It bothers me that it bothers me.

So I figure it’s time to sit down and really find out why. I invite you to come along and discover with me, in real time as I write. Writing helps me figure out what I think, so I assume I will reach a conclusion by the time I’m done with this essay.

My backstory

Several health professionals have suggested I may have ADHD, and that seeking diagnosis could help. I won’t get into the details or the traits I have that would possibly indicate ADHD, because I don’t want to come off as reductive. I’m also not an expert. I respect the professional process of getting diagnosed, and that not all ADHD looks the same. Diagnosis also looks different in other parts of the world. (I am in the U.S., for context.)

ADHD has High Heritability

Both my parents have been diagnosed and one takes medication for it. Studies estimate that ADHD has a heritability of 74% to 88%, making it one of the most heritable neurodevelopmental conditions.12

So, is it likely that I would receive that diagnosis? Not necessarily, but there is certainly good reason to take the possibility seriously.

However, I have never sought diagnosis, and it’s unlikely that I will.

Why not seek a diagnosis?

Hoo boy, there is a lot to untangle here.

First I want to acknowledge that for many people (many close to me), a diagnosis can be (and has been) life-changing. It gives them access to support and effective medication. It explains the frustrating and/or debilitating aspects of themselves that were previously big question marks.

I cannot speak for these friends and family, but I respect their struggle and fully support them in their personal mental health journeys.

Anyway, after a lot of angst, many writing sessions, and several helpful conversations with others…here are my own hesitancies, as they pop into my head:

I don’t want to pursue a diagnosis simply because therapeutic or medical professional has suggested I do so.

Hey, I respect professionals. To a point. There are some amazing ones out there, and some pretty gosh darn awful ones. There are many times I’ve been misled or been given completely false information. A misdiagnosis can do a lot of damage.

I’ve learned to do my own research and not take all advice at face value.

I wonder if some of my potential ADHD traits could actually be explained by other things.

I don’t want to medicalize traits that may just be part of who I am. I question where the line is between “different” and “disordered.” Yes, there are professionals whose entire job is to help define that line. But sometimes they get it wrong, or don’t see the full picture.

I don’t want to retrospectively explain every struggle I’ve ever had with ADHD.

I don’t want to erase other explanations for my experiences. I don’t want my history to become a diagnosis instead of a story. I also don’t want to diminish my past environments as a factor.

As said in his recent review on The Great ADHD Myth?,

“I function very differently depending on where you put me.”

Environment matters. But how much of it is that, and how much of it is inherently me? There are parts of my life where my lack of functioning well was definitely due to the stressful environment I was in.

I’m wary of the cultural movement around ADHD.

I tend to be skeptical of mass cultural movements. They start with good intentions, but sometimes take on a life of their own and veer completely off the rails.

I recognize that there is enormous cultural conversation around ADHD right now. Some of it is amazing, educational, and incredibly helpful. Though I do wonder how many are genuinely recognizing something about themselves or are being influenced by the framework that’s currently everywhere.

Self-diagnosis is also on the rise, and this muddies the waters tremendously.

A national survey conducted by the behavioral healthcare network LifeStance Health found that 29% of all American adults have self-diagnosed a mental health condition based strictly on information they saw online.3

Research examining the 100 most popular ADHD videos on TikTok found that 52% were misleading, 27% consisted of personal experiences, and only 21% were considered useful.4

I’m also aware of actual professionals diagnosing people with ADHD without a rigorous evaluation (experiences of friends and family).

I just want to be really careful.

I wonder what I would actually gain from having the diagnosis.

I’ve spent so many years being me, and learning coping tools in therapy, I’ve already figured out ways to compensate for my difficulties. I’ve built systems and coping mechanisms that allow me to function generally well. So I’m not sure that I need the additional help and support at this point.

Would a diagnosis explain a lot? Yes, it would. But I’m not sure I need that. Not everything about me needs an explanation.

And last but not least:

I am extremely wary of medications.

I’ve had my own experiences with various medications, including one I was on for GAD (Generalized Anxiety Disorder) decades ago, a diagnosis I was given but hadn’t sought. The medication helped. I also had some scary side effects. I took it for a year, then weaned myself off. It was good for me at the time.

I know there are medications around mental health that are literally life saving. I acknowledge this. I also acknowledge that the pharmaceutical industry doesn’t necessarily have a squeaky clean record of good intent or ethical practices.5
In any case, I am very cautious of medications.

⚡️WE INTERRUPT THIS ESSAY WITH A MASSIVE MIGRAINE ⚡️

Now, I’m feeling really sick. And I have a long history with these migraine episodes so I know it’s not just a migraine. It’s never just a migraine.

So have a cold pack on my head now and I’m asking myself even harder questions, even though I’m in a lot of pain, because as is my lifelong experience, my body is trying to tell me something and I want to allow the feelings to work through, or the migraine will get worse.

What is underneath it? Why am I getting a migraine while writing this??

What is bothering me so much???

OH.

…Maybe I don’t want to be in the same category as my parents.

Yeah. This one just hit me.

I spent so much of my life trying to “fix,” and then get away from, the things that plagued my parents.

I could never “fix things” as a kid, and this caused me a tremendous amount of angst.

Accepting an ADHD diagnosis would feel like admitting defeat. That it’s all unfixable. That I’m unfixable. And if I’m in the same category with them, we are just a big pile of broken people with no hope.

Wow.

Welp. Wasn’t expecting THAT conclusion.

These are the feelings that came out. And made me cry while writing this.

Disclaimer: those are not my feelings toward anyone who has ever been diagnosed with ADHD. These are thoughts arising from a wounded inner child in relation to my family.

Well, I’m not sure what I’ll do with that information. I might not do anything. But at least my angst related to the Why is gone, now that I’ve identified it. I’ll just sit with that for a while.

Thanks for coming along in my self-discovery journey, and for making it this far.

I’ll show myself out.

⚘

Hi, I’m Katie, the writer behind Pshaw. I write about the ridiculous business of being a person, and occasionally questioning why we’re doing any of this in the first place.

A completely reasonable amount of introspection, delivered to your inbox.

I’m in ✨

New here?

I’m tired.

I barely have the bandwidth for this…but also, I have so. many. words. to. say.

Here is my original note and the reply:

I was, understandably, delighted to receive this unsolicited performance review.

Yes, it’s true that I spent a large part of 18 years in therapy. But this stranger’s comment on that fact kept bothering me, and not just because a stranger on the internet had diagnosed my therapy history from a couple sentences.

It was the assumption(s) underneath it.

(This image is what the comment felt like to me, not representative of me retaliating haha.)

There are SO many assumptions a person would have to make in order for the stranger’s comment to make sense:

• If something has taken 18 years, it must not be working

• Therapy is supposed to have an endpoint

• Therapy should show measurable progress

• No progress has been made on my part

• No goals have been achieved on my part

• I should eventually not need any professional support

• Needing something for a long time means it isn’t working

• The money spent on it was wasted

• If I’m spending 18 years on something, I should have something impressive or with more perceived value to show for it

• A degree (3x over!) is a better use of 18 years than therapy

• There is an acceptable amount of time you are allowed to spend working through trauma and figuring yourself out

I could go on, but frankly I don’t have the energy.

Not everything is measurable or has an endpoint

We are used to asking:

• What’s the goal?

• What’s the outcome?

• How long will it take?

• How will we know it’s working?

• What’s the ROI?

• When will it be done?

• When will it be FIXED?

And those questions make sense for some things. But when applying them to a human being, they become…less practical.

Therapy for me is not: I go to therapy > I get fixed > I’m done, yay! Thank goodness I got THAT over with!

I’m not trying to fix me. I’m trying to improve. To learn. And there’s always more to learn. I am a person. Always changing, always learning. You don’t graduate from being a person.

And this attitude. We do this everywhere.

We turn:

exercise into optimization

hobbies into productivity

careers into growth

parenting into outcomes

relationships into compatibility

rest into recovery

life into progress

I spent years in business thinking like this

In my career, I operated on goal > strategy > execution > result over and over. Unfortunately I was also applying this to myself.

How much progress have I made?

Am I where I should be?

Shouldn’t I have figured this out by now?

Shouldn’t I have figured this out by now??

Why can’t I figure this out???

I AM A FAILURE IF I HAVEN’T FIGURED THIS OUT BY NOW!!

It’s a rough place to be, guys.

I understand why “18 years” sounds crazy

Look, I know 18 years sounds long. I’m aware. That’s why I poke fun at it in my original note. (And it’s not like I went every week for the entire span of those years.)

If you’re this stranger, 18 years sounds crazy long if you’re imagining therapy as a problem-solving project. Or something you’re “dependent on” (an additional sentiment a random user so generously contributed this morning).

But 18 years isn’t particularly long if you’re talking about a human being.

Humans beings are not projects to be optimized or problems to “fix”

I would have LOVED to not need therapy in the first place. I would have loved to be a well-adjusted adult with no childhood trauma whatsoever. I would have loved to have not dealt with poverty or abuse.

In addition, during that span of 18 years, I got divorced, went to school full time as a single parent of two young children, lost family members, navigated more abuse, and dealt with many crises. I needed support. And many of us are not blessed with built-in infrastructure for this.

I was fortunate to have found a great counselor. He was a better mentor, support, and role model than I have ever had in my entire life. And this measly paragraph doesn’t even come close to doing any of that justice.

You know why I mark it at 18 years? Because he passed away.

Last year.

⚘

Hi, I’m Katie, the writer behind Pshaw. I write about the ridiculous business of being a person, and occasionally questioning why we’re doing any of this in the first place.

A completely reasonable amount of introspection, delivered to your inbox.

I’m in ✨

New here?

You’ve probably been asked this at least 93852 times in business and elsewhere. And presumably we’re supposed to be able to answer this in measurable and reassuring detail.

Pshaw.1

I have a new proposal.

The Anti-5-Year Plan:

1. Plan to change your mind.
You don’t know what 5-years-later-you is going to want, or what circumstances they will be dealing with. Let’s not assign them things.

2. Be bad at stuff.
We do not need to optimize every gosh darn angle of our lives. Stop trying to reach your full potential all the time. Let yourself do things badly.

3. Spend time doing something completely useless.
Bonus points if you’re terrible at it. If you’re moderately good at it, resist the urge to turn it into a side hustle.

4. Quit something.
Five years is a long time to keep doing something just because you’ve already been doing it.

5. Intentionally waste time.
No learning. No productivity. No agenda. Actual wasted time.

6. Intentionally waste talents.
I said what I said. More on this here: I Intend to Waste Perfectly Good Talent. And You Should Too.

7. Define what enough looks like.
Otherwise you’ll spend five years moving a finish line. [insert image of Sisyphus pushing the boulder up the mountain]

8. Allow room for things you can’t possibly plan.
Some of the best things that happen in life are not planned. Well…also some of the worst. Either way, things happen.

Of course, I have no idea whether I’ll still agree with any of this in five years. That’s sort of the point.

⚘

Hi, I’m Katie, the writer behind Pshaw. I write about the ridiculous business of being a person, and occasionally questioning why we’re doing any of this in the first place.

A completely reasonable amount of introspection, delivered to your inbox.

I’m in ✨

New here?

You might like some of these:

*pushes up sleeves

Premise

Stranger Than Fiction is a beautifully layered, literary, cinematic, and musical masterpiece, released in 2006. I’m often surprised at how many people haven’t heard of it. So here I am, doing my duty to inform you about one of the most clever (and one of my favorite) movies.

Being about an author writing the main character of her story, the narrative and plot are the book. That’s what makes it so unique. Therefore, every line of the movie holds an extra special weight.

It is deliciously witty and clever.

The Cast

In addition to Will Ferrell, this movie has a star-studded lineup: Emma Thompson, Maggie Gyllenhaal, Dustin Hoffman, and Queen Latifah. Each are incredible as the characters they embody.

I’ve always loved Emma Thompson. Apparently when she got the script, she was immediately taken with it. She said she read only five pages before calling producer Lindsay Doran and said:

“I’ll do it.”

That is particularly amazing because Thompson is herself an Oscar-winning screenwriter, and the role is fundamentally about a writer facing the consequences of what she creates.

Dustin Hoffman said:

“I’m really proud of it, and I’ve only said that about three times during my career.”

Which is amazing considering he’d had quite an extensive career by 2006.

Will Ferrell is like you’ve never seen him before. Ferrell clearly understood that the main character, Harold, needed enormous restraint, which was the opposite of how he usually approaches roles. He described the role as requiring him to “just trust the material” rather than trying to insert comedy into every scene. And he was so good. His presentation feels genuine, innocent even. And he will move you.

The Screenplay

Zach Helm wrote the screenplay, and did an absolutely astounding job. There are layers of literary jokes everywhere. (I won’t list them because SPOILERS!)

And then there are the names, which are another fun little intellectual game. Helm named the major characters after mathematicians/scientists or scientifically influential artists: Harold Crick, Ana Pascal, Karen Eiffel, Professor Hilbert, Dr. Mittag-Leffler, Penny Escher.

There are so many fantastic lines. I quote this movie almost weekly, aloud and in my head.

The Cinematography

The cinematic language has the same purpose as the screenplay and soundtrack, which is part of why the movie feels so cohesive. (In case you haven’t seen it, I don’t want to give too much away here.)

The author of the movie gives Harold a literary narration. The graphics give him a visual narration. The soundtrack gives him an emotional narration. The movie is constantly translating his inner life into different languages, which is a beautiful representation of how different layers present in our own lives.

The Music Score

In addition to a writer, I am also a musician. So I pay close attention to the music in a movie. And this one has always felt particularly integrated to me. I only recently learned why.

Brian Reitzell put together the music with Britt Daniel of Spoon, and Reitzell said he was essentially “scoring the film with Spoon songs.” A lot of the Spoon material is used instrumentally in the film, so the songs function almost like an actual score.

If you like/are familiar with Spoon, here are some specifics: “Vittorio E,” “I Turn My Camera On,” “My Mathematical Mind,” “The Way We Get By.”

Plus they also used Wreckless Eric’s “Whole Wide World,” and Max Richter’s “On the Nature of Daylight” and “Horizon Variations.”

That’s a Wrap

A lot of care, love, and attention went into this movie by all involved, and you can feel it. The first time I watched it, I cried during several scenes. I am not a Movie Cryer.

Stranger Than Fiction is not just a clever premise. It’s a movie put together like a piece of literary criticism about the story you’re watching. It has heart. And I just eat that stuff up.

If you’re a writer, you probably will too.

⚘

Hi, I’m Katie, the writer behind Pshaw. I write about the ridiculous business of being a person, and occasionally questioning why we’re doing any of this in the first place.

A completely reasonable amount of introspection, delivered to your inbox.

I’m in ✨

New here?

You might enjoy these:

“How To Get a Thousand Followers In 2 Days!”

“I Made a Bajillion Dollars On Substack and You Can Too!”

and

“How I Grew My Substack From 0 to 93743 Subscribers In My Sleep!”

But…what if you’re looking for something just a little different? What if you wanna put in roughly the same amount of effort while achieving significantly less?

Good news.

After several months on Substack, I’ve developed a highly effective system for this.

I know you’re all chomping at the bit, excited for this one. So I’ll just dive in.

7 Ways to Grow Your Substack (Without All the Icky Growth)

1. Write the thing you actually want to write instead of the thing people clearly want to read.
   You can’t let things like “evidence” bring you down.

2. Ignore everything you know about marketing.
   Especially helpful if you spent a decade doing it professionally. *cough

3. Refuse to have a niche.
   Write about work. Then childhood. Then grief. Then a movie from 2006. Keep ‘em guessing.

4. Make sure your titles are either confusing or uninteresting.
   Otherwise people might actually click.

5. Post whenever the spirit moves you.
   The algorithm loves unpredictability. Probably.

6. Drastically change your profile picture weekly.
   We don’t want people actually recognizing us in the feed, do we?

7. Spend a significant amount of time reading other people’s Substacks instead of working on yours.
   Make sure you find someone brilliant who makes you feel like everything you’ve ever written is trash and you should just give up.

I hope this helps.

⚘

Hi, I’m Katie, the writer behind Pshaw. I write about the ridiculous business of being a person, and occasionally questioning why we’re doing any of this in the first place.

A completely reasonable amount of introspection, delivered to your inbox.

I’m in ✨

New here?

“Why wouldn’t you monetize what you’re good at? It’s just smart.”

So immediately I’m thinking, Oh, if I don’t figure out how to monetize my skills, is that not smart? Am I literally being irresponsible because I’m not taking advantage of an opportunity? Should I feel the same way he does?

And it’s not the first time I’ve heard that I should be monetizing a skill or passion.

I thought about it for weeks, chewing on it in the background, and came to this conclusion: I do not agree with his statement.

We cannot only see everything through the eyes of making money, optimizing, or networking. Why? Weh-eh-ell! Let me tell you.

*peers over glasses, whips out clipboard

Because there are too many strings attached. Too much pressure. We have the potential to lose our genuine connection to others. We turn play into performance. We become unable to waste time. We lose curiosity for its own sake. We can ruin the thing we love. We start seeing every thing as an opportunity to benefit us, rather than just seeing the thing. We lose our humanity.

And just for funsies, here are a few other catch phrases I heard constantly during my 13 years in marketing, which get under my skin:

• “Never give up” - Why? Some of the best decisions of my life involved giving up.

• “Follow your passion” - This assumes passion is a destination. My passions are constantly changing.

• “Work hard, play hard” - But sometimes I just want to work easy, and play easy.

• “If your dreams don’t scare you, they aren’t big enough” - There are so many things that scare me, why do I need to add my dreams to the list?

• “Say yes, and figure it out later” - this got me into a lot of trouble during my years as a marketing director.

• “Never settle” - Never? Really? At what point does not settling become an inability to be satisfied?

Oh man, I could go on and on. And each of these could be its own essay, to be honest. (Keep an eye on your inbox.)

Anyway, back to my original point about wasting potential. Whatever happened to people just being…people? Just existing? Doing a thing solely for the pure joy of it?

Some have called me a “generalist” or a “multi-passionate creative.” I have many skills, talents, many passions. I have spent a large chunk of time either monetizing them or wondering if I should monetize them. (Because apparently I’m wasting them if I’m not making money from them?)

I tell you what, this is not an enjoyable pass time. It’s an intense, anxious, pressure-y pass time. That is not how I want to spend my days.

I’ve spent enough years asking, “What could I turn this into?”

I’d like to spend more time asking, “Do I enjoy this?”

I know money is an important tool. And sometimes it needs to be prioritized. I’m not against monetizing. I’m just no longer willing to measure everything I do by its earning potential.

⚘

Hi, I’m Katie, the writer behind Pshaw. I write about the ridiculous business of being a person, and occasionally questioning why we’re doing any of this in the first place.

A completely reasonable amount of introspection, delivered to your inbox.

I’m in ✨

New here?

You might enjoy this:

Then I thought, UGH, I’m tired of getting stuck on “shoulds.” Screw all that.

And for that matter, screw a lot of other things, too. Respectfully.

For example…

Ahem. *clears throat

Social Media.

I started my Instagram 11 years ago. It documented my discovery of fitness as an adult, aerial arts, my journey as an artist and coach. I used it as a creative outlet and made funny reels. I gathered a modest following. I made Instagram friends. It was part of my identity. I couldn’t imagine not keeping it up. I am embarrassed to admit how often I checked it.

Then one day I just…stopped. I deleted the app. Saved the phone numbers of the friends I wanted to stay in touch with. Then enjoyed the (surprising) peace and quiet in my mind that ensued. I didn’t realize how much anxiety that app had been causing me until it disappeared. I’ll check in maybe once every month or three. I don’t miss it.

Along a similar vein: I don’t watch YouTube anymore either. No regrets. *shrug

Shaving my legs.

It used to be such a prioritized ritual. I liked my legs, so I didn’t mind showing them off. They needed to be SO smooth and moisturized that they were glistening. You could probably check your reflection in them.

Shaving happened pretty much daily. And this was quite an effort because in order to shave, I’d need to run a full bath. (I get goosebumps in the shower too easily, and shaving with goosebumps? Just, no.)

Maybe it’s because I am not in a public setting often enough where I am displaying my gams. Maybe it’s because I’m 4 months postpartum and most hygiene has gone out the window (IYKYK). Maybe it’s because my husband doesn’t really care.

Heck, it’s probably all of those reasons. But even if none of those reasons existed, I still don’t think I’d care about shaving.

The News.

People say, “How could you not watch the news? You might miss something important!” Well, I haven’t watched the news in months and

1) I haven’t missed a single important thing that I didn’t hear in person from a real human

2) the news changes its mind a lot, if you’ve noticed. I don’t need to be emotionally yo-yo’d every time it spazzes out. (And it does love to spaz out.)

Makeup.

Yes, this is very similar to the shaving the legs thing. It used to be that I would not be caught dead out in the world without makeup on. I was a performer for many years, so that was certainly part of it. But I had it in my mind that I was simply hideous without it. A real live troll.

Turns out, this is not the case. It seems I am a normal, fairly average and decent-looking human being without any makeup whatsoever. People do not, in fact, go running and screaming at the mere sight of my bare face.

You know what happens?

Nothing at all.

Keeping my environment spotless.

I am a clean, organized person. I always have been. But sometimes that tendency is driven by the need to control and to reduce anxiety.

Lately…I just don’t care as much. I mean, I am still clean and tidy. But things just be a little more chaotic lately and I find myself consciously deciding to reserve my energy for other things. That’s all. The cleaning? I’ll get to it.

Optimizing anything.

I spent 13 years in the marketing & business world. It’s allllll about optimizing. And that doesn’t just apply to work, it applies to everything in personal life too. Especially as an entrepreneur.

Look, I’m sick of optimizing. I just want to exist. To be. To chill and experience the present moment without trying to maximize the usage of every damn minute. Just let me just drink my coffee in peace, bro.

Dealing with certain people.

You know the ones. If they generate chronic (toxic) stress. If you are constantly questioning where you stand with them. If they literally are causing you health problems due to the intensity of stress. Out.

Protect your peace.

It sounds like a trite little saying. Something on the bumper of a vintage Volkswagen bus. But it’s what most of this comes down to. Something I’ve discovered about peace, at least for myself…once I got rid of all the noise and chaos, the peace was just…there.

Maybe it’s because I’m at the mid point of life. Maybe I’m just sick of all the garbage that has sucked away my attention and vitality for so long. Maybe I’m becoming persnickety in my old age (46 as of yesterday, haha).

But damn, I’m finally starting to feel the whole “life is short” thing, you know?

We only have time. And I want to use mine how *I want to use it. Not the way an app, a person on a screen, or a product told me to.

⚘

Hi, I’m Katie, the writer behind Pshaw. I write about the ridiculous business of being a person, and occasionally questioning why we’re doing any of this in the first place.

A completely reasonable amount of introspection, delivered to your inbox.

I’m in ✨

New here?

You might enjoy these:

Some we’ve carefully packaged, sealed, and neatly tucked away. Others we’ve shoved violently out of sight while simultaneously cursing the heavens.

We go on living our normal lives, gingerly stepping around them. Building things on top of them. Forgetting some even exist.

Every once in a while, we remember what’s in the box. Maybe something in a conversation triggers a memory. Maybe a smell. Or a box is knocked over unexpectedly.

Then it’s there in front of you.

And now you have a choice. Hide it away again? Or open the box.

I have plenty of dingy boxes. Full of stuff. Things that make me sad, ashamed, overwhelmed. They’re in boxes because I either don’t know what to do with the contents, or I just don’t want to deal with them, ok??

Writing, to me, is a way to open boxes. To actually think. To process what the heck it is that I’ve experienced, what I’m feeling, and how it has inevitably changed me. And sometimes I’m writing to figure out a deeper question: why did this thing end up in a box in the first place?

I have a hard time sorting it out without writing. Especially around messy, emotional, difficult topics. There is some science-y explanation for why that is, but what I know is this: oftentimes I write about something I’m ashamed of, and during the excruciating process of exploration and disclosure, not only do I understand it better, but I’m no longer ashamed.

Suddenly I’m honest, open, vulnerable.

So what if the things in those dirty little shame-boxes are not proof that something is wrong with us?

What if the thing you want to hide is exactly what someone needs to hear?

I think it’s all just proof that we’re human.

And it reminds us we aren’t alone. That we’re all in this together.

⚘

Hi, I’m Katie, the writer behind Pshaw. I write about the ridiculous business of being a person, and occasionally questioning why we’re doing any of this in the first place.

A completely reasonable amount of introspection, delivered to your inbox.

I’m in ✨

At around five or six years old, I’d scramble up, settle in a knobby fork in the branches, and eat that tender, juicy fruit right out of the tree. I barely felt the bark rubbing my bare skin.

Surrounded by interwoven branches, up high, I felt safe. The wind twirling the leaves around, the dappled light, glimpses of the blue sky, the damp, earthy smell…it was all comforting.

The pear trees were my favorite. That side of the property held beautiful light for most of the day. Those green pears were so soft and sticky-sweet.

A few years back I drove by that old property. I didn’t stop, but I slowed so I could look.

The backyard had been sold off, chopped up into sections.

Now, townhouses crowded together in a cold, dismissive way, occupying the space where my trees once stood. The original house, which was still there, suddenly looked even smaller. Apologetic.

All the trees were gone, except one. A single plum tree near the houseangular, bare, and dry…I believe it was dead.

A tremendous wave of sadness and loss rolled over me. A sensation amplified by the tumultuous years that soon followed our move from that property.

I never see kids climbing trees anymore.

⚘

Hi, I’m Katie, the writer behind Pshaw. I write about the ridiculous business of being a person, and occasionally questioning why we’re doing any of this in the first place.

A completely reasonable amount of introspection, delivered to your inbox.

I’m in ✨

You might enjoy these:

That’s all I had written.

I stared at the words for a while, mulling over the subject matter.

I had wanted to be real. To write about something deeply a part of my story. Something I spent 18+ years in therapy sorting and finally came out the other side of. I’m in a place now where I can do that.

But in this moment, I hesitate.

Staring at my screen, frozen, I notice the angst starts to writhe around. Not about the topic. But about why I should or should not post it.

Questions begin to pile up. Like:

…but am I that person?

You know. The kind of person who rips open my chest for everyone to see, my insides spilling out all over the internet.

The kind of person who “airs the dirty laundry.”

I’ve never written anything like this before. My essays have been kind of all over the place. This one would be different. Raw. Too real. Unblinking.

A decision like this would be very intentional.

I suddenly notice I’m chewing on my lip.

I make myself stop, and shift in my chair.

Another question slides in:

Is it performative to disclose and publicly discuss trauma?

Maybe. Sometimes. It probably depends.

All sorts of scenarios are running through my head. I’m not sure where I fit in there.

There is an argument that trauma has become a form of social currency and people have become more skeptical of “vulnerability as content.”

This makes sense. I think it matters if we are asking ourselves: “Has this experience been integrated, or am I still asking the audience to hold it for me?”

I’m keenly aware of my tendency to overanalyze, to second-guess everything I do. To make the “right” choice. You know, the perfect one that will ensure nothing goes wrong. (You can guess where that habit originated from.)

Before I can even answer that one, I question my reasons for hesitating.

Am I still protecting those who didn’t protect me?

Loyalty was pounded into me at an early age. This ensured I would never betray. Even though I was betrayed first.

I quickly reject this notion. No, I do not have misplaced loyalty any longer. I’ve worked hard to recalibrate that.

Well, but am I just doing it because everyone else is?

Once I start writing about it, will I just keep writing about it?

What if I only become known for my trauma?

Whoa, whoa, hold on there. Too fast, brain.

I take a deep breath.

Ok, this is what I know: this is my story. It’s real. It’s my choice whether I want to share it or not.

So…why would I be sharing this? For what reason?

I recently wrote a very meaningful, challenging, liberating letter to a family member. It felt so good to speak the truth from a grounded, confident, balanced place. It felt healing. Energy shifted. Fear evaporated. Communication opened.

No more hiding.

I push away from my desk.

Just outside the window, there are a couple of chickadees flitting around from branch to branch in the hazelnut trees.

I watch them for a while.

Still keenly aware of my open laptop, but feeling less hurried now, the words formulate.

I think there is a responsibility to be honest with ourselves about the state we’re sharing from.

I believe my reason for writing about my trauma is to continue the forward momentum initiated by my letter…by continuing to speak the truth. And that by sharing, it might shift something in others too.

Words are powerful. Speaking the truth is powerful.

May we all use them wisely.

⚘

Hi, I’m Katie, the writer behind Pshaw. I write about the ridiculous business of being a person, and occasionally questioning why we’re doing any of this in the first place.

A completely reasonable amount of introspection, delivered to your inbox.

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Success. Work. Money. Family. Identity. The relentless need to optimize everything. Finding purpose. Why we do the things we do.

And then sometimes I just write about a random dog I met 30 years ago.

There are points in life where it allll seems to converge on a single, often mundane moment. Or thing.

I suspect (and you may suspect too) that no thing is ever just about the thing.

It’s kind of annoying actually. I’m just going along, innocently living my life when BAM! Life lesson.

Or something happens so silly that its only apparent purpose is to make me laugh. (Thanks, universe!)

Pshaw is for people who question whether what they were told to want is actually worth wanting.

And, more generally, for those of us trying to make sense of the ridiculous business of being a person.

If that’s how your brain works too, or if you’d like to hop into mine for a couple minutes every week, you are more than welcome.

Pshaw (interjection)

An expression of disbelief, mild scorn, annoyance, or impatience.

Like “nonsense,” “bah,” or “oh, come on.”

(basically a verbal eye roll)

⚘

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It doesn’t care about your damn schedule. Or that you have kids demanding breakfast, and the baby just threw his spoon on the floor for the umpteenth time. That you have to safely operate a vehicle in 10 minutes.

It doesn’t care that you just put on mascara and it wasn’t the waterproof kind because you weren’t planning on crying.

It doesn’t care that you’re at the dentist now with a tray full of nasty mint-adjacent chalky sludge in your mouth, and drool soaking into an ineffective paper bib.

It doesn’t care that you don’t have time for this.

It will rain. It will flood, drowning you in a salty torrent.

And while you are trying to live your life, pushing it away, Grief will quietly, sickeningly, permeate.

Pooling deep in the recesses of your body. Settling into layers of tissue. Wedging itself into the dark corners of your joints.

Until it is as much a part of you as your own flesh.

Undetectable. But dependable.

Then, on top of all that, Grief has the audacity to show up in little disguises.

A headache. A backache.

An upset stomach.

Flashes of anger.

You hold Grief, and Grief holds you.

⚘

For years, a black bird would come to my window and tap at the glass. We’d look at each other for a moment, and then he’d fly away.

One day, I let him in.

⚘

Hi, I’m Katie, the writer behind Pshaw. I write about the ridiculous business of being a person, and occasionally questioning why we’re doing any of this in the first place.

A completely reasonable amount of introspection, delivered to your inbox.

I’m in ✨

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I loved singing. Especially the satisfying sensation of harmony with a complete choir, which, as it so happens, included many of my friends.

Today as I entered the familiar music room, a wall of noise hit me. The frayed carpeted risers were already bursting with energetic students, everyone chipper, playful, bordering on rowdy.

The director, Mr. Johnson, was scowling at some rumpled sheet music on the music stand.

I met my peers in the soprano section and began excitedly joining in on the hubbub. Everyone, including me, seemed to have the giggles today. It was fun.

Class started and we began working on our music. A song from the musical Cats.

Mr. Johnson tried his darndest to keep us on task.

Maybe there was some mysterious astrological misalignment to blame, but the class found it absolutely impossible to focus.

The alto section couldn’t stop laughing at some inside joke about peas.

Someone was singing off-key on purpose.

An unidentified object toppled over in the baritone section.

Mr. Johnson barely held his composure. His stiff tweed jacket seemed to be the only thing holding him together.

The unruliness of the choir members continued to escalate, amid halfhearted attempts to actually sing, until the whole room reached the crescendo of a wild roar.

Mr. Johnson had reached his limit.

“STOP!”

he bellowed, as he slammed his open palm down hard on the wooden top of the piano.

All sound came to an abrupt stop. Everyone froze, eyes on his distorted, reddening face.

Heated words followed, but I don’t remember what they were. All I recall during his railing is that we were in trouble, and also that a spray of spittle from his continuous outburst misted the front row.

After a few tense moments, he stopped yelling.

The choir, for once, was silent.

Then in that awful, guilt-laden hush, something unfortunate happened.

Something unforeseen.

My hair clip, apparently also being afflicted by some sassy cosmic whims, decided it was done performing its only duty.

Under the immense strain of simply being too small for the amount of hair it was containing, it gleefully exploded with a loud “pop!” off my head and ricocheted into the alto section.

Timid titters escaped some of the sopranos who saw it happen. I may have giggled too, but I became horrified immediately when I realized the gravity of the incident.

The damage was done.

Mr. Johnson completely lost it.

Again, I don’t remember what he said. Or rather, yelled. But I remember the sobering feeling that we, the choir and the hair clip, had finally pushed him a bit too far.

We were the best, the most attentive choir after that.

I still love choir. But hair clips and I…we haven’t fully recovered.

⚘

Hi, I’m Katie, the writer behind Pshaw. I write about the ridiculous business of being a person, and occasionally questioning why we’re doing any of this in the first place.

A completely reasonable amount of introspection, delivered to your inbox.

I’m in ✨

But first, flashback seven years.

My online marketing workshop on (basically) “how to not suck at social media” was just wrapping up and I was feeling pretty darn swell about it.

Over the years I had built a decent professional network. Been on a few podcasts. I had pretty good skills.

Me and my business, which provided full service digital marketing, became well known in our niche. I had employees and I took good care of them. I felt like I was helping people.

BUT

(here are the secrets):

1. I didn’t make ANY money. (Cue previous essay “The Worst Part About Running a Business Was Me”) Turns out I wasn’t good at that part.

and

1. I hated marketing.

Yes, for reals.

Ok, not all of it.

But a heckin’ ton of it.

First, to be fair, I’ll tell you what I actually loved about marketing. The fun stuff. Like design projects, copy writing, voice, etc. And I was good at that part.

But I hated the grind. I hated the way it so easily spilled over into inauthenticity. I hated the insidious algorithms. I hated how many tedious time-sucking layers there were to everything.

I hated that I was a marketing director who hated marketing.

Now, no one truly accidentally becomes a marketing director.

There isn’t one obvious decision.

There are a hundred tiny ones over the span of a decade or three.

You discover you’re good at something people need. You say yes to a client. Then another. People recommend you. You feel good about yourself. You hire someone. Then another. Blah blah blah.

Before long, you’re that person running that company and it’s your whole schtick.

The great thing about being reasonably good at stuff is that it opens doors you never would have considered.

The freaking annoying thing about being reasonably good at stuff is that you might develop a habit of walking through all of them like an idiot.

⚘

Anyway, now my business is closed and I spend an unreasonable amount of time thinking about chickens.

⚘

Hi, I’m Katie, the writer behind Pshaw. I write about the ridiculous business of being a person, and occasionally questioning why we’re doing any of this in the first place.

A completely reasonable amount of introspection, delivered to your inbox.

I’m in ✨

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A family friend, who had somehow neglected to ask my parents’ permission, presented him in a picturesque little wicker basket. The basket was covered with a suspiciously wiggly cloth, just like in colorful picture books I read.

I named him “Magic,” as any proper 8 year old does.

But he, almost immediately upon arrival, had liberated himself into the great wide open.

Berating myself for not being a more responsible parent to my fur-child, I panicked and paced.

My mom, being the religious person she was, suggested I say a prayer to find him.

I wasn’t particularly interested in the details of religion, but I did have my own adjacent theories about things.

Having named my cat “Magic,” and having yet to be jaded by the brutalities of existence, my belief in unseen forces was strong.

So I said a quick prayer.

Then I noticed something on the corner.

It was a dog. His short coat had brown and white blotches. He was mid-sized. Calm. No collar. He was looking in my direction. I had never seen him before.

I stared back at the dog.

Was he friendly?

Who did he belong to?

Where did he come from?

Why was he staring at me?

Everything was still for a moment.

And then out of nowhere, I heard the words,

“Follow that dog.”

I was surprised, understandably. I had never received instructions from a disembodied voice before.

It had a neutral tone, but firm. It felt authoritative, trustworthy.

So I took a few curious steps toward the dog. He rose and started off down the sidewalk away from me. Then paused and looked back. Our eyes met.

I took this as confirmation and went after him. We traveled down the sidewalk toward the opposite side of the block, with me following a few paces behind him.

This is where I got nervous.

One of the big family rules was Don’t Leave Our Block.

But I was also told to Follow the Dog. And that was much more interesting.

So I trailed him across the street where I definitely wasn’t supposed to go. Him, probably just doing what dogs do. Me, feeling self-conscious and mildly rebellious.

Ultimately, he plopped himself in front of an unfamiliar yellow house.

Looking around, wondering what to do next, I shuffled in place awkwardly.

The dog gave me no further cues.

I decided calling my kitten might be a reasonable thing to do, given my quest, so I timidly called his name.

Just then, the front door of the house swung open and a woman, holding a dark, squirmy ball of fur, said, “Is this your cat?”

Overjoyed, my arms now full of Magic, and a belief in a benevolent universe firmly rooted, I turned around.

The dog was gone. And I never saw him again.

⚘

Hi, I’m Katie, the writer behind Pshaw. I write about the ridiculous business of being a person, and occasionally questioning why we’re doing any of this in the first place.

A completely reasonable amount of introspection, delivered to your inbox.

I’m in ✨

They are getting pushed further and further down.

New texts keep popping in.

I feel irritated, and weirdly protective of the space that single text is occupying.

Crowded down to the very bottom, those heavy, almost sacred words are now eclipsed by the edge of the screen. I can barely see them.

No longer the latest news according to my phone.

A wave of grief and indignation rolls over me and I start crying again.

I wonder if he saw the last photos I texted of his Granddaughter.

Squishing the heels of my hands into my eyes, I hear a ding as another text comes through. I open my eyes extra wide to try and see through the blur of tears.

A picture of a dog.

I turn the phone face down on the table with a loud clack.

It’s so unceremonious. To receive such personal, heavy, life-altering information via this stupid little device with which I’ve always had such a love/hate relationship.

And how dare lighthearted, fluffy texts be casually occupying the same space. How dare they.

But you can quickly notify many people at once in various locations without having to call multiple times. It’s practical. I know.

At 86, my Father-in-law, John, loved what his phone could do.

And he always texted me back.

Smart phones. Sucking us away from our loved ones. And at the same time, connecting us to them.

I hate the dichotomy of it.

This stupid, convenient, handheld device.

I want to be inconvenienced.

I want to throw my phone from a bridge and go out to his garden to think about how many hours and how much care he poured into those flowers. To sit with my husband in silence.

There’s an intense internal drive to sort my feelings. And to tell everyone how special and important John was.

That he was one of the sweetest, most intelligent, most patient men I’ve ever known.

How he had the lightest, most piercing crystal blue eyes you’ll ever see.

How curious he was about the world.

How he was multi-talented with many hobbies; dance, fossils, shells. How he could tell you the scientific name of every flower in his garden. And every insect.

How happy he was when he found out he would finally be a granddad.

How he raised an incredible son, who is like him in many ways.

I want them to know.

How can they know?

I slowly reach for my phone again.

⚘

Hi, I’m Katie, the writer behind Pshaw. I write about the ridiculous business of being a person, and occasionally questioning why we’re doing any of this in the first place.

A completely reasonable amount of introspection, delivered to your inbox.

I’m in ✨

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After 17 different job titles ranging from Chocolatier to Piano Teacher to Brand Manager (and 18+ years in therapy), I have, unshockingly, changed my mind.

My wide, and dare I say, random, variety of skills have had this super annoying habit of volunteering me for careers I never actually wanted.

Which have gotten me into situations that were less than desirable the worst.

By the time I would accept the position of one of these ill-fitting jobs, I had basically already built an entirely new shiny identity around it.

I always prided myself on being so adaptable.

Jill of All Trades.

“See?” I would say to some invisible judgmental force. “I can ace this too! This is fine.”

And I would briefly feel a fleeting wisp of proof of my value as a human being on this planet.

Meanwhile I had painstakingly painted myself into a dimly-lit corner.

Other people with their long term, normal, stable careers and reliable incomes baffled me, and I secretly wondered what the heck I was missing.

When you make overachieving your whole vibe, you jump on those bandwagons real quick without truly asking yourself permission.

Then, embroiled in angst, you think “Wait a gosh darn moment. I actually hate this. How did I get here?” and then you plot the quickest (and sometimes the most dramatic) exit strategy from the current Job of the Hour.

*cut to dental assistant scrubs being hurled over the side of a cliff

This, as you can imagine, is an exhausting way to live.

Turns out just because you have skills doesn’t mean you need to use them in any and every circumstance.

If what matters more than achievement is what you want, then the challenge is figuring out

what in tarnation you want.

I was incredible at conflating “this is what I want” with “this kinda sorta makes sense” which was a great habit and didn’t cause any confusion at all.

I am happy to say I do have more clarity now. It’s true. I actually learned something.

What I want is: to do things that make me feel good.

I also want to not think about billing deadlines, how I’m being perceived on social media, or JSON scripts on the back end of a website.

I know. Earth-shattering.

I’m a quick one.

⚘

Hi, I’m Katie, the writer behind Pshaw. I write about the ridiculous business of being a person, and occasionally questioning why we’re doing any of this in the first place.

A completely reasonable amount of introspection, delivered to your inbox.

I’m in ✨

Also “Sure, I can take care of that right now, I was up already.” And “It’s no problem! I’ll cancel my doctor’s appointment.”

Can you hear that sound?

It’s the echoes of my former project manager sighing.

She had also told me, on many occasions, that we needed to raise our prices.

“Ha!” I thought. “But then how would we be The Best and Most Helpful??”

These titles, which I learned as a small human, were extremely important. Being helpful and good at stuff meant being valued, of course. How else does one feel OK about themselves??

What, you say? What about my own health, sanity, safety, and comfort?

Pshaw.

As one could imagine, this mindset translated incredibly effectively to my business.

My business principles were:

• be 1000% available

• what even are personal boundaries?

• fees for services…lower…no, lower…

• overestimate abilities

• running payroll for me? Enh I’ll do that next month

Present Katie is going back in time and busting in the office wall of Past Katie, Kool-Aid guy style. With some expletives and a table flip.

Maybe even sitting her down for a PowerPoint presentation on Internal Family Systems titled “Yes, You Are a People Pleaser.”

I have evolved far enough from that time (“Right?” looks at counselor) that I believe I can evaluate without cringing too hard. (I didn’t say ZERO cringing.) And by golly, I’ve learned stuff!

I have learned how to do the boundary thing.

I have learned that Survival Mode 24/7 is totally lame.

I have learned my value is…dare I say…intrinsic. (gasp)

It’s wild though. Back then I actually operated like

maximum suffering = everyone happy.

Human beings are weird.

⚘

Hi, I’m Katie, the writer behind Pshaw. I write about the ridiculous business of being a person, and occasionally questioning why we’re doing any of this in the first place.

A completely reasonable amount of introspection, delivered to your inbox.

I’m in ✨