Where discomfort meets growth

January was a month of doing nothing. I learn to be ok with this.

Many years ago, I ran into an old college acquaintance on the street that I hadn’t seen since we were both in school. Sometimes these chance encounters can be a bit awkward. We quickly exchanged a two sentence elevator pitch about our lives and then I asked the innocuous question of what he did for a living. After an uncomfortable pause, he replied that he was exploring a few interests after being fortunate enough to sell a business.

His discomfort at this question was palpable, almost like he was embarrassed to tell me that he didn’t work. I remember brushing off the encounter as a one-off because I couldn’t relate to not having to work since we had just lifted ourselves out of a paycheck-to-paycheck struggle. I was tired of skating along the edges of never having enough and I was envious. I realized then, that I have hang-ups about class and privilege. I look back at this with some irony as I acknowledge the privilege of where I stand now, more than a dozen years later.

I am now like this acquaintance who I bumped into many years ago in that I don’t know how to answer the question, “what do you do?” If I want to deflect I will just answer, “I’m a freelance designer” (this isn’t technically wrong). If it’s someone I trust who understands the windy path of how I got here, I answer honestly because I know I won’t be judged.

Well, what am I doing?

If January was any indication, I’m not doing much. I learned, after years of high-octane productivity that I can, in fact, be lazy. I consumed much more than I produced—words, art, TV, coffee. I took it all in, but at the end of every week, I would say out loud to no one in particular, “this was a very unproductive week.” I would greet Mondays with fresh enthusiasm in ways I never greeted Mondays when I was employed, but by Sunday when I would declare yet again to no one in particular about how my week was unproductive, I would find myself stuck in a cycle of good intentions and defeat.

I’ve always known that it’s far easier for me to stay high on the productivity train if I sustain flying at 120 miles a minute than descend down even a notch less intense. That is my sweet spot, a place I operate in comfort because I know who this person is. So imagine the disorientation as I try and figure out who I am now while wading into the waters of this slower life. No, I’m not talking about what I do, but who I am.

In January, I learned to sit with the discomfort of doing nothing. The gentlest way to unravel your identity from your job is to peel back layers one at a time and see where it emotionally lands with each layer shed. It feels like passing through a series of gates. When you face yourself in the mirror exposed, without the distraction of hiding behind a job title, a career, and a paycheck that quantifies your self worth in dollars, it can be real and raw.

But even in the space of doing nothing, my brain does not shut off. As I try to fall asleep at 2 a.m., these are the moments when some of the most unfiltered thoughts and visions of clarity float around in my head. Unless I write them down—and I never do—they get lost in the folds of my comforter as I drift from wakefulness to fragmented detachment and eventually to restless sleep (thanks menopause).

I think I’ve seen five or six different transformations of Soho during my lifetime here in New York

The other day I was walking through Soho and I remembered a time when I used to hop on the train and go somewhere “just because.” Not for an appointment or an errand, but just to get out of the apartment. I think this is one of the few things that the pandemic changed for me; I need a reason now to cross the East River into Manhattan.

As I emerged above ground from the train station at Prince Street, I expected to be swallowed into the crowds that I typically see on the weekends, but instead found eerie quiet on the cobblestone streets of Wooster, Mercer, and Greene. Where are all the people, I thought. I was reminded again as I walked down streets that I’ve walked a million times before, that the city is always changing and our relationship to these streets change alongside them too. It was during that aimless eight mile walk that I realized that “doing nothing” can actually be a time of “actively resting” and I shouldn’t feel guilty about this at all. I am in the active state of rest and some of that involves a stillness to crystallize this transformation of change to its next form.

I want to be the person who can confidently say that I’m an artist and a writer, to embrace this life that I worked hard to give myself so that I can respond with conviction and without hesitation when somebody asks “what do you do?”

But I am not there yet.

I don’t really know why this is so hard. Because I don’t know what art I want to make yet? Because I don’t earn a living from it? Because I’m stuck in a time when being an artist meant that you showed your work in galleries?

I gave myself the challenge of making quick sketches in under half an hour using charcoal to loosen my tight drawing style

I dreamed of being able to clear the space and time to explore my own projects and selfishly keep all of my creativity for myself instead of using that energy for others as a paid service. I am saying no to some work now which is entirely new for me. In the absence of any kind of paycheck, I remind myself that it’s an intentional tradeoff for time. But now that I am here, it’s hard—and of course it is! Any work that involves the reinvention of self is going to be hard, but tearing apart the glorification of being busy is a challenge worth taking on.

The thing that I did do in January, though admittedly not with any regularity until last week, was draw. I continue to practice, picking up where I left off years ago and slowly branching out to new mediums like charcoal that pushes the edges of where I’m comfortable—but only just a little. Small steps are still big wins.

It’s still feels strange to spend my days working on something that won’t result in a paycheck in two weeks, but art takes time and most creative people crave more of it. If I reframe my year as paying myself in time and not dollars to keep pushing at the edges of where discomfort meets growth, I can see a path that keeps moving forward.

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Related reading

On quitting something I loved and returning to it 32 years later

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A few things I read this week

I was getting older and feeling clueless when a quote about the ‘afternoon of life’ inspired my reinvention - I just really loved this essay by Vicki Milliken (hat tip to Eric for sending me the link)

Abstract: The Art of Design - Neri Oxman: Bio-architecture (Netflix, and another hat tip, this time to Andrew). I know I’m late to this series on design, but I just watched this episode with my artist kid who has been experimenting with her own research in creating new biomaterials. She’s created plastic-like substrates—some malleable and stretchy, and others hard like stained glass. It kind of blows my mind and I’m really interested in seeing where this emerging field will take us.

Bioplastics by C, made with various ratios of agar, water, and glycerin

We Need a New Word for ‘Plagiarism’ (gifted NYT link) And speaking of Neri Oxman, this article linking her husband’s involvement with the ousting of ex-Harvard president, Claudine Gay, to her own recent entanglement with plagiarism accusations is something you can’t make up.

In the Ozempic Age, Has ‘Craveable’ Lost Its Selling Power? (Gifted NYT link) When we had our bakery company, I often worried about the trends in food and diet. Consumers can be very fickle.