my make up off.
For now, I’m trying not to resist joy, even when it hurts, maybe especially when it hurts. And I can’t tell anymore if it’s an irony or a blessing that Joy is literally my dumb name.
Anyway, here’s a song that carrying me through the week. I love you. How are you? I’d love know in the comments.
P.S. As a thank you to my paid subscribers, I offer quarterly workshops. Summer workshop details below. This time, we’re writing toward hope.
How to Write Hope: Cutting to the Core of the Wound
Summer workshop for paid Substack subscribers
Wednesday | July 23rd | 5pm PDT
What we’ll cover:
I can’t bear platitudes during unbearable times. I believe in language that cuts to the quick, that aptly names the ache. In this workshop, we’ll explore how to write hope without being saccharine. We’ll discover techniques that move our reader through complexity, empathy, and ultimately into action.
How to join:
Limited seats so register early
Replay available
Paid subscribers, scroll down for the registration link.
Free subscribers, get access with the annual Necessary Salt membership. (Subscription for an entire year is 1/2 what I normally charge for a single writing workshop so hopefully it’s a no-brainer. In addition, paid members get access to all additional upcoming workshops, all replays, my full WOMAN IN THE WORLD essays, and live Q+A calls with me).