v.37 While Everything Falls Apart, This Too Is True.
Welcome to Life, Created—a new [old school] blog for modern times. This twice-a-week(ish) dispatch is a space for us to dig deeper, share ideas, recognize microjoys and build community beyond the mindless scroll.
We can hold multiple truths at once. Though most of us weren’t taught how to do that with any real grace or compassion. From early on, we’re conditioned to see the world in binaries: strong or weak, happy or sad, right or wrong. But real life doesn’t operate in those extremes. It happens in the in-between where grief and joy often sit side by side, and nothing is ever just one thing.
This becomes especially apparent during moments of collective crisis (like …now), when society demands a very specific, very public performance of grief. One that’s neat, familiar, and socially acceptable. And yet, while the expectation of collectively grieving ‘properly’ hangs palpably in the air, life itself keeps on keepin’ on. We’re expected to keep functioning, to carry on with the mundane parts of our day. You know, like me still trying to fix my broken garage door opener without dropping F-bombs at the top of my lungs every time the door doesn’t open. (Just me, then?)
Regular life shit doesn’t pause for catastrophe. Our coffee still goes cold. The garbage still needs to go to the curb and the asshole Wi-Fi still cuts out at the exact moment we need it. That doesn’t mean we don’t care about what’s happening in the world. It doesn’t mean we’re numb or detached. It just means we’re human. Our capacity to feel is not a zero-sum game. We don’t shut off our irritation because something tragic is unfolding in the news. We don’t stop laughing because someone else is suffering. The truth is, we hold all of it. At once. (And of course, I’m not referring to laughing AT someone else’s suffering.)
I’ve written about this before, and I’ll likely write about it again. In Microjoys, I explored the fleeting, ordinary moments that carry us through. The ones that ground us, that let us breathe even when it feels like the world is collapsing. I’ve mourned people I love while also being irrationally upset that my favorite hot pink lipstick was discontinued. I’ve cried over the loss of ‘what could have been’ and then smiled—genuinely—because my Monstera plant unfurled a new leaf. I’ve felt the ache of absence at the exact same time I felt the warmth of memory. None of that is contradiction. It’s just` what it means to be alive.
Still, we’re constantly being reminded, by social media, public discourse, even each other, that we’re supposed to pick a side: you’re either devastated or joyful, grieving or grateful. And when someone dares to express something too minor or too mundane, they’re met with judgment. I’ve seen it play out more times than I care to count. Recently, in my local community Facebook group, a thread spiraled into chaos after someone voiced their annoyance with gas-powered lawn mowers—illegal in our town and bad for the environment. But the conversation wasn’t about that. It turned into a pile-on about what people are “allowed” to be upset about, as though there’s a moral hierarchy to frustration. As though we’re all silently auditioning for who’s suffering the most.
I’m not above it. My first instinct is often the same: an eye roll, a sigh, an internal “oh, for fuck’s sake.” But I’ve learned to catch myself. Because the issue isn’t the lawn mower. It’s that we’re slowly losing our capacity for complexity and humanity. We’re forgetting how to sit with the full scope of being human. And that loss, that disconnection from nuance, is more dangerous than we realize.
When we’re hurting, it’s easier to critique someone else’s minor annoyance than to confront our own pain. It’s easier to dismiss someone’s laughter than to acknowledge how much we are sad and disillusioned ourselves. But what if, instead of asking, “Why are they talking about something so trivial?” we asked, “What else might be true for them?” Because it’s almost always more than one thing. We can be heartbroken by the world and still laugh at something absurd. We can grieve deeply and still feel delighted by the way the light hits a window just right.
None of it cancels the other out. It all coexists.
I miss my mother. I cry, sometimes for reasons I can’t explain. My plants are thriving. My nephew is dead and shouldn’t be. I laugh at wildly inappropriate jokes with my grown-ass brothers. I feel deep joy at mid-day fancy lunches with girlfriends. I feel both grounded and completely untethered, depending on the day. And I know I’m not alone in this kind of emotional contradiction. So many of us are just doing our best to carry all of it; grief, beauty, the ordinary, the unbearable.
So when you’re tempted to dismiss someone else’s irritation, joy or lightness, pause. Consider what else might be true for them. That small, seemingly insignificant moment might be the one thread keeping them from unraveling entirely. And maybe that’s not a distraction from the world’s pain but a way for folks to move through it.
This week’s microjoy: listening to the audiobook How to Be Well: Navigating Our Self-Care Epidemic, One Dubious Cure at a Time by journalist Amy Larocca. Listen, I’ve tried, done, or at least considered most of the wellness trends mentioned, which made listening to this oddly comforting. Like hearing a friend gently debunk all your wellness nonsense with a knowing nod and real data, too. It didn’t feel preachy but instead, more like, “Yeah, I’ve been there myself. And also... maybe skip eating your bodyweight in greens. You can still live well without them.” A worthy read (or listen) if wellness or wellbeing is your jam.
P.S. Per usual, if this resonated with you- PLEASE repost, comment, share and spread the word.
Welcome to Life, Created.
With love, wisdom [and small mercies] from Montclair. xx
