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Amy Writes Words

Podkast av Amy Isikoff Newell

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Amy Writes Words, the newsletter, only in podcast form so you can listen to it instead of read it. I have not figured out the footnotes situation yet. https://www.amywriteswords.com www.amywriteswords.com

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11 Episoder

episode A few things instead of a whole-ass Essay cover

A few things instead of a whole-ass Essay

Hello folks! It’s been difficult for me to maintain the habit of sending this newsletter regularly. This isn’t surprising, we all know habits are hard to build. Anyways, try, try again. The perfect is the enemy of everything, so here’s an imperfect offering for you. I will always bet against cruelty, not because I think I’ll win that bet, but because I don’t choose every day to go on living so that I can throw in with powerful men who behave badly. Yes, I’m talking about Elon Musk. Also in regard to Elon Musk, as I tweeted yesterday: My problem with him is not that he's a narcissistic baby, although he is that. It's that he is a powerful fascist with a powerful platform who is using that platform to advance fascist interests & at the same time (and relatedly) is shifting the Overton window on how bosses can treat workers [https://www.nytimes.com/2022/12/16/technology/elon-musk-management-style.html]. Here’s a Woe I wrote about how current developments driven by Musk made me actually lose my whole mind for a minute, and how I got it back [https://buttondown.email/woe/archive/woe-23-learn-to-manufacture-hope/]. Here’s a poem I wrote about it too [https://amywritespoems.substack.com/p/do-not-praise-that-man-to-me#details]. Don’t forget that there are people who use outrage as a business strategy. Here’s a quote from Ursula Le Guin that I find relevant and hopeful right now We live in capitalism. Its power seems inescapable. So did the divine right of kings. Any human power can be resisted and changed by human beings. Resistance and change often begin in art, and very often in our art, the art of words. Don’t you work at a tech business, Amy? As a … boss? Aren’t you one of the “tech executives”? Shouldn’t you maybe not criticize capitalism since you are very participating in it? No, that’s a spurious argument. I can be part of a particular kind of game (running a business within the larger framework of tech capitalism) while also critiquing it and dreaming of something else. Here’s something I wrote on the topic of being a boss, by the way. [https://leaddev.com/professional-development/youre-not-just-manager-youre-also-boss] It’s about power. If you manage people, I think you should read it. The difference between Grief and Joy is not as large as people think. They meet, often, at their extremes, in an emotional experience that is maybe best described as Awe. Something I’m thinking about from Tiny Habits [https://tinyhabits.com/], as 2023 nears. What’s the tiniest habit I can create that will have the most meaning for me? Not for the person I think I should be, but for me, as I am, in this moment. What do I ACTUALLY care about? I’m not sure yet what my answer is. There’s a lot of things I’ve tried and failed to change in my life because they were too big or too hard, but I have had success with tiny habit changes and, sometimes, with big ones too [https://buttondown.email/woe/archive/woe-issue-3-if-at-first-you-dont-succeed-try-try/]. This McSweeney’s article about Cookie Monster [https://www.mcsweeneys.net/articles/cookie-monster-searches-deep-within-himself-and-asks-is-me-really-monster]wondering if he is, indeed, a monster, perfectly encapsulates so many of my internal conversations about myself: am me monster or am me not monster, just regular person? Me monster. That’s the darkness inside me talking, yes, but if it did not speak to me that way I wouldn’t ask myself any difficult questions, would I? I wouldn’t bother to be careful with my power or with my words, because I would never suspect that I might be wrong. Which is certainly a much easier way to live. It’s just not one on offer to me. And for that, honestly, I am grateful. I do not seek the Dunning-Kruger [https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Dunning%E2%80%93Kruger_effect] confidence of a chatbot. I seek to grow, not so that I can say I have a growth mindset so as to better succeed in business, but so that I can become as full a human as I can be. At a dinner last month I managed to start an argument about politics even though everyone at the table was a Democrat. The argument was about defunding the police. One diner accused me of forcibly ejecting people from the Democratic party, as if I had that kind of power, as if merely stating my opinion on the matter around a table were an act of aggression. I don’t know much about it, said another diner, but I am sure that we need the police and that defunding them is a terrible idea. Well, I said, I actually do know something about this topic, and, as a result, I am an abolitionist. I would like to abolish the police and to abolish prisons. Will you read a book about it, I asked the person who said they didn’t know much about it. No, that’s not really a priority for me, they said. I didn’t ask them how they could so casually hold an opinion on a topic about which they admitted knowing so little. It was time for dessert. If you too think that abolishing the police is a terrible idea, that they protect us, or maybe you’re not sure what you think but you don’t know much about it, and you’re willing to consider it, allow me to recommend The End of Policing [https://www.versobooks.com/books/2426-the-end-of-policing], [https://www.versobooks.com/books/2426-the-end-of-policing] by Alex Vitale, a well-researched, eye-opening book on the matter. You can get it as an e-book for a mere $6. We Do This Till We Free Us [https://www.haymarketbooks.org/books/1664-we-do-this-til-we-free-us], by Mariame Kaba, is another great read, also available as an ebook for $6. If you aren’t willing to commit to a whole book (understandable), here’s an article [https://www.nytimes.com/2020/06/12/opinion/sunday/floyd-abolish-defund-police.html]instead. Neither of those are easy books, especially for white liberals who largely haven’t had negative interactions with the police and other coercive kinds of state control. Myself, I have been involuntarily committed, which is not the same as having been jailed, but is not entirely different either. As a crazy person, I fear the police. Even going through the TSA line at the airport terrifies me. Because I am a small white woman, I don’t expect to be summarily executed by the police, but I don’t trust them either. Maybe this still seems like it doesn’t have much to do with you personally, so it’s still not a priority. Allow me to suggest otherwise: If you’re worried about fascism, or white supremacy, or anti-semitism, or voter suppression, or violent insurrectionists, or abortion rights, well, all of those worries are intimately and inextricably tied to our system of policing and prisons. It is those systems, already in existence, which will be increasingly turned against you, yes YOU, for being queer, or having an abortion (or a miscarriage), or attending a protest, or, or, or, or. Maybe you think I’m a woke radical social justice warrior with impractical and idealistic notions. Maybe you disagree with my messaging. But maybe, just maybe, if you looked more closely at what the police are actually doing, about how our prisons actually function, you’d be convinced that they’re not such a good idea after all. I know it is easy to dismiss me as crazy but in 2023 I’m going to keep daring you to look with me at uncomfortable things. Ooh! That, it turns out, is the tiniest habit I can cultivate that will have the most meaning for me. Self-promotion area: Office Hours: I am still offering my office hours for women and non-binary engineers, sign up here [https://calendly.com/amy-newell/office-hours] and please share with folks you think could benefit. My other newsletter: “Woe: Mental Health Tips You'll Hate From The Saddest Woman In the World” and you can subscribe here: https://buttondown.email/woe [https://buttondown.email/woe] While irregular, it’s also free, so why the hell not? If you like this post, you could share it on yr social: And I love to hear from my readers so you can always smash that reply button and let me know what you’re thinking. Get full access to Amy Writes Words at www.amywriteswords.com/subscribe [https://www.amywriteswords.com/subscribe?utm_medium=podcast&utm_campaign=CTA_4]

18. des. 2022 - 12 min
episode The Book of Life and The Book of Death cover

The Book of Life and The Book of Death

CW: suicide. The word death is in the title here, folks, what do you expect from me? Q: You go dark for months and months, Amy and then this is what you come back to us with? MORE DARK? A: yes, apparently that is correct. I have been super busy and all my newsletter activity has fallen by the wayside but today I had a thing to say and this is a venue in which to say it. You could argue that it’s better placed in my other newsletter, Woe [https://buttondown.email/woe/archive/], but it’s not exactly a mental health tip, so it’s here. And probably cross-posted there, because I’m messy like that. Never forget, folks: the perfect is the enemy of basically everything, including the good.Q: are you going to keep writing these again now? A: I will try. Today is Yom Kippur. For a long time I understood Yom Kippur to be the day on which we all desperately work to be written in the Book of Life for the next year, rather than the Book of Death. Naturally, this led to a lot of inner conflict, because I was never all that interested in being alive.  Instead of doing what I was supposed to do, I rebelled. I dared the Universe to write me into the Book of Death. It's like a joke I told in a standup set once "Crazy people love cigarettes... because we hate living." But the rest of the time, mostly, I continued to show up.  I worked. I cared for my children. I made art. I tried to be good. I played the hand I was dealt. I kept a sliver of myself in death’s corner, a slice of self-destruction that I couldn’t quit, like the cigarettes. Yom Kippur would roll around and I’d figure out some way to do exactly the opposite of what I was supposed to do. Work. Eat. Drink. Lie. Cheat. And so on. F**k you and the horse you rode in on, Life, what did you ever do for me? Every so often someone would talk about a miracle cure for what ailed me, but I never got a miracle. I tried all the things but they weren’t miracles. Sometimes it felt like the only thing that kept me going was my acute and personal understanding of the wreckage that I’d leave behind if I chose instead to die.  This year is a hard year for me because today, Yom Kippur, falls the day before the 10 year anniversary of a friend’s suicide. That friend killed himself on a day he was supposed to come to my house for dinner. Instead he stopped answering my texts and he died. So here I am, finally. Today is the day on which I have always believed I was expected to beg for a life I could sometimes barely tolerate, let alone find the energy to beg for. And then tomorrow, the day on which the person who taught me — precisely, vividly, endlessly — the wreckage that comes in the wake of a suicide — the day on which he chose to die. A one-two punch. Will you beg to live, woman? asks one day, or will you choose to die like he did? asks the day after that.  Because of the way the Jewish calendar works, this conjunction doesn’t happen every year. Like an eclipse, or like all the planets being in retrograde at once (someone told me that is happening, which I didn’t even think it could, but I don’t claim to understand astrology), it’s a rare convergence.  In the 10 years since he died, this is the first year those two days have bumped up against each other, and they won’t do so again until 2030, when Yom Kippur will begin on the evening of the day he died.  I’ve struggled extra-hard this year because this isn’t a conjunction that matters much to anyone but me. I have spent the last 10 years of my life reckoning with the pain his death caused me, and the ways it resonated with my own despair, called me to wrestle with my own death wish. And reckoning too with the very real consequences of some of the ways I chose to wrestle with that death wish, the harm I caused: harm to me, harm to people I loved, harm to innocent bystanders. But how could I explain what this meant to the people around me, who didn’t experience that death the way I did and don’t know the details of the ways my own death wish has played out in my life? In the end though, it turns out to be pretty simple. I open up the computer and I set down the words. Here is a day, and another day, I say, and here is how they relate to one another in my life, and why that is important. It’s not actually that difficult. What was more difficult for me was to see the connection myself, why that death and this holy day are related.  I understand very well the harm that is caused when someone decides to stop showing up for life. I see also the harm that is caused when someone flails around wielding their death wish like an amulet against responsibility. But it’s also true that even when we show up fully to life, are all in, we will still cause harm. The harm is not optional. Yom Kippur is not so much a day that is about begging to be forgiven for the harm, begging for the right to stay here to do better, this year. It’s not about asking at all. It’s about choosing. My friend made a choice to stop showing up. For all the years of my life I’ve made the other choice, even the years I was most sunk into one self-destructive urge or another, I still, basically, chose to show up. Sometimes I would sink into a deep depression and see what ways I was not showing up, what harm I was causing, and then I would do something different. I would try to do better. I don’t need an angry God I don’t exactly believe in to sit in judgment over me deciding whether I deserve to live or die. I’m already exceptionally good at judging myself, thank you much.  No, it’s not about asking to live. It’s about choosing to show up, knowing that if I keep showing up I’ll also keep f*****g up, because f*****g up is part of what happens when you show up. Sometimes I’ll f**k up because I made bad choices that I can learn from, sometimes I’ll f**k up because I made the best choice I could and even the best choice you can make might still be a pretty terrible choice, might cause harm. Showing up to live isn’t any guarantee that you won’t cause harm along the way, it’s the opposite. That’s a bitter pill to swallow, for sure.  And yet, I still believe the alternative is worse.  I have made it a long way in my life showing up to live as best I can, trying to accept responsibility for the harms I’ve caused along the way and make my peace with the psychic pain I cannot cure or flee.  I have spent the last several days asking everyone who loves me why I can’t let these things go. How could I? Like Hamlet, I stand always at a grave asking a skull whether I should Be. And yet I continue to be. I keep asking that question, every day I ask myself, and every day I answer yes, I will keep showing up. I am in this, not to win it, because what does that even mean, but because I choose to be.  I don’t have to make that choice. No one has to make that choice, it’s not inevitable. He didn’t. One of the last things he told me, in essence, was that he didn’t owe me — or anyone — his life. And that’s true.  I don’t owe anyone else my life. For all the pain his death caused me, all that shrapnel, as deeply as I wish he were still here, he didn’t owe me his survival.  It is true that I always feel the weight of my responsibility to others: to my children, to the folks I work with, to everyone whose lives I touch in any way. But I don’t choose every day to continue to live because of my obligations to others. I don’t even do it because I feel an obligation to myself, or because I feel an obligation to … Something Else.  On Yom Kippur the question is not “what must I do to survive?” and it is not “why must I choose to survive?” neither of which are very compelling to me.  It’s this: is my life a gift I am still willing to give to this world? And can I feel it not just as a free-given gift to others, but as a gift to myself? Can I continue this magic trick, bend this darkness so far that it turns into light? Can I make something beautiful, so beautiful even I can enjoy it? Will I try?  Yes. I write myself into the Book of Life. “yes I said yes I will Yes.” Here’s one of many poems I wrote about the dead man [https://amywritespoems.substack.com/p/golem], and here’s another of them [https://amywritespoems.substack.com/p/left-behind] and another [https://amywritespoems.substack.com/p/predictions]. Here’s a thing where I talk about what it means to play the hand you’re dealt [https://buttondown.email/woe/archive/woe-20-play-the-hand-youre-dealt/], and here’s another thing I wrote about how you can only save your own life [https://buttondown.email/woe/archive/woe-11-you-can-only-save-your-own-life/]. I don’t know which newsletter this particular thing goes in and I don’t know who wants this particular gift besides me. But here, yes, here I am, showing up the only way I know how, with the only thing I have to give, myself, for another day, another year, another decade, another and another and another. Get full access to Amy Writes Words at www.amywriteswords.com/subscribe [https://www.amywriteswords.com/subscribe?utm_medium=podcast&utm_campaign=CTA_4]

5. okt. 2022 - 10 min
episode Three Icebergs, Two Internet Miracles, and One Mint-Condition Set of Sassy Magazines cover

Three Icebergs, Two Internet Miracles, and One Mint-Condition Set of Sassy Magazines

Hello and welcome back to Amy Writes Words. It’s been a minute; I’m working on not making excuses for myself and I have been recently bingeing Adele’s new album, so I’ll just say “I don’t have to explain myself to you/I’m a grown woman and I do what I want to do.” [https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=niG3YMU6jFk] I think she was talking about a torrid romance and actually I’m talking about a sick cat, but whatevs. Today I want to talk about impact. I've written before [https://www.amywriteswords.com/p/on-metrics-part-1] about the challenges of measuring our impact in the world: I trust that when I send words into the world they will move the world. I can’t measure that movement. I see maybe a tiny piece of it, a sliver of analytics. Sometimes years later something I wrote will come back to me and I will catch a glimpse of the part of the iceberg that is submerged, everything that can’t be measured not only because it is hidden but because it is made out of things that are immeasurable. Love. Doubt. Trust. Change. Hope. Solidarity.  Today I want to tell you about three different times in my life when I caught a glimpse of the ways in which my words have moved the world. Three times I did a thing and it went out into the world and then, by coincidence or luck or fate I found out later about some part of the impact that it had.  Three icebergs. I will start first with the most recent and least mysterious of these: I gave a talk in April of 2019, at a small 1-day tech conference called GetConf [https://getconfomaha.com/], which took place in Omaha, Nebraska. I spoke about my experience with bipolar disorder and what I’d learned through that experience about the value of being able to show up authentically to work. I also spoke about one of the systems of oppression that militate against our truly being able to show up authentically to work -- about patriarchy. At that time, in April 2019, to stand up at a tech conference and say the word patriarchy was actually scarier than talking about my mental illness. I had been talking about my mental illness for a while already, but in part because of that, I didn’t talk much about anything else that might be perceived as Difficult. I spent much of my career making an uneasy peace with the sexism that I experienced as a software engineer — ignoring it or dismissing it or diminishing it or complaining privately about it. But I didn’t feel I had enough power or security, as a mentally ill woman, to mouth off about patriarchy, or basically anything else. I did my best to hire and support other women engineers, but I didn’t do a lot of speaking truth to power. What changed for me in 2018 that enabled me to give this talk in 2019 is that I quit a job and then I went out and got a new job. I had stayed at that previous job for a long time; too long, really, because I believed myself to be damaged goods. Some of the worst years in my life were while I was at that job, and it was then that I began to be open with my coworkers about my mental illness, [https://mhprompt.org/2016/08/22/it-takes-a-village-to-get-a-course-of-ECT.html] mostly because it became impossible to hide. But because of that, I believed I might never get another job in tech after that one, and that belief caused me to hang on to the job longer than I should have, and to be careful not to pile “Nasty Woman” on top of “Crazy Lady”. So this talk was a real watershed moment for me. I was genuinely afraid. Still, it was a small 20 minute talk that I gave at a small conference in Omaha, a place I had not realized had anything of a tech industry presence at all, which is a whole other essay topic. In retrospect, GetConf 2019 turned out to be one of the most important conferences I’ve attended. It remains one of the most well-run and inclusive conferences I’ve ever been to, and there were a number of interesting talks, including by Camille Eddy [https://twitter.com/iamcamilleeddy?lang=en] and Stefanie Monge [https://twitter.com/stefaniemonge], and meeting such an incredible and diverse group of women in tech, and then following them on Twitter, and then following people they followed — this set me on a path toward greater engagement with the politics of the tech industry, including more engagement not just about patriarchy but white supremacy and colonialism and other significant issues around harm. For example, at that conference I saw Eva Penzey-Moog [https://evapenzeymoog.com/]give a talk about designing for safety, particularly for the safety of folks who are experiencing intimate partner abuse. And that had a massive impact on the way I thought about our responsibilities as engineers in the world, to consider the harm that our work may cause, and to consider it from the position of some of the most vulnerable people in our society. She has a whole book now about this topic [https://abookapart.com/products/design-for-safety]and you should definitely check it out. That whole conference was an iceberg of impact with effects that continue to reverberate. And my own little talk was an iceberg too. Several people reached out to me immediately afterward to tell me how it had affected them. But also, all the talks that day were recorded and went up on YouTube [https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Qf8TYuAZY8g] after the conference. Several hundred people have watched it since it went up on YouTube, which doesn’t seem like a lot, but at least a few of those people have taken the time to tell me how important it was for them and if there’s one thing I know about icebergs it’s that they are all melting very fast — wait, wrong topic — if there’s one thing I know about putting words out into the world it’s that if you get any signal at all back from even one or two people that your words were useful to them, there’s at least a few more people who felt that way also but didn’t take the extra step to tell you. On to the second iceberg. The further back in time I go the weirder this s**t gets, so get ready. In 2003 I took a mindfulness course at Jon Kabat-Zinn’s Center for Mindfulness in Medicine at UMass-Worcester [https://www.ummhealth.org/center-mindfulness]. This was back before mindfulness was A Thing, and the class was mostly full of terminally ill people. (I talk about this experience in an issue of Woe if you’d like to hear more [https://buttondown.email/woe/archive/woe-6-meditation-works-and-i-swear-you-can-do-it/]. Also why not subscribe to Woe [https://buttondown.email/woe]?) Anyway, there’s a Rumi poem that is commonly offered to new meditators, called “The Guest House” [https://www.thepoetryexchange.co.uk/the-guest-house-by-rumi]. I want to briefly call out here that when I say a “Rumi poem” what I mean is a poem that is based on something Rumi wrote but mediated through the man who popularized Rumi here in the US, Coleman Barks, who, it turned out, had, in his renderings of Rumi’s work (not even translations, mind you, because Coleman Barks could not actually translate), drained the Islam out. Rumi was a Sufi mystic, and very, very much grounded in Islam. So it’s important to acknowledge that context, which I didn’t know at the time I was handed a copy of “The Guest House [https://www.thepoetryexchange.co.uk/the-guest-house-by-rumi]” back in 2003. (I learned about it from a 2017 New Yorker article [https://www.newyorker.com/books/page-turner/the-erasure-of-islam-from-the-poetry-of-rumi]). Anyway, this poem, “The Guest House”, in its Coleman Barks form, is handed out so frequently to new meditators because whatever its flaws as an accurate representation of Rumi, it is a very nice metaphor for allowing your thoughts and feelings to come hang out without getting too attached to them, this beautiful idea that in mindfulness you sit down and befriend your most upsetting emotions, invite them to your home and serve them tea. I had a lot of upsetting emotions back then (and still do), and I absolutely hated the advice that I should befriend them. So I wrote a poem, which was a response to “The Guest House” and I was like, sure, fine, I will have a guest house, but I'm not gonna make it comfortable. So, you know, my shitty emotions can come in, but it's like, I’m gonna design this house the way inhumane cities design their subway stations, so that homeless people can’t rest in them. I wanted to do something to my brain so that my shitty emotions didn't have a place to rest. So I wrote a poem about that, which you can go read or listen to over at Amy Writes Poems, [https://amywritespoems.substack.com/p/on-hospitality-a-reply-to-rumi] and I brought the poem to class and I read it out loud there. And then my teacher asked if she could have a copy. So I gave a hard copy to her and she said, well, can I share it with my other meditation groups? And I said sure, okay, fine. Anyway, 12 years later, in 2015, I received an email from a woman who worked at the National Health Service in Scotland requesting that I grant NHS-Scotland the right to use that poem in a meditation app that they were making. And I was shocked. I hadn’t even remembered that I’d written that poem, and I no longer had a copy myself. I asked her, “Where did you even find this thing?” And she said, “Well, it’s all over the internet.” And lo and behold, somehow this poem had traveled far and wide and was up on all kinds of meditation centers’ websites, sometimes attributed to me, sometimes not, sometimes shortened or altered in some way. It was just everywhere [https://www.google.com/search?q=on+hospitality+a+reply+to+rumi] and I was absolutely shocked. And I was so grateful that this one woman had actually thought to request permission to use it and had tracked me down, which wasn’t easy because there are a lot of Amy Newells in the world and I myself hadn’t published the poem anywhere — she found one of my Twitter handles where the biography said I was a poet and she figured maybe I was the right Amy Newell. If she hadn’t, I might never have known about this particular iceberg of impact. I told you this was going to get weird. Clearly this poem had touched many people over many years and had spread without my knowledge and it was a real internet miracle that I happened to find out about it from this one very dedicated employee at the NHS Scotland. This third thing is even weirder. It's so, so weird. I've been reading a collection of Rebecca Solnit's essays [https://www.haymarketbooks.org/books/1180-call-them-by-their-true-names]from the years that Trump was in office. And one of the things that she talks about in one of the essays is how, when Trump came into office, there was so much despair, but also so many people who had previously been not so politically engaged, suddenly leapt into action and so, so many more women jumped into running for office in the wake of Trump's election. And that was true in 2018, and it was true in 2020. And one of the women who was running for office in 2020 was a woman named Angela Mayfield. [https://twitter.com/pinkrocktopus] She was running for state rep in Georgia and she went viral because this local reporter thought that she ought to repudiate some of her tweets in which she had used '“foul language”. [https://twitter.com/pinkrocktopus/status/1302290597273915394?lang=en] You know, she said f**k, she said pussy, she’s a grown woman who can do what she wants to do, and she speaks her truth on Twitter, as so many of us do. But this reporter really wanted to make an issue of that instead of asking her about anything substantive, and of course this conflict made her go viral, and women like me were very eager to follow and donate and support this foul-mouthed, sassy, badass woman going up against some Republican Georgia state rep in a year everyone was paying a lot of attention to Georgia. So I started following her. One day she tweeted something about Sassy Magazine [https://twitter.com/pinkrocktopus/status/1304652465766367235], which was basically the most amazing mass-distribution magazine for teen girls that ever existed [https://www.npr.org/templates/story/story.php?storyId=9826498]. Everything Teen Vogue does now Sassy was doing 30 years ago. Sassy Magazine’s iceberg of impact is the size of Antarctica. Anyways, when Angela mentioned Sassy Magazine I answered her back because Sassy fanatics are crazy and I have a mint-condition nearly-complete set of Sassy Magazines in a box in my basement, and I will never ever get rid of them. At this point, I dunno, some kind of out-of-body experience occurred. I said the thing about the magazines [https://twitter.com/amynewell/status/1304779771616821253] and Angela asked “Amy, are you from Florida?” [https://twitter.com/pinkrocktopus/status/1304781272091439105?s=20&t=B-TqqU7yx-bBI6yT8loEMg] And I say “I sure am” [https://twitter.com/amynewell/status/1304783280143773696?s=20&t=B-TqqU7yx-bBI6yT8loEMg] and then this unbelievable tweet thread ensues in which it turns out that Angela and I grew up in the same county in Florida, Brevard County, and when I was a senior in high school and Angela was in eighth grade, she read some writing of mine in our countywide school sponsored literary magazine. And the thing she read was so compelling to her that she credits it with having convinced her that instead of staying home and going to Brevard Community College and becoming a secretary at the Space Center, she should apply to school up north and see what else there was in the world and so I indirectly was part of shaping a path for her that eventually resulted in her running for political office. And she could, 30 years later, quote lines from that piece. Verbatim. So it is so unusual to find something out like this, right? It’s an internet miracle. But the lesson to be drawn from this is not that I’m especially important, or that the universe itself was somehow making sure that I met Angela and heard that feedback from her about how much impact I had had, but that the things that you put out into the world, your actions have an impact that you will never be able to completely see and that therefore you can never completely measure. Or, as I put it at the time: For every internet miracle where I actually learn from someone about how I’ve affected them, there is so much more that I will never ever learn about. And so it is a measure of faith when you make something, say something, do something that that thing will have an impact. And you never know how large it will be or when it will happen or whether you'll ever hear about it, the way I ended up hearing about it from Angela. So there you go: 3 icebergs, 2 internet miracles, and one mint-condition set of Sassy Magazines. We are taught these days that if it can't be measured, it doesn't exist. We are taught that we must maximize our impact (and who wouldn’t want that, really?) but that we must do so in ways that can be measured. Because what does it mean to say that you've maximized your impact if you don’t have an accurate measure of that impact? But, as I hope I’ve made clear by now, we cannot possibly have an accurate measure of our true impact because the world is a very complicated place. Back to Rebecca Solnit. This is something she talks about A LOT, in that book of essays I just finished reading and in Hope in the Dark [https://www.haymarketbooks.org/books/791-hope-in-the-dark] and basically all the rest of her work — many of the things I say about hope are inspired by Solnit’s words, so that this newsletter is itself, in part, made of a few beautiful crystals of Solnit’s own iceberg of impact. If you’re feeling hopeless or want to see some more examples of how all this stuff works out in real life I recommend you check her work out. For example, in her essay “Protest and Persist: Why Giving Up Hope is Not An Option,” [http://rebeccasolnit.net/essay/protest-and-persist-why-giving-up-hope-is-not-an-option/] from 2017, she writes: “Actions often ripple far beyond their immediate objective, and remembering this is a reason to live by principle and act in the hope that what you do matters, even when results are unlikely to be immediate or obvious.” She also writes that “to be hopeful, we need not only to embrace uncertainty but also to be willing to know that the consequences may be immeasurable, may still be unfolding…” It’s important to realize that Solnit doesn’t preach hope merely from, well, hope. She preaches it because she spends a lot of time tracing the history of social movements to build a better world or stop a worse one from occurring — and she makes visible some pieces of the icebergs of influence and impact that various movements have had. One example she gives is an antinuclear group called the Clamshell Alliance [https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Clamshell_Alliance], which did not itself accomplish the goal which it was formed to accomplish (to stop a nuclear reactor) but that inspired a similar group elsewhere called the Abalone Alliance, [https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Abalone_Alliance] and that group inspired a number of other anti-nuclear activists and all of those groups together, besides all the other ways they had impact that Solnit describes, also served as the inspiration for the undergraduate thesis I wrote in 1997 on the importance of not getting sucked into apocalyptic storylines even when everything feels very apocalyptic [https://www.researchgate.net/publication/35414102_Cyborgs_and_witches_for_earthly_survival_feminist_technologies_for_avoiding_the_apocalypse], a topic which is obviously still quite relevant today. It’s true that all the real icebergs are melting, folks, and that this is an existential threat to humanity. But we are not powerless to respond to this and to all the other threats that face us today. We do have impact. It is larger than we know and more mysterious than we can measure. We can measure some things that matter. We cannot and will never be able to measure them all. When we make time to do the things we feel called to do, regardless of whether we can see or measure their impact, and whether or not we can even say what impact we think they might have or why, whether or not we even do them out of hope that they will have a positive impact — we change the world. One last quote, this one from Joanna Macy [https://www.joannamacy.net/main]: When you make peace with uncertainty, you find a kind of liberation. You are freed from bracing yourself against every piece of bad news and from constantly having to work up a sense of hopefulness in order to act. There is a certain equanimity and moral economy that comes when you are not constantly computing your chance of success. The enterprise is so vast that there is no way to judge the effects of this or that individual effort, or the extent to which it makes any difference at all. Once we acknowledge this, we can enjoy the challenge and the adventure. I didn’t know that GetConf would be such a generative experience for me or that the talk I gave there would live on in the way it has or that the people I met there would open my mind in the ways they did. I didn’t know that a poem I wrote out of frustration with the process of learning to meditate would somehow travel around the world from a single hard copy I handed to my teacher. And I sure as hell wasn’t thinking, at the age of 17, that some little thing I wrote would have any impact whatsoever on anyone — that anyone would even read it, let alone alter the trajectory of their life because of it. That’s impact, folks, and every single one of us is making a lot of it every single day. Well, I hope you’ve enjoyed this little essay on impact. If you like it then why not put a ring on it and subscribe now [https://www.amywriteswords.com/subscribe?r=3idrk]? If you like it an awful lot, you could get yourself a paying subscription, which doesn’t give you much extra yet except the knowledge that you are directly impacting my sense that these words matter and I should keep producing them. In other news, while I am still taking on a small number of coaching clients [https://amynewell.com/engineering-career-leadership-coaching/], I am also about to start a new job as VP of Engineering at ConvertKit. [https://convertkit.com/] There’s a whole newsletter in me about why this role at this time, but it is not baked yet. Stay tuned. Finally, don’t forget to smash that reply button and tell me what you think of this essay! Maybe forward it or share it with a friend or on twitter? Why not? Live dangerously! Who knows what impact that share might have on the world? Get full access to Amy Writes Words at www.amywriteswords.com/subscribe [https://www.amywriteswords.com/subscribe?utm_medium=podcast&utm_campaign=CTA_4]

16. feb. 2022 - 22 min
episode The Owl of Hope cover

The Owl of Hope

I’ve been thinking about hope a lot. As the year turned over I found myself beset by difficulties. Of course, there was the arrival of Omicron, making the entire holiday season seem less like a celebration and more like Yeats’ rough beast slouching toward Bethlehem to be born [https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/43290/the-second-coming]. Or like waiting for the uninvited guest in The Masque of the Red Death [https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Masque_of_the_Red_Death]. I’d really rather be Waiting for Godot [https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Waiting_for_Godot]. Yes, I crammed three literary references into this paragraph. I was almost an English major. Words are important to me. Next, it was the first Christmas I’ve had in several years where we had no particular reason to celebrate; the person who dragged our reluctant Jewish family into Christmas isn’t in our lives anymore, and I feel that loss keenly. I tried to cram myself full of Christmas candy and fatten myself on Egg Nog just the same, but it wasn’t the same. It was sad. There’s the ongoing stress of family medical problems to manage. Some days it seems like all I do is email therapists. Christmas Day itself was a little bit festive, until it wasn’t. In the afternoon I received some unexpected and disheartening news which required me to pivot hard and fast, come up with alternate plans, be creative when I felt my back against the wall [https://buttondown.email/woe/archive/woe-15-how-to-be-creative-when-your-backs-against/]. And finally, finally, the cherry on top of all this, our beloved family cat has a kidney that has reached the end of its life, perhaps in solidarity with classic Blackberry devices, also end-of-lifed this week. [https://www.nytimes.com/2022/01/03/technology/personaltech/blackberry-devices-stop-working.html] The other kidney, we’re told, is working as hard as it can. This week we’ll go learn to give the cat subcutaneous fluids, assuming the animal hospital remains staffed. This week I make more phone calls and send more emails and fill out more forms and have more zooms, and try I to remember that all this work I’m doing, this caregiving, is real labor. I am not underemployed, I am busy doing labor that doesn’t count. I work, I am working, I work every day. As far as the economy goes, however, I barely exist. So it’s been tough. Sometimes I just lie down on the floor wherever I am in the apartment and cry, and one of the kids will ask if I’m okay. “I’m tired,” I say. I am just so, so tired. New Year’s Eve was lackluster. For 2021 I had the energy to dress up, at least. I did photo shoots for Instagram all evening, for 2021. For 2022, I did not change out of my cashmere sweatpants. We didn’t even open the champagne. I had a headache and went to bed before midnight. On Sunday the 2nd of January, however, I went owling with my friend Rachel. We went up to Plum Island in hopes of seeing a Snowy Owl. Rachel is a birder and she had read that some Snowy Owls had been spotted on Plum Island, which was unusual. I’m not a birder myself but it seems to me that birders know a thing or two about hope. They travel long distances and wait patiently in any weather on the mere whisper of a hope that they will have a powerful encounter with a bird. We got up far too early for my taste and drove over an hour to meet up with Rachel on Plum Island. On our way in we paid $5 to a man in a tollhouse, and he asked us why we’d come out there on this cold and rainy January morning. “A friend said we might see a Snowy Owl,” I told the man. “Well, you might,” he said. “And you might not.” As it turned out, the owl was already waiting for us. We pulled into the first parking lot and went to the bathroom, and as I came out of the bathroom a woman with a tripod and the longest camera lens I’d ever seen overheard me wondering if we would see an owl and said to me “yes, she’s just sitting on the boardwalk railing up there,” and indeed, she was. We walked up to where the other bird people were watching the owl. She sat on the railing at the top of the sand dune. There was a cold, light rain. We could see the ocean, dark and choppy, and the wet beach, and the dunes, and the moss and the lichen glowing green against the sand and the golden grasses against the gray sky, but most of all we could see the owl. She sat there turning her head around and around in that always-uncanny way owls do, scanning the dunes. She didn’t seem worried about the humans and our extra-long eyepieces. Her own eyes were piercing and her gaze was calm. We were breathless, though, and trembling. You might even say we were overcome with awe. If I were Mary Oliver I would have written a poem about it, and who knows, maybe I still will. Later when we got home I remembered an Emily Dickinson poem [https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/42889/hope-is-the-thing-with-feathers-314], known as “Hope is the thing with feathers (314)”. Since her copyright has run out I can quote it to you in full: “Hope” is the thing with feathers - That perches in the soul - And sings the tune without the words - And never stops - at all - And sweetest - in the Gale - is heard - And sore must be the storm - That could abash the little Bird That kept so many warm - I’ve heard it in the chillest land - And on the strangest Sea - Yet - never - in Extremity, It asked a crumb - of me. Now, I know hope doesn’t always show up for an appointment the way that owl showed up for us. Sometimes we have to go seek it out. Sometimes we have to work for it. Sometimes we have to wait, hoping for hope [https://buttondown.email/woe/archive/woe-10-wait-wait-wait/]. Sometimes we need other people to lend us some of their hope. But I do believe, as Dickinson writes, that hope never stops singing, and if we keep showing up for it, if we keep listening, we will find it always shows up for us. Hope shows up as a sparrow or a starling, as a robin or an owl. It shows up when someone drops off 100 N95 masks for the teachers at their child’s public school, and when someone volunteers at the food bank and when a friend drops by with a spare pulse oximeter and when a veterinarian takes 45 minutes at 7pm on New Year’s Eve to call you up and talk to you about your cat’s kidneys. You can find hope in books, in music, in your favorite webcomic and sometimes even on your least favorite social media site. Sometimes strangers shine with it. Sometimes it’s that one lone striker in the pouring rain holding down the picket line for their coworkers. You might hear hope in prayer or meditation or in gospel music or in the psalms, you might find it when someone sends you a thank you note at exactly the moment you most need some thanks, or you might find it when you are hiding from your family in your closet on a zoom call with a friend, just breathing together. I think that breathing together with other people is a wonderful way to nurture hope. Probably that’s part of why singing together feels so good. The upshot of this line of thinking is that the future must include a lot of karaoke. Look, like I said last week [https://www.amywriteswords.com/p/admitting-you-need-help-not-the-hardest-part], we have here a world that is too hard to live in, even for the most privileged among us. We have to change. We have to change because the climate crisis is here, because the gospel of perpetual growth is suicidal, because this world we have is wearing us all down and grinding us up and it’s doing the same thing to our children. I have two teenage children and it is absolutely clear to me that the most important thing I can do for them right now is teach them how to hope. We have to teach our children how to hope, and we do it by listening hard for hope ourselves, by lighting it and tending it and sharing it with one another. On the way home from the encounter with the owl my phone buzzed me to record my mood. I felt Good, I noticed. I hardly ever feel good. In all of 2021 I recorded 1003 individual mood scores, averaging 3 a day. Only 122 (12%) of those were Good. But I went on a cold wet morning with people I love and a sliver of hope that I would see something miraculous, and I walked on the earth and I was quiet and I did see something miraculous, and it made me feel good, it brought me joy, it filled me up, and I know that I need to do this again, and again, and again. We all do. In 2022, let’s listen together for the song of the hope that perches in our souls. And when we hear it, let’s sing it. I don’t just mean sing. I mean live in the world like singing. Borrow the song if you have to, share it if you can. There’s a whole lot of hard right now and a whole lot of hard coming, and we need all that stuff some folks seem to think belongs only to the religious, or only to a certain religion, or only to people who live in the country or only to people who don’t do drugs or only to people who lift themselves up by their own bootstraps, only to a certain kind of person — but it doesn’t. Hope belongs to every single one of us, including all of us who have been running ourselves ragged for years for our Families and our Careers and hardly know anymore if we have anything left that isn’t all of that. Anything left that isn’t just Operational, that isn’t Exhaustion, that isn’t Complicity or Security or our desperate late-night Consumption as Self-Care. We do have something else. We have hope. Hope is not Annual Recurring Revenue and it’s not Stock Options and it’s not a Series C and it’s not an IPO and it’s not RSUs and it’s not TC: 400k [https://sfist.com/2021/12/28/doordash-engineers-furious-they-have-to-deliver-food-once-a-month/]. It’s not Ritalin or Concerta, it’s not Lexapro or Abilify. You can’t mint it as an NFT or mine it like crypto. You can’t earn it. It’s not VP. It’s not CTO. It’s not a Competency Matrix or a Performance Review or a QBR or an OKR. It’s not Observability or ChatOps. It is not a new Team Collaboration Tool, now with Kanban View. It is not a new at-home blood test or a chatbot that teaches you CBT. It is not any kind of business thing at all. Hope, like Soylent Green [https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Soylent_Green], is mostly made of People. And also, sometimes, Owls. Let’s all sing more of it this year. Did you like this newsletter? Why not share it? or subscribe to it? Subscribing, especially with money, is a great way to sing hope my direction. You could also just hit reply and tell me something about what you read and what it meant to you. I like that too. Also, if you like my writing why not check out the private beta (private = only people who read this far in my newsletters will find out about it) of my newest writing project, Amy Writes Poems [https://amywritespoems.substack.com/p/about-amy-writes-poems], which a critic recently called “An Exciting Addition to the Amy Verbs Nouns Cinematic Universe”. This week’s poem GOES WITH THIS WEEK’S NEWSLETTER [https://amywritespoems.substack.com/p/thing-with-feathers]! If you feel like maybe you’re going crazy don’t forget to subscribe to Woe [https://buttondown.email/woe]too. Finally, Rubyconf recently released the video of the talk I gave there, about Debugging Product Teams [https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=38ClEqnx3tY]. Check it out. If you have a product team you need help debugging, why not ask me about my coaching [https://amynewell.com/engineering-career-leadership-coaching/] or consulting services? Finally finally, I’m looking for someone who can help me with a book proposal. Please smash that reply button and let me know if you can help here. Get full access to Amy Writes Words at www.amywriteswords.com/subscribe [https://www.amywriteswords.com/subscribe?utm_medium=podcast&utm_campaign=CTA_4]

4. jan. 2022 - 17 min
episode Area Woman Reveals Shocking Secret: Admitting you need help not, in fact, the hardest part cover

Area Woman Reveals Shocking Secret: Admitting you need help not, in fact, the hardest part

Like my most recent newsletter, about how to be creative when your back’s against the wall [https://www.amywriteswords.com/p/when-your-backs-against-the-wall], this is another shared issue between woe and amy writes words. I’m doing this for two reasons. First, I’m guessing there are folks subscribed to amy writes words but not to woe because they don’t identify as mentally ill, but actually two years into the mass trauma that has been the pandemic, we are well into the epidemic of mental illness that the public health experts have been raising alarms about since the beginning. By which I mean: whether or not you have a diagnosed mental illness, at this point you are very likely to be, in technical terms, losing your s**t. So, maybe you also want to subscribe to woe [http://buttondown.email/woe], which is explicitly focused on living through losing your s**t. At least check out the archives [https://buttondown.email/woe/archive] and see if there’s anything there that looks useful. Second, one newsletter issue a week is easier than two and, well, I’m pretty pressed right now, so here’s the one newsletter. If you subscribe to both woe and amywriteswords, then this week I give you the special double-subscriber bonus that I have sent you only one newsletter you do not have the time or attention span to read. (Yeah, the newsletter is too long. I need to edit better but I’m too damn tired and I guess I’d rather give you too many words some of which might be helpful and some repetitive vs. no words at all, which is the other option. I’m tired. I follow proudly in Blaise Pascal’s footsteps on this one.) Now for the tip: Admitting you need help is not, in fact, the hardest part. Sorry to be a bummer but for most of us it is simply not true that the hardest part of mental illness is the part where you admit you need help. This is a Hollywood storyline that makes great after-school specials and dramatic moments in gritty dramas, but it is not how things work in real life. I know this because I have admitted I needed help about seven thousand times in my life and all of those times were easier than about seven million other things that have come with my mental illness. The time I lost a dear friend because I was absolutely bonkers nuts in their direction. The time I was involuntarily committed. Waiting two months for ketamine infusions through a fog of suicidal depression while working full time as a director of engineering, and then when I finally got around to the part where I paid six thousand dollars and got the damn infusions they helped, but they weren’t any kind of miracle, just like the ECT helped but it wasn’t any kind of miracle, just like all the meds have sometimes helped and never been any goddamn miracle, just like meditation helped and has never been a miracle and praying fervently helped but it did not bring about a f*****g miracle. Admitting you need help is not some kind of f*****g miracle. On TeeVee, when someone realizes they haven’t left the bed for two months and admits they need help, there’s a simple and easy trajectory to wellness or recovery or whatever kind of sappy end-state the TeeVee writers are aiming for. Admitting you need help really is the hardest part on TeeVee because therapists are easy to find, everyone has health insurance, the first med you try works like magic and never stops working and doesn’t have any terrible side effects, and there are no external factors influencing your level of stress or ability to cope in life. In real life the other day my younger child rushed into my bedroom wailing “I need help!” and sat down on the bed in desperation, and the only thing I had to offer them was a joke. I knew they needed help. They’ve been almost continuously depressed and suffering from crippling anxiety for the entirety of the pandemic, and they’d been on meds for a year or so prior to that. I knew they needed help because they’d already been through a partial hospitalization program and they were failing all their classes and they could hardly make it through a single school day without escaping to the social worker’s office. I knew they needed help because we’d spoken several times about whether and when inpatient hospitalization would be something for us to consider, and because we were in the middle of getting them an IEP, and because many afternoons when I picked them up from school they got into the car sobbing with exhaustion. “Oh,” I said, “now that you’ve asked for the help, finally, let me just pull the real help out from under the bed here.” Reader, they laughed, because we do a lot of dark humor in this household. Everyone needs humor, and a lot of the time dark is all we’ve got, so dark humor it is. I first asked for help from my third-grade teacher. Later, my first year of college, I asked for help from my university health services and then later I asked for help specifically from university mental health services in the form of medication and then two weeks after I started the medication I went to the health services urgent care again asking for help because I’d started cutting myself with an exacto knife, and then when I graduated from college and lost my health insurance and my doctors and my meds, about two months in to lying in bed surrounded by half-empty coke cans and dirty clothes and cigarette butts I finally called the man who I later married and asked for help finding a psychiatrist and then I asked my parents for help paying for the psychiatrist. Later I asked for help from a manager filing for a medical leave and then I did it another time and then I went searching for other kinds of help and I asked for help from coworkers and from friends and from babysitters, and even from my dental hygienist, who has for over a decade never cleaned my teeth in December without quietly comforting me while I cry for no reason at all, except that it’s December. I suppose you could maybe make a case that the hardest thing is asking for help like that again, and again, and again. But I don’t think that it’s exactly the asking that is the hard part there. The actual asking gets easier the more you do it. Never easy, because nothing about this is easy, but easier. I think what remains hard is maintaining faith that there is help, especially when you know through long and bitter experience that none of it, none of it, will be a miracle. Generally speaking when I have believed some treatment to be a miracle I wasn’t cured, I was just manic. This is supposed to be a tip and instead I feel like I’m just being a downer. I dunno, maybe you got a miracle. Sometimes you read about a guy who had some kind of weird amino acid deficiency and they just take one supplement and they are all better and then they are like “THANK GOD I WASN’T ACTUALLY MENTALLY ILL! IT WAS JUST A SIMPLE NUTRITIONAL DEFICIENCY!” and those people can go f**k themselves acting like their easy-to-fix deficiency puts them safely in the “sane people” category. The people who are all “it’s just a simple neurotransmitter problem and Lexapro fixed it all, it’s not my fault!” are not quite as annoying since they don’t quite claim that this puts them squarely in the “sane” category. But, if you’re still insisting on firm boundaries between “sane normal person” and “lost their f*****g mind” well, that’s adorable and quaint, I guess, but not at all how brains work, and also annoying, and also not sure you noticed but the combination of the ongoing pandemic, the climate crisis, and encroaching fascism is causing all the sane people to jump the sanity shark and then guess what, those of us who already know how to lose our minds are now the experts you need to be listening to. Folks, I already owned a pulse oximeter. I already owned a pulse oximeter because I have been inventing apocalypses for myself for my entire life, and a pulse oximeter is one of the many tools I use to determine whether or not a particular health-related apocalypse is real. For example, I once believed a pill I swallowed had punctured my lung and I was slowly asphyxiating to death, and I spent an entire night in an ER with absolutely nothing wrong with me being convinced I was dying and composing last texts to my loved ones. The most hilarious thing about that was the pill was a Klonopin and the creepiest thing about it was that it turned out to be the same night a friend asphyxiated himself to death, and no it wasn’t a sex thing. He did it on purpose. Anyway I could have saved myself that entire ER trip (although not the aftermath of the suicide) if I’d had a pulse oximeter then, because if you’ve got a punctured lung your SpO2 will not be okay, and if your SpO2 is okay, you do not have a punctured lung. So if you feel like you’re losing your mind, and this is new for you, allow me to welcome you to team crazy. Although I don’t believe, like Thomas Szazs [https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Thomas_Szasz] and his associates, that all mental illness is caused by society’s ills and/or a conspiracy of evil psychiatrists and pharmaceutical companies, it’s obvious that even before the pandemic we humans had made a world that was just too damn hard to live in, even for the most privileged among us, and now it’s harder still and there are some externalities that don’t seem like they are likely to get easier anytime soon, so, yes, everyone is in fact losing their mind. Losing your mind is actually the sanest thing to do under the circumstances, a real-life Catch-22. It will be okay. You can actually survive losing your mind, I’ve been doing it all my life. Come on join me at this tea party and let me tell you what I know about this topic. Yes, if you come on over and sit down at the crazy table you will be implicitly admitting you need help, and yes, that could be hard, but don’t worry, it’s not the hardest part. To the extent that it is hard, by the way, that’s largely because the death cult we call late-stage capitalism requires us to buy into the mythology that we are all independent individuals who pull ourselves up by our own bootstraps and don’t need anyone else’s help. If we all believed that needing help was okay and that we’re all connected in community then we would perhaps agitate more aggressively for any kind of social safety net or universal health care or universal basic income or student debt relief or rent control or public transit. That way lies socialism! Socialism, I tell you! Yes, it’s true that lots of people maybe have been able to avoid asking for help in their lives, if they’ve held all the right privileges. They may have experience Demanding Service, yes, but not Asking for Help. But, as disability justice activists like to point out, if you’re not disabled now, well the chances are real good that someday you will be, because that’s how aging works. And even many of the most privileged people have found themselves needing to ask for help during this pandemic. Even so, even though asking for help puts us in the category of weak humans who need help rather than successful humans who are Winning, I still contend it’s not the hardest part. In this world, we all need help, right now, today. We’re all in this community breathing the same goddamn air and all its aerosolized virus together (even the Rage virus in 28 Days Later only spread through droplets, so this thing is arguably worse than the zombie apocalypse). So let’s just drop the angst over asking for help and move on to the actual hard part: this is just what reality is like right now, and it’s making us all crazy, and we have to live with that and figure out where to go from here, and do it again, and again, and again. I promise you this will be harder than merely asking for help. Asking for help produces no miracles. Asking for help is merely necessary, but it is heartbreakingly, lolcryingly insufficient. The good news though is we don’t have to do this alone. In fact, we can’t, and we should not. Falling for the belief that we have to do everything alone is part of what got us in this situation in the first place. The other good news is that to the extent that asking for help is difficult, and I never said it wasn’t, the more we work together in this moment and the next, to make a world that is a little bit more emotionally livable, even as it becomes, environmentally speaking, less livable, the more we will overcome the toxic mythology of individualism that is the reason we find it so difficult to ask for help in the first place. I will have more to say on this topic in the new year. In the meantime, I hope you’re resting. Losing your mind is extremely computationally intensive, so it’s normal to need a lot of rest and it’s important to get as much of it as you can. Finally, thank you for your attention. Happy New Year, Amy If you like this newsletter why not share it? or subscribe to it? If you like my writing why not check out the private beta (private = only people who read this far in my newsletters will find out about it) of my newest writing project, Amy Writes Poems [https://amywritespoems.substack.com/p/about-amy-writes-poems], which a critic recently called “An Exciting Addition to the Amy Verbs Nouns Cinematic Universe”. If you feel like maybe you’re going crazy don’t forget to subscribe to Woe [https://buttondown.email/woe]too. Finally, Rubyconf just released the video of the talk I gave there, about Debugging Product Teams [https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=38ClEqnx3tY]. Check it out. If you have a product team you need help debugging, why not ask me about my coaching [https://amynewell.com/engineering-career-leadership-coaching/] or consulting services? Actually, finally finally, I’m looking for someone who can help me with a book proposal. Please get in touch if you can help here. Get full access to Amy Writes Words at www.amywriteswords.com/subscribe [https://www.amywriteswords.com/subscribe?utm_medium=podcast&utm_campaign=CTA_4]

28. des. 2021 - 17 min
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