My struggle to define success

While trying to feed myself a subpar dinner, I almost burned down my apartment building.

For months, I have been revisiting the same nearly complete blog post. It resides in my email draft folder—waiting, lurking. Every time I consider publishing it, I stop myself. 

Its topic: Success.

Part of me is turned off by the idea of success—if I consider myself “successful,” won’t I just become complacent?

Part of me is lured in by it—if I consider myself “successful,” won’t that be an indication that I feel fulfilled by my daily life?

I don’t think this internal dichotomy is uncommon, especially among 20-somethings…or dare I even write the dreaded term millennials…but in my day-to-day I don’t often encounter in-depth discussions focused on defining success and analyzing how it pertains our decisions.

My unpublished piece is a critique of a popular news outlet’s BuzzFeed-style listicle about how “successful” people spend their weekends. The listicle’s main premise is that weekends should be reserved for “me time” and passion projects. My argument against that is essentially that success shouldn’t mean doing something you hate every weekday so you can spend the weekends doing what you love (which describes the vibe I got from the listicle); rather, I claim success should mean taking care of yourself and doing something you love every day, and finding a way to live off of that.

And I know, that’s extraordinarily easy to say and immensely more difficult to practice. What’s held me back from hitting that daunting publish button is doubt in my own argument and whether I’m actually practicing what I preach (don’t hate me for this cliché; it’s just too fitting to resist). 

As I type this from the heart of Midtown, guzzling endless cups of tea and coffee to keep my sleep-deprived brain marginally more functional, I ponder my definition and whether my life reflects it. I have spent the last week temporarily doing someone else’s full-time job, while freelancing during mornings and evenings, and working part-time on the weekend (gotta love the Brooklynite’s freelance hustle). 

“Me time” has meant me knocking out from exhaustion in the early hours of the morning, clutching pints of Halo Top or cups of Yogi tea that by some miracle haven’t yet spilled on my laptop (plus facilitating the rescue of a 35-pound raccoon from an eight-foot barbed wire fence and almost burning down my apartment—see photo above—but those are stories for another time). 

As I contemplate my upcoming career and location decisions, I wonder what will be required of me to pursue my passions. I wonder whether I truly want to solidify my currently dubious definition of success, or just keep chasing it; I wonder whether concretely defining success for myself will actually guide me to becoming successful by my own measure; I wonder whether continuous personal growth requires us to allow our individual definitions of success to constantly evolve, and if so, how to navigate that.

With this unsettled definition to consider (not to mention all my swirling thoughts about where I want to live and work), I struggle to determine whether my daily choices are truly enhancing my skills and aligning with my career goals—i.e. paving a path to success.

So, I put these questions to you, internet dwellers:

1. How do you define success?

2. How does passion interact with your definition of success?

Exploring identity formation in the Land of Selfies

A screenshot of my Instagram profile

Hi, everyone… (As you should expect at this point), it’s been a while since I’ve shared my thoughts here. I’ve spent the past few months getting acclimated to a semi-crazy schedule working two jobs (both of which I love) in Manhattan. Inspired by a recent conversation with a colleague, I have decided to give myself a writing prompt each week. If I come up with something (even remotely) publishable, I will post it here; if not, I will table the topic and consider revisiting it later…

Lately I’ve been thinking about why I love Instagram (beyond the vain indulgence of capturing that rare, stellar selfie). While recently chatting with a friend at work, I explained that I enjoy Instagram more than most social media because on Instagram people less frequently post awful statements that make me want to unfriend/unfollow them (I’m looking at you, Trump supporters). I don’t consider myself a super skilled photographer, but I love that Instagram allows me to share snapshots of my life with friends and followers, especially through its connection to platforms like Twitter and Facebook. On Instagram, I follow friends, family, foodies, fitness experts, fashion designers, public figures, politicians, artists, musicians, and news outlets. Beyond my love for an app that could be called the Land of Selfies, I am intrigued by how social media both shapes and reflects identity, as well as its impact on how we socialize.

Our social media selves are intentional; they are simultaneously reflections of how we see ourselves and who we want to be. I have frequently encountered arguments that this is a fundamental flaw of social media, but I think that it is actually one of its beauties. Whether our social media profiles accurately capture our personalities is based on our individual capacities for reflection, but ultimately, I think it’s a safe bet that most of us idealize ourselves online at least occasionally. We may present idealized or censored versions of ourselves (even unintentionally), but in doing so we are setting goals, and in an accountable way. We are declaring to friends and family: this is who I am.

The space between who we are in person and online—the space between who we are and who we want to be—offers room for personal growth, if we can force ourselves to see and interact with that space.

Social media allows us to explore our identities in a public sphere, but also from a certain comfort zone—with our computer screens serving as buffers. I want to take a moment to acknowledge how incredibly empowering that can be (before I complain about its downfalls). It affirms the (supremely simplified) speeches many of us encountered in elementary school: “You can be anything you want to be.” Now, as we transition to adulthood, we learn that phrase is untrue for a myriad of reasons…but, we can always improve upon ourselves, and our idealizations of ourselves often come alive in our online profiles. Now I am by no means advocating for lying about passions or personal details online; I’m just speaking from my own experience: establishing a public identity that often displays the ideal picture of me encourages me to be better—strive to fully match that public persona; strive to become my best self.

That being said, there are issues that can arise in this idealization process, which can be exacerbated by our friends and followers’—or even strangers’—interactions with our posts. Social media is often used to demonstrate and reinforce social norms that can be damaging and/or limiting—e.g. In an interview with NY Magazine’s Rebecca Traister, Fusion‘s Collier Meyerson noted: “But I’m not immune to the pressures of marriage or the stain of singlehood. And the place I most experience this pressure is on Facebook.”

This resonated with me. I am immensely irritated by social media posts that tell me—directly or indirectly—what makes me a person, or a woman; what my relationship status should be; what I must have or achieve to be considered successful. I make a very conscious effort to set my own goals and define success for myself, but seeing those judgmental or limiting ideas presented as societal standards online can be tricky to navigate. Social media can expose us to new ideas or individuals, but it also opens up our identities to public scrutiny. If social media has a fatal flaw, I think it’s that it allows us to attack each others’ identities from a distance—from behind the computer screen buffer—lessening the amount of shame we may otherwise feel for imposing our unsolicited judgement or personal standards on others.

Social media has the potential to be a vehicle for self-expression and sharing powerful ideas, but so often we use it to spread undue judgment and hateful comments. I am not calling for the policing of posts for constant positivity or a lack of strong opinions—let’s all remember I work in journalism, which means I often spend my days wading through tragic and/or controversial news—but this personal exploration of why I like Instagram better than other social media has renewed my sense of mindfulness about what I share about myself, especially online.

Like the clothes or makeup I choose to wear (I’ll spare you my anti-uniform rant, for now), my website, my résumé, my work as a journalist…my social media platforms represent both who I am and who I want to be. I see my accounts as opportunities to share myself with others. By being more mindful of what I share, I am practicing a mindfulness about what I believe, what I desire, and how I engage with people.

So, I am giving myself a challenge, and anyone is welcome to join me: I will strive to be mindful, as well as genuine, honest, and compassionate, in my public presentation of myself on the internet. I will use social media to share stories and ideas that strike me as powerful, profound, or positive. I will use my profiles to attempt to honestly reflect myself, but also to hold myself accountable to that reflection, in an effort to constantly improve upon the person I am.

(I will also continue to take selfies and love Instagram because it shows me photos—both of beauty and suffering—that are brief but fantastic bursts of life.)

Note: The second-to-last paragraph is adapted from a personal mission statement I recently wrote for myself, inspired by an awesome interview with Julianne Hough. If you have an hour to devote to a provocative and motivating discussion about developing a personal definition of success, then this interview is definitely worth watching.

What I have to say about The Unspeakable

The Unspeakable by Meghan Daum (Photo courtesy of http://www.meghandaum.com)

Since I’m still jobless (Potential employers, if you’re reading this, here’s a link to my résumé. Please hire me.), I am back to blogging about books I’ve read for fun. One of the most miraculous post-grad discoveries I’ve made thus far is that unemployment and lack of homework allow me to read for pure enjoyment. It’s incredible. As a born-again bookworm, I have realized how vital leisurely reading is to maintaining a high level of happiness with my life.

I’ll admit it: the number one reason I picked up this book is that a reviewer compared her writing to that of Joan Didion. While I won’t go so far as to call Meghan Daum the next Didion, The Unspeakable is well written, honest and enjoyable. I laughed out loud; I related to the narrator. Reading it, I felt as if we were having a long conversation — a telltale sign of a good writer in my not-so-humble opinion. I found myself captivated by her tales of growing up and finding herself; making major life decisions, especially with regard to marriage and parenthood; and confessions such as not being a foodie, which resonated with me and my inability to achieve #domesticgoddess status despite a newfound love of The Food Network and HGTV.

Daum even made me briefly reconsider my instinctual rejection of Los Angeles, which is no small feat – just ask my LA-bound college friends. She also made me consider the acts of reading and writing memoirs, and on a broader scale, why we write.

In May, I wrapped up my final semester of college, during which I was enrolled in the most challenging course I have ever taken. It wasn’t that content was difficult, though making sense neo-Lacanians and higher ed pedagogy is not at all easy; it was emotionally challenging.

Around mid-March I asked to meet with the professor. I was struggling with the course; I dreaded each class meeting and watched the clock intently, silently counting down the minutes until 5:15 p.m. As someone who has always loved school, this was new to me. Even suffering through a semester of calculus in high school wasn’t as painful as the mid-semester class meetings for this course. Before my meeting with the professor, I bought a cup of coffee at the library. My nerves got the better of me and I spilled the coffee instead of drinking it. I was bursting with anxiety when we sat down in his small, cluttered office. He asked how I was – how my semester was going. It took me months to understand why I almost immediately started to cry.

His question – his concern for me – was genuine, which was shocking to me. I have found that when most people ask “How are you?” they don’t really mean it. They often don’t want to hear about your sickly relative or unemployment or money problems. They want to hear that you’re happy and healthy – that all is well. Somehow, real life has become too uncomfortable to talk about. That’s why my mother consistently reminds me not to discuss politics, sex or religion before we leave the house for holiday dinners with our extended family.

One of the key points of this professor’s course was to interrogate the question “Why do we write?” Based on Daum’s collection of essays, I suspect she writes to answer “How are you?” a bit more honestly than many of us are used to. Throughout the book she skips the small talk and invites the reader to take a look at her real story and taboo topics that we often avoid in day-to-day conversation. The course challenged me to do the same, and my dedication to doing so is a major reason why I enjoyed Daum’s writing so much. Telling her truth takes a lot of courage, but she does it well. She doesn’t leave things unsaid.

Next up: Tina Fey’s Bossypants and How To Be A Woman by Caitlin Moran. In May I was in the midst of a feminist rampage and ended up on Amazon. I justified the purchases by reminding myself that there are much more reckless ways of dealing with my pro-woman rage and doing damage to my bank account than by adding to my already overflowing bookshelf.

Update: I finished Bossypants on my way to New York and loved it. Before I read Moran’s book, I’ve started Thrive by Arianna Huffington. Clearly I’m still in my memoirs-written-by-successful-women phase. I suspect I’ll need some fiction soon! 

Magical thinking & other lessons Didion taught me

Author Joan Didion. Photo from Goodreads profile.

The Year of Magical Thinking is not something I can fully put into words. Reading it is a truly humbling experience. It is more than just a book; it allows for a deep examination of the human mind in a troubled state.

One of the most marvelous abilities of Didion is that she forces the reader to strongly consider the shallowness of sanity (see p. 7). This book is a lesson in survival, but not the Boy Scout kind. It made my life flash before my eyes — past, present, and future. It forced me to be introspective. I laughed aloud at points, but also had to set the book aside to avoid tears. It is so human, almost too human, too real, but also too good to not read.

Her tale is deeply personal and reflective. I read the first couple chapters a few months ago, for a college course, and I was motivated to write about my own life because of it. A mark of a talented writer is the ability to inspire other writers. In that regard, I aspire to be like Joan Didion. It was a true test of my will that I was able to put the book on hold until I finished final exams.

Thematically, The Year of Magical Thinking explores loss, grief and mourning. I’d often seen the latter two as one in the same, but she writes, “Grief was passive. Grief happened. Mourning, the act of dealing with grief, required attention” (p.143). She is writing to understand her own grief, and notes examples from literature, popular culture and religion that resonate with her, such as, “I think I am beginning to understand why grief feels like suspense. It comes from the frustration of so many impulses that had become habitual,” as C.S. Lewis wrote.

I found myself relating to her not only through her grief, but also through personality. She writes,

Why do you always have to be right.

Why do you always have to have the last word.

For once in your life just let it go (p. 141).

These questions are asked by others, but echo in her mind. They also stand as barriers to working through the loss of her husband. They made me consider what other barriers are built from this level of perfectionism — this need to constantly remain what she calls “a cool customer.”

In a moment of chaos, she writes,

“I wondered what an uncool customer would be allowed to do. Break down? Require sedation? Scream?” (p. 16).

Like Didion, I also write to discover my own thoughts. She asks, “Was it only by dreaming or writing that I could find out what I thought?” (p. 162). For me, I’ve found the answer is often “yes.” She also writes, “I am a writer. Imagining what someone would say or do comes to me as naturally as breathing” (p. 196). It is so rare to find someone recognizing the conversations we all play out in our heads. But especially writers, those with wild imaginations, allow it to happen constantly. It’s a feeling I know well. One of the most incredible elements of this book is that she truly lays out her mind in paper and ink. She’s not capturing her thoughts to be controlling. In a way, it seems writing is one of the only ways she lets herself lose control; writing allows her to be free.

Didion also reminded me that even the littlest of details can stay with you forever:

“His eyes. His blue eyes. His imperfect blue eyes” (p. 40).