v. 54 On Staying Human When the World Feels Like Too Much
Welcome to Life, Created—a new [old school] blog for modern times. This weekly(ish) dispatch is a space for us to dig deeper, share ideas, recognize microjoys and build community beyond the mindless scroll.
This isn’t the kind of essay I usually share, but it feels important to say out loud. The world is heavy right now, and I don’t want us to look away from that. And. But.
The worse the world feels, the more I tend to turn inward. Perhaps that’s true for you too. I no longer scroll through endless headlines or keep the news on my phone the way I once did. (I haven’t done that in years.) These days I choose a few independent sources that give me only the most essential stories, and even then, what I hear is both heartbreaking and sobering. Recent weeks have carried one devastating headline after another. School shootings on repeat. A young man, really still a boy, found hanging from a tree in Mississippi. Rising unemployment with no safety net for the people who need it most. On top of that, it feels as if we’ve lost any sense of universal truth. And in a world this divided, blatant lies spread like wildfire across media (social and otherwise), completely unchecked. One shitty headline after another, and together they begin to feel unbearable. It is awful layered upon awful, grief stacked on grief, and sometimes it feels impossible to know where to place it all.
“The question I return to again and again is this: how do we stay afloat when human cruelty and hardship feels unrelenting? How do we resist the pull to despair without lying to ourselves about how difficult things really are?”
As someone who has written books about positive thinking and joy (literally, this is what I talk about professionally,) I feel an internal pressure to have something uplifting to say. But right now the world is harsh, and I’m not good at pretending, especially in my writing. So rather than attempting introspective thoughts, I use humor. And I’ve been posting on Instagram about my colored glass curio, the newest vintage additions to our wallpaper wall and even a whole ass 1-minute commentary on expired couscous. Because that’s what I’ve got in me at the moment. I don’t have grand wisdom to hand out every day. Right now, the only optimism I can muster is about frivolous, unnecessary, colorful things. They may not change the state of the world, but they point me back to what matters. Because what I still have is beauty in the shape of ordinary things that stop me in my tracks long enough to take notice.
The world feels pitch black right now. And yet, in the middle of that darkness, I keep reaching for what’s right in front of me: the glint of light through a piece of colored glass, the satisfaction of arranging old things in new ways, Ira’s weird fear of scary movies even as he refuses to look away from the screen (I know I shouldn’t laugh but…), the quiet joy of realizing that even when I’ve got nothing profound to offer, I can still notice something that steadies me for a moment. It may not be uplifting wisdom in the traditional sense, but maybe it’s enough.
And still, here we are. Living. Showing up to the responsibilities of our daily lives. Trying to make sense of how we hold both the horror of what we witness and the small flickers of good that insist on appearing anyway. The question I return to again and again is this: how do we stay afloat when human cruelty and hardship feels unrelenting? How do we resist the pull to despair without lying to ourselves about how difficult things really are?
For me, the only way forward is through a deep practice of being present for microjoys. I began speaking about them in 2020 after my nephew was murdered, and I haven’t stopped. Because the truth is, this strange balance of good and awful is what it means to be fully alive in the world. Microjoys are not about ignoring grief but instead, about making room for it to coexist while still noticing the moments that keep us tethered to life. They are the (sometimes) small truths that hold us steady when the world feels impossible to bear. They give shape to the ordinary and remind us that even in the darkest seasons, there is still so much worth noticing. This practice has carried me, and I believe it can carry us too. Because even now, especially now, microjoys are what keep us human.
And as always, if this resonated, please do share.
Every essay features a section called “One Fine Microjoy” – an experience, place, or thing that brings me joy, grace, and hope amidst life’s ups and downs. I hope it invites you to recognize and appreciate the delights that ground, inspire, and enrich our journey.
This week’s microjoy: Our Tuesday wine and picnic was rained out so we picnicked inside instead. My very cute husband cleaned and hauled the park chairs up from the garage and set out a spread in the living room. Turning lemons into lemonade —except with wine, snacks, and folding chairs. All to say, an evening that could have felt disappointing turned into something unexpectedly delightful. A microjoy in the middle of the week. Magical.
P.S. Per usual, if this resonated with you- repost, comment, share and spread the word.
With love, wisdom [and small mercies] from Montclair. xx
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