Strange thoughts

When I saw that my favourite podcast had an episode with Jacinda Ardern as the guest, I instinctively tapped to listen.

I’m one of the millions of people who admired Jacinda Ardern’s leadership from afar. When she was prime minister, I only knew about New Zealand as a great hiking spot. My view of her work and approach to leadership was rather narrow. But since moving here, I’ve heard lots of varying perspectives of her time as leader, and grown to appreciate the nuances that come with a job like that. I’ve also concluded that political theatre is sadly not an accurate reflection of the kind of society we ought to be building.

The podcast episode was lovely. Jacinda was honest and funny and surprisingly relatable. I enjoyed hearing about her childhood in the Mormon Church and then the sharp contrast of her adult life of sharing a flat with three gay men. Life has a wonderful way of making us confront our discomforts.

But then she and the host had an exchange that made me gasp. I’m paraphrasing:

JA: It (breast cancer scare) wasn’t the primary catalyst for leaving, but it was the first moment I remember thinking, “Oh, maybe you could leave.“ And I thought, “Well, that’s a dark thought, isn’t it?”

Host: I think a lot of women have that thought, “If I get sick I can leave!”

JA: Yes! Honestly when you start thinking that way, that has to be a catalyst for sitting down and having a serious internal conversation.

That little conversation caught me off guard because I recognise it, in myself and others. I know both women and men—but mostly women—who find it easier (and preferable) to have an external factor make that decision for them, whether at work or in life, rather than taking on the cognitive burden of making the call themselves.

What is it about living that makes us think that way?

Hello, again.

When I first started this blog several years ago, I was so young and naive that I needed my brother to help set it up. He was already working in the tech field so he knew all about this thing called blogging that was taking over the internet, with so much promise to change the world with powerful words and images. And I guess blogs did that for a long time… until louder forms of content showed up and we gradually lost interest in reading long-form prose, instead craving more and more short and snappy and entertaining pieces.

But I digress.

When my brother helped me set up this blog, he told me he was going to buy a domain—my name—and pay for it. I pushed back. Would it be worth the money? What if I don’t publish any writing and the domain just sat there useless?

He told me to use that doubt as fuel. To write and publish something every day, “even when you have exams,” I remember him saying, making sure our dad was out of earshot. That way, I could feed my passion for writing and also make the spend worth it.

So I did. I took that advice to heart and wrote every day. For nearly a decade, I made sure that I wrote something, anything, and hit publish. I wrote my exams in the morning and on my blog in the evening. Once I started working, I went to office at 7am so I could write before work.

If I had to travel for weeks, I’d spend hours binge writing so I’d have enough posts to schedule for the days I’d be away. I wrote everywhere—in airports and train stations, in my head on my morning runs or while doing the dishes. I wrote ferociously and veraciously (no, Claude, that’s not a typo). I wrote poetry, short stories, random musings, travelogues, book reviews, and so many things. I even taught myself how to write myself out of a writing block.

Even when I moved countries, I kept writing. Even when I enrolled in a full-time degree while working full-time I managed to keep my one-haiku-a-day habit alive.

And then a few months ago, after far too many months working 12-14 hours a day, my mind finally showed me how exhausted I was. When I wasn’t working, all I wanted to do was to while away. Writing for the sake of writing started to feel a bit too heavy.

So I skipped writing for a day and felt deeply guilty about it. It didn’t feel right to let go, even temporarily, of the only thing my entire personality and life was centred around. Since I was 12, all I’ve ever wanted was to be in a constant state of writing.

Then I skipped another day. And another. And another. And I wasn’t feeling as guilty anymore. I just told myself I was writing on LinkedIn thrice a week and that still counted as writing.

It didn’t. Because as much as I enjoy the stories on LinkedIn, the cognitive load required to filter out the bullshit, to read between the lines, to not judge a post by its pouting lips but by its intellect takes a lot out of me.

And so I found myself tonight, as most nights these days, scrolling through LinkedIn and trying to conjure up the energy to write something that’s professional, meaningful, and enjoyable. And I somehow found myself here, instead.