The Relevance Trap

And a sleep story for you

There aren’t many downsides to having a lot of interests. I’ve enjoyed a variety of adventures and can mesh pretty well with multiple communities; I’m rarely bored and am usually learning something new via book or podcast (though I won’t pretend I don’t do my fair share of Insta scrolling). But particularly since I moved to Seattle a year and a half ago, I’ve learned that I have a tendency towards burnout. I’ll Jenga-stack responsibilities into my calendar until one finally sends the tower tumbling down. This usually looks like a week-long body shut down. As a recovering people pleaser, I still struggle to disappoint others, but I’ve been working on checking in with my energy and saying no when I need to (my friends know that if an event starts after 8pm, I’ll wish them well from home with a cup of Sleepytime tea).

Most of the time, this calendar-stacking is driven by my genuine excitement for so many events, activities, people, learning opportunities. But sometimes when I feel myself trying to contort my calendar to say yes to something, it’s because of a fear of irrelevance if I don’t do it. Will I be forgotten by my running friends if I’m logging fewer miles or not posting on Strava? Will I stall out in building my writing community if I don’t force myself to stay up late for open mic nights? Couldn’t I grow my yoga class if I were seen more often around the studio? Won’t I lose strength or friends or be somehow behind if I reduce my load? There’s a fear of losing momentum wrapped up in this; a fear of letting people down or being perceived as “less than.” And behind this all, the murmur - Can’t other people handle all of this plus even more responsibility? I’m fortunate I don’t have to worry about meeting basic needs. And I don’t even have kids!

Writing this out, it’s easier to see what a false mindset this is. By listening to my body and being real about my energy levels and genuine desires, I can share from a place of abundance rather than drain. I can lean into connections that support me for my full self. When I do this, I’m usually shocked and immensely grateful at the amount of grace others will extend to me.

This morning, I woke up taking half-breaths, already thinking about what I wanted to get done. Then I thought, what if today I rejected urgency and perfection and relevancy-culture? What if today I did the least urgent things I could do? So today I might read some poetry, practice some yoga. I might walk to the store for a salad or eat almond butter straight from the jar. I’ll stay in pjs for as long as I can and maybe take a nap on the couch.

I fretted about sharing writing that wasn’t perfect or “on theme” or even good. But in honor of rest, today I am sharing the beginning of a little sleep story I started a few months ago. There’s no real purpose to it, except maybe prepping you for a nap or lulling you to sleep. I like it for its rhythm and whimsy. Both text and audio are included; absorb it in the way that’s most accessible for you. And drop a comment if you want to hear the rest of this story (or if any of the above resonates with you). I’d love to hear from you. Read on below.

A recent camping trip to Easton, WA, where one can’t help but feel unhurried.

There’s a point at the end of your nose, where if you focus all your energy on it, everything disappears. You travel through the darkness at warp speed, and the atoms and ions that whiz by are like the neon lights of Rockin’ Rollercoaster. The wind stings your eyes and draws tears, but not the sad kind. You’re wearing big headphones over your ears, which protect them from the profundity of the rushing void. 

Your mouth is ajar, a perpetual gasp at the speed and incomprehensible acceleration. You feel shock rather than fear amidst this tumble, and the one absurd thought that comes to mind is whether the kids on the Magic School Bus felt like this when Ms. Frizzle took it into hypersonic speed. 

As quickly as it started, your speed is arrested when your cart (tube now?) hits the flat surface of a very still lake, its placidity only mildly disturbed by the few ripples your arrival has caused. The silver lake is illuminated somehow, but not from moon or sun. Rather, it generates its own soft, even mysterious light, that only partially outlines the thick pine groves on its banks.

Your seat moves of its own accord, and you are drawn to the opposite bank. It is impossible to tell cardinal directions at this point, but you assume North for no other reason than it just feels right. You can’t see much of anything as you approach, but when your little container knocks up against a sandbar, you swing your legs over the side and disembark. 

You’re wearing shoes and expect them to get wet as you stumble up the sand to higher ground. You’re surprised when they stay completely dry. You don’t even feel sweat as you exert moderate effort to scramble up the hill. 

Where the little incline levels out, a soft green prairie grass integrates with the sand. You’re tired and fortunately in your hiking clothes, which you know will repel the sand fairly well. You locate a little nook where you can rest comfortably and lean into the sand and grass, eyes half-closing while you memorize the glow of the silky silver beneath you.