On solving the big problem
In my last newsletter, about working with and through the fatigue caused by hypothyroidism, I wrote:
All the tools and tricks I’ve developed for dealing with the small problems of my life (for example, writing is scary) are irrelevant to the big problem (my thyroid doesn’t work). Beyond irrelevant, actually. More like actively harmful.
I’m so, so, so happy to report that the big problem appears, as of very recently, to be mostly under control, at least for now. So, I’m back! A couple months later than I hoped, and still not quite able to suppress the implications of life’s fundamental precariousness to the extent required by “work,” “small talk,” and “society,” but back nonetheless. Maybe I’ll be inspired to write more about the hypothyroidism experience one day, but for now I’m still too close to it. It took me a year and half to write about Weird COVID, and this round of illness was even more confusing and prolonged. Anyway, it turns out I kind of already wrote about it, disguised as a newsletter about my broken bike and how easy it is for “normal” to slip into “miserable” without you even realizing it:
My bike was heavy and a little too big for me, but it more than did its job, especially after the upgrades. We nicknamed it “the Jeep.”
So I wasn’t expecting to ride like the wind or anything on our second time back [doing Mexico City’s Sunday bike ride]. That was never the Jeep’s strong suit. But I wasn’t expecting it to feel like I was riding through sand. Starting up after a stoplight (and there are a lot of stoplights) was particularly hard, and I couldn’t find a comfortable gear that didn’t feel like I was either pedaling with no resistance or pushing hard enough to drag an actual Jeep behind me. I didn’t think I could be that out of shape—between yoga and slow running, I’ve never been more into exercise in my life—but I thought I must have been terribly out of practice. It was only the second time I’d ridden in years. I’d get better. It’d get easier. I surrendered to the unpleasantness and enjoyed what I could. I kept up the whole way.
When we got home, Luckez lifted up my bike’s back wheel and spun it. On a functioning bike, the wheel would keep spinning until you pulled on the brake. My wheel immediately stopped on its own. It turns out the brake was broken and stuck to the wheel. I’d done the whole ride with one brake on. I’d so completely accepted that my bike would never be the fastest or most comfortable that I didn’t realize that something was actually broken. I surrendered so hard to imperfection—both mine and my bike’s—that it threatened to suck all the joy out of something I love.
I wrote that last July, before I knew something was wrong with my thyroid, and before my second round of COVID sent it spiraling into a crisis. What can I say. The subconscious is real, and we ignore its messages at our own peril.
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For now, I’ll leave you with a short reflection inspired by the many recent daytime hours I spent in bed, curled up with my phone, scrolling through random Twitter accounts. (Don’t worry, mine is still deactivated.) A previous version of me would have thought I felt bad because I was lazing around and doomscrolling instead of pulling myself together and at least cracking a book. This version of me knows that causality was backwards: Doomscrolling didn’t make me feel bad; I was doomscrolling because I felt bad. Mustering the willpower to close that brain-poisoned Twitter page or this decade-old TV recap wasn’t going to solve my problem, because they weren’t the problem. My excessive phone use was a way of coping with my general malaise and unwell-ness, not the cause of those things, and guilt-tripping myself about screen time was never going to lead to me actually feeling better.
And yet for years, I thought if only I could fix enough small problems—less/no social media, outside walks, email boundaries, writing hours, internet blockers, time trackers, day planners, whatever—it would eventually add up to solving the big problem.1 Which, for most of those years, I didn’t even know existed, let alone what it was. Like with my broken bike, I was so willing to believe I was doing something wrong that I couldn’t see something was wrong, and the real issue transcended all my choices, efforts, or attempts at control. If there’s been anything positive about the past few months, it’s that I can now see the big problem, and I can stop feeling guilty that my small-problem solutions never seemed to make a difference in how I felt in my life and the world.2
An experiment: Ask me anything!
For the first time, I’m requesting submissions for The Lizzie Wade Weekly mailbag! Please send along any and all questions you have, for possible answering in a future newsletter. This might take the form of one upcoming edition, or a rolling feature, or a total bomb-out. We’ll see! But I know there’s a great community of you out there reading this, and now more than ever I want to be able to bounce off your energy, questions, and insights. You can always reach me by replying to this email or leaving a comment. I love hearing from you, and I’m so glad to be back.
Other possible big problems, in my experience and observation: The wrong relationship, untreated depression/anxiety/etc., unexamined perfectionism, chronic loneliness, an underpaid/exploitative/insecure job, living in a society that refuses to treat you as a full human being, not eating enough food, and—this is a huge one for me—wearing worn out shoes. (Buy the new shoes! It’s worth it! Why do I have to learn this anew every damn time?)
Obligatory acknowledgment that not all big problems can be solved. Some can only be named and managed, but that in and of itself is a huge step out of the darkness of always blaming yourself.