At a loss for topics to write on this week, I thought I might do a “5 things” list—a practice I learned from my mentor, Jessie Harrold. But what 5 things?
I pulled an oracle card: “visible.” Another oracle card at yoga: “clarity and truth.” Got writing feedback: “more vulnerability.” Revisited my word of the year: “lean.” I’ve tried to wriggle my way out of it a dozen different ways, but now I’m here to surrender.
Today I’m going to strip down, bare my ugly truths, and ask for your help. Read at your own risk.
5 Things I Can’t Do Alone
I can’t write a book alone. This week, in a text thread with my immediate family, I mentioned that I was telling our tornado story in “my book.” My brother replied, “You’re writing a book?” I’d thought, by discussing my memoir-writing process here in this newsletter, that the whole world knew what I was up to. I was wrong. Of course there is a danger in sharing that I’m trying to do a big thing like this. A few include: shame if I don’t finish, inviting judgement of my skills, family and friends objecting to being included, audience exhaustion through a painfully long, slow process. But on the other hand, the more people who know, the more people can help. For example, I recently admitted to an author acquaintance that I was on a “writing journey” myself, and she agreed to be a sounding board. This week at yoga, one of my students saw from my Instagram that I was a writer and told me that the publishing house she works for just put out a call for submissions. It’s not a perfect fit, but it reminded me the value of stating our dreams out loud. The people in your life want to cheer on your treasure hunt, and they can do that more effectively if you share the map.
I can’t be a parent alone. This vulnerability is, in part, why I’m even writing a book. Why I’m writing at all. Becoming a parent ruined my life. It is also the great joy of my life. Thankfully, I have never had to do it alone. But sometimes I delude myself into thinking that the bulk of “how it all turns out” falls on me. I know others feel this way too sometimes. We’re worried we’re going to fuck up our kids. As my therapist says, WE ARE. The best we can do is hope that someday, when they come home after the therapy they go to to undo all the ways we fucked them up, they will sit down with us for a cup of tea, and we can talk about it. Learn from it. Many of you have been there for me in the darkest hours, and some have even let me guide you in class settings about the meaning of motherhood and our roles as parents in systems that are not set up to support us. I just want you to know that your presence is a balm. May we continue to speak our struggles out loud.
I can’t pay my bills alone. This is not a request for money. This is me admitting that entrepreneurship does not come naturally for me. That developing new skills is slow, costly work. That trying to de-center money and promote the value of art in a starkly capitalist world with a privileged background but an empty bank account and very few marketable skills is full of dizzying contradictions. I wrote previously that I had come to acknowledge that 99% of authors have another job. So, while working on the never-ending task of editing my manuscript, I continue to hunt for that other thing (well, the other other thing, beyond teaching yoga and motherhood classes). That thing that is ideally flexible in time and setting, lucrative, low-stress, and somehow connected to my fields of interest in writing, yoga, and social justice. So, you know, if you hear of anything…
I can’t sell stuff alone. Back when I worked in nonprofit development, there was firm my organization hired to help us attract more major donors. I went to a three-day workshop with them in New York City, and then we met virtually for another few months to get individualized support. One thing they told us repeatedly that I’ll never forget: YOU. ARE. IN. SALES. And as much as I preferred to refer to myself, in the words of another fundraising guru, Vu Le, as “a pita wedge for the hummus of justice,” the consultants were right. Yet, despite a decade of trying it, I don’t think I was ever good at sales. I wanted to make things, tell stories, build relationships. There was certainly some overlap with sales, but it’s not a perfect Venn diagram. In my new job, I need to make impressive art AND be my own salesperson. I don’t need to be famous, go viral. But I want to reach people. I sense one of the problems is that everything I produce is a bit amateur. But how do I professionalize with a budget of $zero? What else am I missing? [Here’s where the consultants would say that if I did my job selling, you’d reply, “How can I help?”]
I can’t do marriage alone. And no, I’m not talking about polyamory. Seriously, though—I’m about to get very, very real. You might read this and think, This is not the place. You might be right. But some bizarre force of god and astrology and blog deadlines is just inviting it, and I’m going to answer. Here’s the truth: my marriage needs work. This is not news to those of us who are in it. We have sought professional help and are, with a vast array of ups and downs, trying to take steps to heal what is broken and identify a path forward. After my birthday, I wrote about the power of witnessing—both in our triumphs and our losses. I am not going to take you fully behind the curtain of my relationship, but for today, I just want to invite you to the kitchen table as a witness. And to put it out there: this shit is hard. Just as we are normalizing talking about menopause and miscarriage and imperfect motherhood, let’s normalize talking about the challenges of marriage—not just when we decide to get out, but while we’re still in it.
Thanks for being, in so many flawed and fabulous ways, someone to lean on, give my weight to, trust—
may you find and name your areas of leaning
too
With light, life, and love,
Devon
Love you, proud of you, inspired by you.