The Usefulness Trap

and how I want to be free of it

Yesterday was one of those days.

I am currently in-between a few projects, waiting on edits from the book I recently turned in, and I’ve got a few days that have a few less things on the to-do list before October and November show up and blow me away with how busy they’ll be.

I notice something on these days, something that feels, for lack of a better phrase, icky as hell.

I notice how much I need to feel useful, and not even to myself, really, but to the world, out there, to American society, to my readers, to the social media algorithm, to those to-do lists I hold in my hands every day.

The reality of being a writer in 2024 is that we are sort of bound by what we do and produce. Gone are the days of gazing out the window and writing for hours—if we can attain that, it’s a true miracle, and we have to intentionally create it.

Otherwise, we are writing in snippets while checking Instagram and wondering what to write on Substack next week while planning what’s for dinner and making sure our upcoming speaking event dates are posted on the website.

So on the days that my to-do list is long and my inbox is full, I might feel overwhelmed, but I feel like I’m part of something, digging into the “work” like some sort of “good” adult should feel like they’re doing.

And on those days when the to-do list is short, or, God forbid, maybe it’s a day that I don’t really need to work or write at all, I feel a sense of panic, like I’m suddenly not doing enough, unhelpful to the world because I don’t have a product to offer right this second.

How did this happen?

*

I’ve always loved purging things from my home, getting rid of clothes that no longer fit, passing on home items that can find a place somewhere else. Maybe it’s the fun of going thrifting: out with the old, in with someone else’s old treasure that will look perfect on the right shelf.

But it’s with lots of things—when the trash bags run out, when we’ve gone through all the produce before it spoiled, when I run out of makeup products and need to buy more. When I get rid of something, or when the necessary items run out, I know we did our job as humans—we used the useful things up, they did their job, and now we get more of what we need.

I think usefulness is part of survival. When you grow up poor, meals aren’t always beautiful, a form of art. They’re just food, so cook the stuff and get it in the belly as efficiently as possible. It’s what we had when we ate commodity foods, canned meats and prepackaged cheeses that came in blocks.

But when I married my adorable husband in our young 20s, he’d prepare a meal with tenderness and care just as he learned in the food industry that he’d spent years before we met working in. His plating was superb—and I didn’t even notice. I’d dig in, unaware of the effort he’d spent to place the rosemary just right, to drizzle the olive oil, to make something so ordinary so beautiful.

He doesn’t need to feel useful in that way, and that means he’s also a lot better at resting than I am. He can hold sacredness in the ordinary, and I love that about him.

*

This happens to me every time I release a book into the world. Suddenly the words are out there, this thing I’ve been pouring my heart into, and instead of savoring that feeling for the following weeks, I suddenly feel untethered, and I question everything.

What’s the point of being a writer? Am I really helping anyone? Can writers even change things? If I don’t know what to say, does it matter?

So as the spiral continues, the usefulness trap takes me, and I claw at my own stories, looking around for something to write about. Yesterday, I wanted to sit down and write these words to you so badly in the early afternoon, but instead, I took a nap. I chose not to be “useful” for a few hours. I actually listened to my body, my being, my own sacred need to do nothing for a bit.

While stretching earlier in the day yesterday, I stayed in child’s pose for longer than I usually do. I just needed it, that closed position, trying to clear my mind of everything and simply show up to that moment. I struggle to show up to the moment.

When I can’t sleep, I recite Baba Ram Dass to myself as I breathe:

(inhale) be here

(exhale) now

until I fall back to sleep again.

It’s a lie, you know. We aren’t worthy because we’re useful.

*

Some days when the to-do list is short and I’m in between projects, I check my email more than I should. I check social media more than I should, like I’m waiting for something exciting to happen that will fuel me forward and “prove” my usefulness, like I’m hoping someone will give me some new project (that I absolutely don’t need) so I’ll feel useful again.

I feel this usefulness trap acutely when I go about my day, I feel it acutely in the 2024 writing world. Do I even write for myself anymore? Do I write for you? Are the sacred experiences in my everyday life meant to be mined for some gem that I can offer on Instagram to be passed by in less than a second by strangers?

You see, when we want to be useful, we become transactional.

Use me, use my words, my thoughts, my stories, get something from them, and discard them when it’s all over, when they’ve served their purpose, just like the box of tin foil when its contents are finally emptied from the cupboard.

No. Being a writer is so much more than that.

And I’ll choose a different way.

*

I made my Autumn mood board yesterday afternoon while listening to the first Harry Potter book on Audible. While gluing autumnal scenes and the word “content” to the top (because I’m still learning on days like this), a squirrel nestling by a decorated front door, and a cup of coffee and mug of tea, I thought about what it means to show up to Autumn, to this season of sacred gathering in and letting go.

Autumn is the time when we begin to slow down in ways that we can, even as the world spins madly around us. Somehow, we trade usefulness for kinship and care in Autumn. We harvest it, hold on to it, cherish it.

Later, after the kids were home from school, I wrote some words in the blank space on the mood board:

all days are sacred days.

If I believe this to be true, then the days that I take naps, walk the dogs, tend to the garden, and sit staring at a wall are just as sacred as the days I check three items off the to-do list and feel like an accomplished adult.

The days when it’s difficult to get out of bed and the pajamas stay on most of the morning are just as sacred as the days I choose to film an instagram reel with my makeup on.

I want us to find embodied belonging. And I refuse to let meetings, algorithms and to-do lists take the sacred space that a relationship with Mother Earth and this tender space offers.

So, please find these spaces with me. Find them for yourself. Don’t decide to feel useful—decide to show up sacredly, because you already are, and the spaces you inhabit already will be.

*

I wrote a poem yesterday. It wasn’t for you. It wasn’t for anyone, really. I just needed to write it.

But I want to gift it to you now, and as you read it, I hope you let go of your own usefulness, that you step out of the trap and take in the tenderness with which your every breath is made of.

Rainy Day

I feel a lull in every sense of the word.
I'm in liminal space,
and as soon as autumn showed up
the weather turned rainy,
so I stare out my office window
through a teardrop-soaked pane,
and ask if I can accept the down days,
the lulls, the quiet times when things
seem to slow, nearly, to a halt.
I want to be useful, you know.
I want to check things off the always
expanding to-do list, and I want
to feel a forward momentum, even if
it means I’m busy as hell.
So, I stop in these down-times and ask
if I can pause and appreciate them,
if the rainy day can give me a sense of
joy and ease, somehow.
Can I decide that I don’t have to do
anything today? Maybe, just a little,
I'll choose nothingness, although
here I am, writing this poem,
because I feel restless and unsure
of my place in this tender, rain-soaked world.

Thank you, as always, for being here with me.

2 things:

1. Could you go onto Goodreads or Amazon and write a quick review for Summer’s Magic and Winter’s Gifts? Reviews mean a lot in the publishing world, and signal that certain books are worth reading. It shouldn’t take more than a few minutes.

2. I have an event in October, an online workshop to move through the Integral Realm, the season of Autumn from my book Living Resistance. It’s happening October 10th, and I’d love to see you there! Save your spot here.

Onward, friends.