Turns out, you can absolutely run away from your problems.
I mean, it doesn’t work… they’ll follow you.
But the running part is nice, right?
For a bit?
No?
I don’t like being watched while dealing with open wounds.
In fact, I really, really hate it.
Things are shifting kind of rapidly for me right now, and I’ve been feeling the old, familiar urge to withdraw. I guess in some ways I’ve actually gone through with it. When people ask “how are you?” I’ve been struggling with what to say. I sort of always have. Still, life’s been a bit more bumpy than usual lately, more so than I’ve let even myself acknowledge, and I don’t know how much of that I’m supposed to share.
My grandfather on my dad’s side would always answer that “how are you?” question with “can’t complain.” He’d wait a beat-and-a-half before adding “doesn’t do any good anyway.” His delivery is what made it because he’d sit there, completely straight-faced, with only his eyes giving him away. There was this frivolity to them that just didn’t match the monotone repartee of the moment. I always thought it was funny because of the “baghhh shucks” nature of his punchline—one intentionally meant to undermine the sincerity of the response he gave.
Now, though, I kind of wonder how serious a statement it might’ve been at times.
I was thinking about this a lot recently while traveling for a conference.
Something about airports, planes, and cities that aren’t mine provides a unique confidence I can’t seem to find anywhere else. Independence might be a better word for it. Maybe it’s the introvert in me, which, I admit, seems ironic, but think about it: solo-traveling is an all-access pass for people-watching and for operating on your own schedule as a totally untethered observer. To me, it feels like a chance to step out of the timeline for a minute; to take an unencumbered seat in the middle of the hustle-and-bustle, and catch my breath while the world keeps turning around me.
Sitting in JFK, I felt a long deep sigh erupt in the most passive-aggressive way possible. I hadn’t even realized I’d been holding my breath...
Letting the book I was reading flop over on itself in my lap, I took the opportunity to quickly scan all the things I’d shoved into the nooks and crannies of my brain—stuff I’d cast aside for some time in the future when I had the chance to inventory, sort, and sit with it. I don’t typically like to compartmentalize that way (haphazardly), but I’d been busy as all hell. So, special circumstances and such…
Could all of those things really have been this heavy?
I mean, surely I would’ve noticed... right?
Wou—
wouldn’t I… ?
I’d spent years pouring energy into untangling myself. Or, you know, trying to.
For all that effort—the years invested in self-reflection, therapy, and personal growth, I now faced a new problem (as if things weren’t complicated enough already). What I’d uncovered was the possibility that all of my progress was stilted by self-repression rather than rejuvenated by self-acceptance.
GREAT.
AWESOME.
LOVE THAT FOR ME.
With the airport terminal still buzzing around me, I found the more I scanned, the more I began to recognize all the hints I’d ignored… things that likely could’ve prevented my current pile of overwhelm (ya know, had I faced them in the moment instead of casting them aside). A career where a task completed only meant a twisting stomach and the dread of anticipating the next one. A relationship where more communication and more well-reasoned explanations kept the incompatibility between us concealed justtt enough to feel inconsequential.
Dealing with those things later always seemed like a good idea. It never quite turns out that way for me, though. My guilty pleasure is telling myself I’ll have more breathing room and a clearer headspace at some arbitrary point in the future. It feels good to dream, ok…? For some reason, I like to imagine the future will be the better time for tackling that stuff (it never is). To make matters worse, I’ve an aversion to asking for help that, despite my exhaustive efforts, still appears to be nestled somewhere deep in my hardwiring. It often results in my having to swim through multiple major life-changes at once.
Oh and, in general, I’d say I’m a very private person.
So the hard truth is that the whole saving-stuff-for-later thing, the not-asking-for-help thing, and the many-life-changes-all-at-once thing are, unfortunately, related.
After a lot of deliberation conducted in a short amount of time, I moved.
Again.
In my early twenties, I moved a lot.
Like, pretty much every year from my sophomore year of college until I was like, 27. But there was a two-year stretch in there where I was in the same place with the same roommates, which was really nice. Fast forward to last year, and I’d been living in the same place for a while—many years, in fact. Then I moved. And now, one year later, I moved again and was reminded of just how much I fucking hate moving. Not to mention, I didn’t think I’d be doing it again for a good, long while.
Definitely not this soon...
Sitting in that terminal in JFK, I found myself thinking back on just how long I’ve been swirling through this withdrawing phase. One night in particular came to mind.
It was while wrapping up the tail-end of my recent move-out. Late at night, after work, each of my footsteps echoed off the bare walls and wooden floors. The glare of the overhead light was... a lot. Especially when bouncing off the darkened windows. After I finished cleaning, I still had to drive an hour back to my new place, so I knew I probably wouldn’t be getting home until after midnight. Dragging the Swiffer wet jet thing back and forth across the floor, I started thinking about the Christmas tree and whether the new folks would put it where I had or opt for someplace else.
The life I led while living there flashed through my head.
I pictured all the movie nights, all the strong coffee, and all the life-altering conversations that unfolded there. Even though it’d taken a few tries, my comfy chair had eventually landed in the spot with the best light. And I read tons and tons of books this past year. I even wrote one of my own. But, I didn’t host all that many people… I’d planned to, it just didn’t play out like I thought it would.
Shadows had congregated in the corners of the room. The Swiffer squeaked and I paused a second to stand up and stretch. That’s when I’d let out a longgg, guttural sigh. My chest convulsed like I might burst into tears but my heart rate stayed steady.
I... I didn’t know what that was.
Sadness? Gratitude?
Disappointment?
Nervousness?
That’s when I’d just grabbed the Swiffer with both hands, exhaled through my nose, and focused on wrapping up so I could close out this chapter. But the sigh didn’t feel like enough. If there was more air in there, I didn’t know how to get it out.
The uncomfortable truth is that I wasn’t just tired from moving, from a career change, or from a breakup. And I wasn’t only wiped out from swatting at the Tetris blocks of change, either. I mean, sure… that’s part of it. But all of this runs a little deeper than that. Of course it does, right? And, despite wanting to keep pushing things off, I was sick of the self-repression spiral I’ve been circling for, what… three decades now?
OMG how nice of you to join us… maybe speak up next time, yeah?
Somewhere in the Delta terminal, I bobbed my head back and forth and reasoned that it might just be that I was getting an honest glimpse at the wear and tear I’d been putting myself through after years and years of berating myself with all that I should be doing. That… that was utterly exhausting. So it’s entirely possible this most recent wave of fatigue was just me accepting the resistance I’d been facing with more curiosity instead of immediately trying to fight my way through it. Perhaps before, I’d been trying to dress it up and hide parts of it. You know, as if patting myself on the head and offering trite words of encouragement to “keep it up, champ!”
Who knows.
To top it off, I’m also going back for my master’s to become a licensed therapist.
Yep, I’m headed back to school at 32.
Pivoting away from marketing and toward this new path absolutely seems like the right move for me. And at the same time, it also feels like going backwards even though, logically, I know I’m not.
But it does feel like I’m starting over.
Again.
Hence, feeling especially torn on how much to share when people ask how I’m doing. Which, even I have to admit is a kind of funny thing to say for a guy who writes a daily column where he shares examples from his own life to make his points. For some reason, though, I’m pretty comfortable sharing like that—from scar tissue rather than open wounds (that phrasing is something I picked up from the book, How to Tell a Story, by The Moth). In this regard, I admit I can be quite forthcoming.
However, I still consider myself to be an incredibly private person.
So when facing the urge to withdraw—to delete Substack and Instagram, and to refrain from talking or writing about the stuff I’m going through—I keep getting tripped up by the same thing... I’ve done all that before and it hasn’t helped. There’s this voice in my head that pops up and reminds me that going into my shell hasn’t ever made things work out for the better. It’s only increased the distance between myself and those who care about me.
Which is why, among everything else, I’ve been very conflicted about the appropriate way to respond to “how are you?”
Surprising even myself, I did something unusual before my trip while stuck in that muck, waging war with the urge to withdraw. I texted a couple of my closest friends instead of backing further into isolation. I was real honest with them about how I’d been feeling. And each responded with thoughtful messages that made me feel so, sooo heard. Like, really listened to, you know? Super supported and cared about. They told me they loved me and voluntold times for us to call and catch up.
And I just—I love them for that.
So it wasn’t all that surprising when, later that week, I got a call out of the blue from one of them with a “Hey, what are you doing right now?” I’d been in the middle of something and I think he could tell. But he pushed and I’m so glad he did.
We ended up going for a run by the lake where we live.
Lately, our meetups had sort of become downloads where each shares the big updates from their world and the other asks a series of follow up questions before, eventually, we’d switch. Neither of us loves that—we prefer to stay caught up rather than having to catch up—but we share a lot of gratitude for having the type of relationship where we can download quite effortlessly.
“I don’t know man, I kinda feel like I’ve been white water kayaking,” I’d said. “Like the boat flipped, but I’m still in the rapids.”
He hit me with a “hmmm,” which was frankly impressive—we were running and he made it sound SO casual. I also know him well enough to know that saying that is basically like a therapist saying “ahhh I see,” to which my gut reaction is to explain myself more (lol).
If I give enough context, my logic will be impossible to miss! Right?!
I’m… yeah I’m working on it.
“Waiting for calmer waters so you can regroup?” he’d asked.
It was a fair question but wasn’t what I’d meant.
“It’s more like I’m wondering if this should’ve been a hiking trip rather than a whitewater trip,” I’d said, at which point he looked sideways at me. I’d sighed and cracked a smile.
“Sorry, this metaphor got really abstract.”
“Sort of,” he’d admitted. “So are you gonna tell me what’s really going on?”
Ahhh… touché.
So then I told him about my move. We talked about the breakup, my decision to go back to school full-time, and the unexpected thrill of canceling LinkedIn premium (seriously, try it). He asked follow up questions. Then we continued to jog-n-jabber, and I felt lighter.
Whodathunk, reaching out rather than withdrawing actually works…
From my firm, not-very-comfortable chair in the airport, I stared down at my half-open book without reading any of the words. I let the sentences float their way between clear and fuzzy.
The truth is these past couple of years have been a real slog. Among the bouts of excitement, gratitude, achievement, and respite sprinkled throughout, they’ve been pretty burly, stressy, tiring, and miring. Listening to the thunk-thunk-thunk of someone’s suitcase hop-scotching along the terminal tiles, I could no longer ignore the fact that, beyond the day-to-day rigors of fumbling my way through a particularly sludgy spell of career uncertainty, I’d been chronically over-stressed and under-slept. Like, for years. And I’d been feeling increasingly insecure about it all. Confident in my trajectory? Yes. But nervous. Very nervous about my timeline and all the unknowns waiting for me up ahead.
…
Survival mode.
I’d been in survival mode; which, I really thought I’d already moved past.
…
What if I’d been heading in the wrong direction this whole time, trudging my way along some cumbersome path, rather than just walking one that felt right?
Would…
Would facing all that stuff I swiped to the side have led me here sooner?
Surrounded by strangers, I was still enjoying my observer’s seat in the middle of the hustle-and-bustle; still content to let the world keep turning for another few minutes.
Smiling listlessly, I tried picturing the kind of life I could build for myself now—one beyond just work. One with more compatibility and less resentment. One that doesn’t harbor held breath. Reflecting on all the times I went with what I thought I should be doing instead of what I wanted to be doing, it was hard to look past the stuff I’d ignored—everything I’d shoved down or brushed aside. I could’ve taken the hint at any point—there were plenty to pick from.
But I didn’t.
My body knew and my brain lied about it.
There I was, on my way to a conference, knowing full-well I’d be returning to an entirely different life when I got back. Sitting there, still watching a sea of people float past me in the JFK airport, I let out another long, longgg sigh.
When asked “how are you?” I still have no idea what to say… Not great but not bad, either? Actually—good. I can say I’m good; or that I will be.
After all, I guess I can’t complain.
Doesn’t do any good, anyway.
Right?
onward.
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