I was on my hands and knees cleaning the floor of my bedroom when I happened upon a treasure trove of proof of life under my bed. (This is what I have begun to refer to the large dust bunnies this old house produces on the daily as.)
It is shocking to me how dead skin cells (your own) can be so shaming in their existence. It made me think of this “vulnerability” trend circling around the social platforms lately. If you haven’t seen them (because you have less of a scrolling addiction than I do) several prominent people have begun sharing pictures of themselves with a vulnerable admission generally not displayed on their feed.
I love and hate it, in all honesty.
I love that the curated feed is being interrupted by confessions of truth, fear, insecurity and instability. And at the same time- depending on who is posting- it also feels, reaching.
Look at me! I have the same problems you do! ( I just get to do it from my summer home in Mallorca with my kitchen staff and night nurse.)
Here’s an example from someone, who though has a large following and presence, (I think) did it right and made me feel seen instead of lacking:
I do not have the answer. I know we are all human. That we all suffer. That we all carry wounds no one sees. And I also know that while we may be in the same storm, we’re all in different boats varying in degrees of size and shape.
So, rather than place a beautiful carousel with delightful pictures and dramatic fonts, I thought my offering would be made here instead. With you, delightful you.
Here are only the tip of the iceberg of things I don’t often share ( hard to imagine, right?)
I hide a secret shame that I can’t ever keep my house tidy. My OCD makes it difficult to move from one spot to the next, and most times it’s just easier to pretend it doesn’t exist than to have to decide where to begin. I love systems and structures and it bothers me that I can’t implement them when it comes to housekeeping.
I’m deeply embarrassed to be a 41-year-old woman who cannot ride a bike.
I overpaid my taxes for YEARS because I was convinced I was bad at math and must have been doing something wrong. I automatically assume I am in the wrong about most things, in fact.
Whenever our budget gets too tight, I’m immediately convinced we will lose everything we worked so hard to get and I research filing for bankruptcy. There is no in between. I am always and forever combating worst care scenarios and the feeling that I do not deserve good things.
Sometimes I snap at my kids because I’m overstimulated by how fast they’re talking and dancing and moving and singing and I feel like I can’t keep up. It doesn’t help that I feel constantly torn between work and family life, like so many of us. I feel like I’m always failing at both.
I’m fairly terrified to admit that I was cool as a cucumber during an earthquake, but have had anxiety attacks often in the ShopRite dairy aisle trying to decide which yogurt brand is the cheapest and the one my kids will actually eat. Like, call a friend from the dirty dairy aisle floor-type anxiety attacks.
I’m afraid to say aloud that the idea that I might have been wrong about God this whole time does not scare me at all. Deconstructing has meant different things to me at different times ( which I believe is healthy, and good). While not all of the trauma I carry is from the religious system I gave most of my life to (there were some beautiful things I still carry with me, and some I deeply miss) I feel emboldened to admit that certainty no longer feels like something to search for. I have slowly gotten comfortable with the not knowing.
Sometimes I regret leaving the public school classrooms and sometimes I regret choosing to stay in the public school classrooms for so long. One is never without the other, on a daily basis.
I often wonder if my own childhood illnesses, high-risk traumatic births, and PTSD still have long-term health effects on my anxiety surrounding my children and their health.
I am seldom very angry. When I am, I am cruel. It is an unleashing that I would never want anyone to bear witness to and harbor deep regret for the times it has surfaced. I am exacting and stealthy and know exactly what to say to make it hurt. This part of me feels so foreign and antithetical to everything I am most of the time and what I believe. And. I am only beginning to understand the space that anger needs to breathe.
I have wanted so many things in my professional life in my short time here- to be an author, a singer, a performer, a cook, a professor, a forager, a world traveler, a linguist, a conductor, a writer. And while I see snapshots of those pieces of myself in my day to day- All the time I wonder if I am actually living the life I want, or if this is the result of a lifetime of making decisions out of fear. (I am not sure if reading this is helping or hurting my quest to uncover this.) Can one truly be afraid of success? If so, I am my own case study.
Though I think Brene Brown is a Queen, she has been quoted saying that it’s necessary to be careful with whom you trust with your vulnerability. I do think there is a truth in that- and there’s just more to it than that. It’s pretty exhausting to pretend we’re all fine with our dust bunnies and our disorganized pantries and our desk jobs, isn’t it?
What if we just stopped hiding the boats we’re in?
Vulnerability makes me hungry. Releasing fears into the ether can be colorful and chaotic- and deeply nourishing. Just like this salad.
The Chaotic Vulnerability Salad
This is one of my husband’s favorite salads- and has quickly become one of mine. I abhor a soggy salad, and with this winner, it’s an impossibility. At the onset, you will think the ingredients of this salad make no logical sense. But trust me when I say the beauty is in the chaos.
The fennel stays fresh and crisp, the oranges are juicy and bright, the olives give it a buttery richness and the feta provides the salty-bite cherry on top. It generally gives winter vibes, but in truth, we eat it all year round. Serve it to guests with a grilled pork loin and they’ll think you’re brilliant. I already do.
Ingredients:
For the Salad:
One fennel bulb, sliced thin
One large orange, peeled and segmented or pared with a knife and sliced ( it’s up to preference)
A quarter of a red onion, sliced thin
A handful of kalamata olives
Feta
Arrange on large platter, rather than salad bowl to display the colors and ensure each ingredient gets hit with the dressing.
For the dressing:
2 parts olive oil to 1 part freshly squeezed orange juice and lemon juice
Fennel fronds, chopped finely ( you can also add some dill if you like or fresh basil gives it a more warm weather vibe)
1 tsp Dijon Mustard
1 grated garlic clove (can be omitted, or replaced with caramelized shallots for a sweeter, more mellow flavor. I like the sharpness of the garlic and the citrus here, rounded out with the honey.)
1 tsp (hot!) honey (you can use regular honey, princess.)
Salt and pepper to taste
Whisk or shake in a mason jar, dress a half hour before serving to allow flavors to marry.
What’s Nourishing Me
I’ve been practicing more and more vulnerability in a public setting these days. If you missed It, I was on a fairly vulnerable podcast here.
I must have these jeans.
Ffern makes seasonal fragrances from organic ingredients. I delight In every quarter- and I haven’t returned a single one ( Though Autumn 2023 is my forever favorite.)
It’s time to buy bathing suits!!!!! I love a new suit and always land on elegant and functional- two that don’t often meet in the middle. This is my favorite company, two years running. Jcrew is a decent runner-up.
Though I used Mallorca as a snarky example, I’ve been a little obsessed with researching imaginary trips there. I jokingly told my Dad on the phone last week that I think we should return to the Victorian practice of sending “hysterical” women on European vacations for months at a time. He sent me this link and now, it takes up way too much of my brain space. Anyone have a coastal flat they’d like to offer?
I am not sure how this Sunday finds you- but whatever state you may be in, I hope you take a moment with a hot beverage to remind yourself that everyone has fucking dust bunnies under their bed. PROOF OF LIFE, after all.
And if you find yourself having to eat your own words about what was important that isn’t anymore or about what you might have believed was right that turned out to be wrong- I hope you choose to make it delicious.
Start with the salad.