Some days are for conquering the world. And others are for rereading quotes from your favorite books to be reminded that there are wise humans out there, even when media shows you the opposite.
Tiny Beautiful Things is a collection of columns from Dear Sugar, written by Cheryl Strayed. Cheryl has a way of sharing her point of view, making you question your beliefs without feeling judged. Always with empathy, often with humor. It runs through all of her books, but maybe this one, in particular, is good for when you have one of those days. You know, when you’re just wondering what on earth you’re doing with your life, really. Sugar has your back. (Also, while the podcast is no longer being recorded, the archive is gold.)
Trust yourself. It’s Sugar’s golden rule. Trusting yourself means living out what you already know to be true.
Which meant I had to write my book. My very possibly mediocre book. My very possibly never-going-to-be- published book. My absolutely nowhere-in-league-with-the-writers-I’d-admired-so-much-that-I-practically- memorized-their-sentences book. It was only then, when I humbly surrendered, that I was able to do the work I needed to do.
And it’s there that I recommend you begin. Every time you think I hate that fucking bitch, I want you to neutralize that thought with a breath. Calm your mind. Breathe in deeply with intention, then breathe out. Do not think I hate that fucking bitch while you do it. Give yourself that. Blow that bitch right out of your chest. Then move on to something else.
I’ve written often about how we have to reach hard in the direction of the lives we want, even if it’s difficult to do so. I’ve advised people to set healthy boundaries and communicate mindfully and take risks and work hard on what actually matters and confront contradictory truths and trust the inner voice that speaks with love and shut out the inner voice that speaks with hate.
Real change happens on the level of the gesture. It’s one person doing one thing differently than he or she did before.
How can it be that so many people’s ex-girlfriends are crazy? What happens to these women? Do they eventually go on to birth babies and care for their elderly parents and scramble up gigantic pans of eggs on Sunday mornings for oodles of lounge-abouts who later have the nerve to inquire about what’s for dinner, or is there some corporate Rest Home for Crazy Bitches chain in cities across the land that I am unaware of that houses all these women who used to love men who later claim they were actually crazy bitches?
Of himself Grant said, “I pretended to be somebody I wanted to be and I finally became that person. Or he became me. Or we met at some point.”